It had been the middle of a hot summer day. The kind where people stay inside because the balmy feeling of a humid house is still better than the feeling which the sun brings when it beats down upon head and back. Brian Jobe pulled into his house at around 3:30 p.m. His rusted up Winnebago whined and sputtered as he put it into park, as he had just gotten it for discount price from Hollis' Junkyard. He pushed the door once, and it creaked as it gave a little, then he kicked it, to open it the rest of the way. He had to do that every time he wanted to get out. It was becoming almost ritual to him.

He stepped up his pace to hurry in from the car to his house, hoping to escape the sun's rays for a few precious seconds. The door shut with a bang, and inside the fans were blowing incessantly. The smell of the pine spray he had cleaned with yesterday still hung in the air. It tickled his nose and he sneezed once.

Dull brown shoes clapped against the wooden floor as he inspected the house. It was a relatively place. A small duplex in the corner of Divine Heights, Georgia, it lacked comfort, but was enough to hold his small family. His wife, and the boys' mother, had been the main provider for the family. Brian had always promised her it wouldn't be that way forever, just until he could start up a substantial law practice. And it wasn't. Despite oppression from within the field, he finally hit it big and began to earn a decent wage when he started representing families hurt by Atlanta's outbreaks of gang violence. But it was too little, too late, and his unhappy wife, upset at marrying too young, and having to raise her second, most recent child, got scared and left in the night. For the sake of his boys, Brian left Atlanta for a better neighborhood, commuting to work every day and thus, losing a lot of his clients. And money.

But none of that mattered today. The rent was paid, and all he cared about was getting back to his kids.

The lobby was a narrow passageway which opened up to the kitchen on one side and the living room on the other. His big, unusually bright eyes, a genetic gift to his kids, glanced over each. The kitchen was fine, still clean, except for a package of bread he'd left out the night before. Light came in from the window, reflecting brightly off the white linoleum. He looked into the living room…

Not as good. The cushions were torn off the couch, and the wire antenna was bent, receiving only a static-y image of some afternoon sitcom on the tiny TV set below it. The kids had left their cereal bowls out, with little chunks of Cheerios floating in the leftover milk. Spoons were on the ground, and crumbs littered the carpet.

The room was atrocious anyway, green carpet with pink walls, a choice made by the former owners, but Brian cared anyway. He was a man of distinction, and would not have his home look dirty and unpresentable. Still, he smiled as he wondered how there had managed to be dirty fingerprints on the ceiling, low as it was.

He walked out of the living room. "Boys?," his voice called up the stairs.

At first he heard nothing.

"Boys, I'm home!"

A sound came from upstairs like scraping. He detected a scuffle above him, and started to climb the stairs slowly.

"Where are you kids?," he shouted, louder.

"Dad! I'm here! Help!," a muffled voice shouted through one of the doors before more scuffling could be heard.

Brian Jobe marched stiffly up the stairs, down the hall leading to his oldest son's room, and threw open the door.

"Shawn Jobe, what in God's great name are you doing?!"

In a dark bedroom with baseball sheets on the bed and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles poster on the wall, a young boy, tallish and stocky, stood above a small, skinny boy, who was tied up at the hands and knees to a plastic chair, bandana loosely covering his drooly mouth.

"Uh… me and Corey were just playin', Dad."

The young Corey Jobe, tears in his big eyes, spit the bandana from his mouth. "He's lying! He's lying, Daddy! He told me we were playing a game, and I got to be King Arthur, then he tied me up! And-and…"

Brian rubbed his hand against his temple, forcibly suppressing the headache that remained after his long day in a hot office. "That's enough Corey. Don't you start that "Daddy" stuff with me. You never call me Daddy unless you want something, or somebody's done something too you."

Corey clammed up, but looked over at his brother, content that soon he would be punished somehow. Shawn, for his part, hid his hands behind his back, and looked at the floor, hoping to blend in some how.

"And as for you, young man…," Mr. Jobe threatened as he walked over to his child, and grabbed him by the ear. Gently for him, but painfully for Shawn, he pulled the boy, who grimaced and hissed the whole way, into the next room and shut the door.

As soon as he heard the door slam, Corey smiled excitedly. He wiggled out of his bonds, and reset his spaceman pajamas, which he had been wearing all day, and walked over to the door.

He had always been good at listening hard, and picking out people's conversations through doors and walls. He had done it too their mother and father when they used to fight and he did it too his brother when he had friends over. Listening to people's private conversations. Knowing what they did not want anyone else to know. That was his power.

He pressed his thin ear to the door. The conversation was muddled, but he strained to hear every word anyway…

"What are you doing son?," the older voice asked. His father's voice was interesting. Like a low-tenor. High and soft, very soothing. Even when angry.

"Like I said, I was just fooling around with Corey," the younger voice answered, obstinate.

"Yeah? Yeah? Just fooling around. Well it doesn't look like he was having a lot of fun now does it?"

"Does it?"

"No," Shawn answered.

"Shawn, normally I wouldn't be angry with you. I'd slap your wrist or your butt like my Dad used to do, and I'd send you off to bed, but you do this every day. Beating up on your brother, teasing him, harassing him. Don't you have any other friends boy?"

"Yeah, but they all live back in the city! I don't know why you moved us out here! This place is stupid."

A bed creaked and Corey guessed that his father had rocked back on it, and was rubbing his lips with his fingers in the peculiar way no other adult ever seemed to do. "Hmm," Mr. Jobe finally said. "Well that's no excuse. You could probably make some friends around here if you weren't so angry all the time. But you mouth off to everybody. Someday, that hot head of yours is going to get you into trouble."

"So?," Shawn spat back, showing his age.

"No sir, you're not getting off that easy. There is no "so" for you, son. Like I said, if our family was at a good place right now, I'd let you and your brother fight. That's what brothers do. But we aren't in a good place, and as far as I'm concerned he's not your brother. Your mother's gone now and I have to work, so I need you to look out for him. You have to grow up a bit now Shawn. Don't fight with him, teach him."

"Well what if I don't want to? He's so dumb, and annoying, and he's just a little kid. I can't be around him! He's… he's so weak!," Shawn pressed, dumbfounded. To which Corey curled out his lip on the other side of the door and muttered how he was not weak.

Brian waited patiently again. "…You're right, Shawn. He is. He can't do things for himself. He's a small kid. But you're not. Kids are going to pick on him, but not if you're there. I can't be around, and I need someone to be around to protect him. And I want that to be you, because you're my son, and I trust you."

He waited once more.

"Understood?"

Corey heard no more words, so he could only assume that his brother had shaken his head "yes." He hoped so. Maybe that would mean no more beatings. All he did hear though, was the creaking of the bed and two sets of footsteps approaching the door. He started, and shuffled as quietly as possible back into his room, and hid under the bed hopeful that no one had caught him eavesdropping.

Brian peeked his head through the door and saw his youngest son's foot sticking out but pretended not to notice. He patted Shawn on the shoulder and led him downstairs.

"Let's go see if we can find your brother."

"…I'm right here, Dad…"

Corey Jobe blinked his eyes, and instantly the reverie ended. He stood alone on the corner of Giordano St., a single, solitary figure on a sunny, suburban afternoon. To his back was a cracked gray street and a row of houses, each completely typical, varying only by the shade of a dull yellow or blue housepaint, and the presence of a bush or two. Three houses down, a dog pulled at it's chain and barked at some passing bug or other like menial affect. No one else was present on the street.

And before him was the house. His house. Two stories tall, but pinched together in a way that made any passers by feel unexplainably claustrophobic. It was basically a deep tan everywhere that paint wasn't chipping away. Which wasn't many places on the face of the house. Windows were boarded up tight. Grass was browning, and un-mowed.The numbers had been filed off the white door, but the faded green imprints remained.

The whole thing was an eyesore to the rest of the neighborhood. It stuck out in the middle of the prim scenery like a welt. Children had used the last decade making up stories about it, grisly inventions that twisted the small urban legend resulting from the death of Brian Jobe in the house years ago. The house had never been sold. But not because of any fear of a house where a murder was committed. Customers weren't driven away by any of the countless legends of it's haunting. It just wasn't a nice house. The house went unsold and the items within, after being checked out and packaged up by the state, were subject to a paperwork snafu, and the workers never showed up to put the items into storage. There was no will and no traceable heirs anyway. The house was boarded up and abandoned.

Corey looked at it for a moment longer. His home. His childhood was here. He spent his entire life in this house, and then, one day, he just packed up and never saw it again. He hadn't seen it in years.

The smell of freshly mowed grass wafted in subtly from down the street, and he was just starting to notice in when a sick sensation billowed in his gut. Like indigestion, it pitched and turned then seemed to swell painfully. His heart pace quickened, but before his mind could even fully comprehend what was really going on in his body, a stark, white smoke rose up out of his back, causing no physical sensation at all. It hung in the wind before coalescing slowly into one solid form.

The form of the Spectre.

"This was where you lived?"

Corey suppressed the uneasy feeling he had in his stomach. His mind reeled and raged at the concept of the Spectre existing, and emerging from, inside of his own body. "That kind of hurts, you know?"

"I'm sorry," The Spectre commented absently, as Corey's eyes bore holes in him. He stared at the Spectre, waiting for some kind of further acknowledgment. Receiving none, the boy simply turned away, and began to march towards the front window of the house. When his green-clad partner followed behind him, he didn't argue.

"Do you see anyone coming?"

"No."

The block was scanned, by Corey, to satisfy his own curiosity. Seeing no one, his fists tugged at the wood bolted over the windows. He strained, trying to pry just one of the large boards loose. He broke the glass with a loud crash, and slipped in through the narrow wedge provided, unnoticed.

Dusting himself off from the ordeal, he sighed loudly as the Spectre walked his ethereal form right through the wall.

The whole house was shady but sunlight streamed in through the large opening Corey had made. They stood in what was once the hallway leading into the kitchen and living room. Everything was faded, and little specks of dust and dirt cracked underneath his shoes.

Entering the old living room, he noticed the ceiling fan had been torn out. A few casual wires hung from an open hole above him. Mentally, he compared it to the way it had looked when he was a child.

"This is weird…," he spoke half to the Spectre, and half to himself. "I haven't been here in a long time. Since my Dad died. But the last time I saw it, it was still all homely."

Pointing out directions along the way, he continued. "The TV was over there in the corner. Dad never watched, except for the news sometimes. The couch was in the corner there, with a bookshelf in the corner there. Shawn and I used to watch cartoons on Saturday, and I watched them when he went to school during the rest of the year…"

"…Seeing the house like this, all stripped and bare. It's crazy."

"Why are you here, Corey?," the Spectre asked.

A car buzzed by on the road outside loudly, it's radio blaring something in Spanish. Corey still hadn't spoken when it had passed. He stuck his hands in his pockets and paced around, heading for the kitchen.

"I'm not sure… Touching base, I guess. Trying to find a little bit of reality to hold onto. These last few days have been really out there. I lose Shawn… to you. And then, I get caught up in three- Not just one, but three- near death encounters. I've lost track of how many people I've seen die in the last two weeks alone. And from there on out, it's just me, waking up wherever you feel like dropping me, drifting through my day until I fall asleep again, waking up with nightmares or snapshot visions of what you did the night before… and then I start it all over again. Everything's so blurry, I don't even know what the difference is between being asleep and being awake."

"I guess I felt like by coming back here, to the only place I've ever called home, I could put my feet on solid ground. Like, if I remember where I came from, maybe I can figure out where I'm supposed to go. What I'm supposed to do."

"Any conclusions?," the Spectre asked, turning away dismissively.

"No, not yet. Thanks," came the sarcastic reply. "Look, I can't stop you from being here, but just try and keep to yourself. My home, my deal, my rules? Understood?"

The Spectre paid no heed.

"Understood?," he repeated, sterner this time, remembering the way his father had done so. But still, no quarter given.

"…Right," he sighed. Shuffling past his grim counterpart, the stairs creaked and groaned painfully as he climbed the brown steps. The house, devastated as it was, brought nostalgia in waves. Everything felt the same way it had years ago. The railing on the stairs was smooth, but wavered if leaned upon. The fifth step was loose, and Corey mused that had things worked out differently in life, they still probably wouldn't have fixed it yet. There was a crack in the wall at the top of the staircase. He tried to remember what it's origins might have been.

Unconsciously, his hand drifted to a slight dent in his head, as he began to recall the first and last time he had ever worn a pair of roller-skates.

"Wow…" he muttered under his breath.

He turned into a cold room with no light at all. The space was completely naked, save a paint-stained hat in the corner (left over from a lazy workman) and a group of boxes thrown haphazardly into a corner, papers hanging out from them at the edges.

"This was my dad's room," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

"Dad was the one who moved us here. We'd lived in Atlanta before, but Mom left and the money dried up. When we moved out here, it was kind of a last resort. It's weird for me, because I know Shawn hated it, and the entire time we were here, my Dad was at the end of his rope, but to me, everything was happy and home-y. Everything's simple like that when you're a kid."

"We had to leave when my dad got on the wrong side of a gang, and… and they shot him. I've been on the street with… with Shawn ever since…"

"Corey Jobe. What you said downstairs… about trying to determine what you are supposed to do? What did you mean?"

His eyes narrowed at the pale ghost, angry at being interrupted from his thoughts. "Why don't you just pick it out of my head? You're an all-powerful Spirit. You can read people's sins and souls and stuff. Peel back the layers of my mind, oh powerful Spectre. What am I looking for? What's my great mystery in life? Why are you asking me?"

"Because I choose to ask you. So I ask again, what did you mean?"

"I meant what am I supposed to do… with you? How am I supposed to deal with you being in my life? Do I let you continue your mission? Do I live the rest of my life the way I've been living for the past few weeks? I have a million questions, and absolutely jack as far as people who can answer them. Except for you, and a fat lot of good you are!"

"If it answers you seek, I can provide. There is nothing for you to do. You speak as though you could halt my actions if that is what you sought to do. We both have been forced together by outside circumstance, to the benefit of neither you nor I. I offer you compromise. You live your life as you have, during the day. Give me no thought. But when night comes, I operate of my own will. I perform the task set out before me by God, and you sleep, and do not involve yourself in my matters."

"How? How can I just forget you, when your actions stick around in my brain, and I wake up somewhere different every morning."

"An unfortunate side-effect which, with time, might be rectified. You haven't noticed that though you don't wake up where you laid yourself to sleep, you're generally in the same area. Never too far from the city. I thought you might choose to stay there."

Corey paced the room, ignoring the creaking of the ancient floorboards. "Yeah, thanks a lot," he said dryly. "You're really full of it, you know that? You think just because you're some age-old, supernatural ghost with a mad-on for all things anti-Sunday School, that you get to interfere in other people's lives, take them over completely, and ask them to ignore it?"

"I did not take over your life. In no way was this my decision-"

"You kill people!," Corey screamed. Cheeks and neck were red, and a vein behind his left temple pulsed steadily. Around him, the ghosts of his past whispered at him. "How am I supposed to ignore you, when you're a psycho who goes around murdering people every night, and I'm tied to you?! Tell me, how? Because I'd love to here it!"

"I murder no one. I end the lives of murders, so that the innocent might be spared. I saved your life. I only take action against those who deserve it."

"Did my brother deserve it?!," Corey shot, barely even listening anymore.

"Yes," the Spectre answered, the ice in his statement carried in no way by his tone, just the implications of the words themselves.

Corey stared at the Spectre for a long hard minute. Quivering with rage, his mind faltered at the concept of his rage's source being so close, but that he was unable to do anything about it. He whirled around and threw his fist against a defeated old wall, and the room groaned back at him in response.

"Arrrgh!," he bellowed, tears in his eyes. "You killed him! You…you…"

He closed his eyes, and tried his best to calm his raging nerves, but was completely unsuccessful. He whipped his hand around the room, gesturing wildly at everything visible. "Look at this! You tell me to get on with my life! What life? I was homeless, money-less, and all I had was one person watching out for me! And you took him away! I have no life now. You don't understand, because you don't even live in this world… you can hide away inside me if you get cold, you don't eat, as far as I know. But I am stuck out here, with no one but you, and I am as good as dead!"

"The man your brother would have killed had family that needed him for survival as well. Your overemphasis on, and gross display of emotion can not sway me. As for your personal well-being, know that no harm can come to you while you are under my protection. As for material things such as a home or money, I can not live your human life for you."

Corey stuck out his hand indignantly, as though to halt the Spectre from further speech. Of course, the Spirit of Vengeance was already finished. "Whoa! Hey, one thing, I didn't ask you to "live my human life for me." I just said I wanted you out of it. I can handle money on my own. And second, "under your care?" I don't need your care! I don't want your care. I want my brother!"

The Spectre, as always, stared above Corey's head, the green of his cloak hiding his lower body in shadow. His stature was tall, and his feet rested so gracefully on the ground one would wonder if they were even touching. "So what are you going to do about it?"

Corey took a step back from the Spectre, eyes locked on his pale, frowning face. "I. Don't. KNOW!"

He leaned his young, frail body against one of the dusty walls and slid down. Sobbing. "Get out… just get out… God, I hate you. I want my brother, but you- you killed him. And now I have to live with you… get out! Every second you're here, it's like spitting in his face!…"

When Corey finally dried his eyes and looked up, the Spectre was gone.

It had happened a few years later, the chair incident and all others previous, and in between had been completely forgotten. Brian Jobe had been upstairs in his son's room, eating a bowl of macaroni and cheese while pushing and prodding Shawn through a book from school he was assigned to read. Brian was indignant, Shawn relieved, when Corey burst through the door, huffing as he tried to speak. He enjoyed running up the stairs as fast as possible, but didn't yet have the wind to carry him past that.

"Dad, some men are here see you," he wheezed.

Corey's father got up from the bed, dusted off his pants and made his way to the door. His shoes were off, another quirk he had, and his feet made a soft slipping noise as they scuttled across the hardwood floor. The wood door to Shawn's room creaked open in his hand.

"Really? I wonder who it-"

He stopped, mouth open in the middle of the hallway. Shawn and Corey watched in confusion, the details of the scene being only half-available to them because the doorway cut off their field of vision.

Mr. Jobe's visitor had already made his way up the stairs.

He recovered from his dropped jaw. "Wayne. You know you're not supposed to be here. Any contact with the opposing counsel will-"

"No one's going to know, Mr. Jobe." Corey heard a ruffling of fabric, and strained harder than ever to determine it's source.

Just like that, Brian's face sunk, and horror filled his eyes. "Oh, no Wayne…"

"Get in the room!," Wayne yelled. He pushed Brian through the door, and emerged into the kid's view. Shiny, silver gun first, long arm in black trench coat attached, and finally a pale, apathetic, little face to go with an ugly, unclean man.

A cry had just barely escaped Corey's lips when the man grabbed him by the neck of his shirt and jerked him over in front of his body. Corey choked as the strained fabric burned his neck, and he looked to his father for help, but saw only the hopeless look in his eyes.

"Don't do this-"

"You have files, documents, and contact information related to the case of-"

"Please don't-," Brian's voice broke as he begged.

"Shut up!," the man in the trench coat barked. "The case of Tim Roewade. None of it has been reviewed yet by the police department, likewise the judge or jury. Correct?"

Brian moved to stand in front Shawn, his arm out blindly behind him, searching for the boy's shoulder. He nodded blankly and Shawn just stared ahead, his eyes locked on Corey.

"Good. You're going to give those to me, I'm going to leave, and you're not going to tell anyone. And if you, now or later, try anything, I will shoot your boy here-," he shook Corey roughly to demonstrate his point. "Right in the head. And yes, Mr. Jobe, it is that easy."

Not able to take it any longer, Corey broke down and cried, subtly trying to pull himself away from the cold metal pressed against his temple.

"Hush… quiet Corey. It's okay. Daddy's here. I'll take care of this," Brian cautioned his son, never taking his eyes off the gunman.

"Then get the files," Wayne demanded.

Brian shook his head, and started to move slowly towards the door, and his briefcase with Wayne's gun trained on him every second. He had barely shifted his weight though, when he heard a click behind him, and his heart fell down to his feet, and he could almost physically feel his life crumbling around him.

"You dirty…," Shawn screamed as he pulled a pistol out of the front of his pants. A friend had stolen it and given it too him, and had been using it more and more then his father could ever have guessed. He swung the gun, both hands around the handle over Brian's outstretched arm, and leveled the gun at his target in the black coat.

Wayne's eyebrow twitched in surprise. The bright yellow muscle flash registered in his eyes, and he jerked his arm. His muscles tensed and fired of a shot in midswing.

Corey was thrust to the side. He landed roughly on the floor and he lifted his head just in time to see two bright yellow flashes on either side of him. His mind raced desperately to process, but in the second he had, all he could focus on was the two almost simultaneous pops that surged through the air and stung his ears.

Brian Jobe pushed his son back, resetting his feet on the floor to try and find away to save his son.

Corey and Shawn both blinked, and when everything went black they heard two bullets rip through the cheap wood of their house. And when they opened their eyes, Brian and Wayne both lay on the floor, bleeding from the chest. Shawn was the first to react, dropping to his knees in stunned silence, looking at his father. His fingers lost all control, and their shaking made the pistol fall from his hands, as it clanked sharply against the floor.

Corey alternated his gaze. He let his eyes linger on the other man, who's coat was filling with dark, red blood. Corey wanted to make sure he was dead. The sensation on his head from the gun resting there could still be felt, and the fear he had experienced as he almost dyed still gave fire to the adrenaline racing through his small body. He hurried over to his brother and father though.

Without a word, Brian Jobe's eyes rolled back in his head, his body sagged in Shawn's arms. Corey looked at Shawn. Tears stained his face, and he looked franticly around the room, searching for nothing.

"I'm sorry….I'm so sorry.. I-I…," his shaky voice attempted. His eyes darted from his father's somber face to the man on the other side of the room, and to the gun at his feet. Finally, they rested on Corey. Young and confused. A child, full of innocence and fear. Shawn reached down and closed his father's eyes, laying his head down on the floor softly.

"We have to get out of here," he whispered softly. Corey only nodded. Shawn picked him up, and hustled the young boy out of the room. Corey sat on a chair, completely dazed down in the living room, while Shawn threw every scrap of clothes in the house, every piece of food in the refrigerator, and all the money he could find, into any suitcase or bag lying around. He held his younger brother as they walked out the door, making sure to keep his gaze from wandering up to the second floor of the house they used to live in.

Corey Jobe sat on the floor, boxes and papers scattered around him. Family documents, mostly financial and completely incomprehensible to him, were strewn about messily on the floor. Various family photos, worn from years of packaging decorated the otherwise bare room as well. He had been there for an hour, rummaging around in what was left of his family history, devouring every piece of information possible with what little light was available.

He pushed aside the box he had been digging in. He scanned the room until his vision picked out a small box in a corner, turned upside down. It read "Grandpa and Grandma." He went over to it and his tired fingers pried at the packaging tape that sealed it's contents from him.

He smiled as the box spilled out onto the floor. A faded letter in a brown envelope sat on the top of the pile. It was addressed from his grandmother, Jada Jones-Jobe. He scanned the letter in a bored way, having not known either of his grandparents well. His grandfather had died before he was born, and his grandmother during his early childhood. As dark as it was in the former bedroom, the words on the old piece of paper were barely readable. His eyes skimmed down further and further through the letter until a particular set of words caught is eyes.

Justice Society, he read.

Questions bubbled up within him, but he went back, slower this time, to try and decipher the context which used the familiar name. The letter was mostly about estate, money going to different bank accounts and the like. It stated a funeral home and time for "Papa Wyatt." It was really a quite cold and impersonal letter, for the most part.

Until the final paragraph.

"…I also wanted to let you know that I did what you asked, Brian, when that fella' the Green Lantern came by to pay his respects. He asked when the funeral was, and I told him politely that it would be strictly a family-affair, just like you said. I don't agree with it, but if it makes it any easier on you I understand. Please, just don't be mad with them. Them Justice Society fella's do good work, and their heroes. What happened to your father was just an accident. He woulda understood, and I hope, eventually, you do too…"

What?, Corey's mind blared as he read the passage again, and a third time to be sure. His grandfather was connected to the Justice Society. And the Justice Society was connected to the Spectre. But how?

"Spectre!," He called out into the empty room. "Spectre, where are you!" He closed his eyes and concentrated, but no indication came. If the Spectre could hear him now, he wasn't answering.

He dug through the box, ripping at papers and pictures, desperate for a clue. He threw items out behind him, carelessly as he searched the container. Finally, his hands found a beat up old three-ring binder. He pulled it up off the bottom of the pile and dusted it off. It crackled with age as he opened it up, eyes straining to see what was contained inside.

On the front page, a plastic embossed check made out to Wyatt Jobe, dated 1944. Corey flipped the pages, ignoring the cold that creeped in from the cracks in the room. Black and white photos were pasted onto the scrapbook's pages haphazardly. They were completely random, none having anything to do with the other. There were pictures of men in suits shaking hands, of men behind bars, of grocery stores, and teens outside of school. Everything imaginable. Some had clippings of newspaper next to them, and as Corey inspected the articles, he realized they all fell under the same byline, Walter Fleischer.

He turned the pages faster, ignoring the articles and looking only for the photos, until something stopped him. Halfway through the book there was a black and white still of a muscular young man in some strange costume, with long boots, a thick belt, and stars adorned all over his upper torso. The boy smiled at the camera through a facemask that extended from under his eyes up over the back of his head, completely obscuring his scalp. A taller, more gruff looking man smiled from behind him, large arms folded across his chest, which was decorated in matching horizontal stripes. They stood above an unconscious, roped up man on the ground. The adjacent headline proclaimed, "Star-Spangled Kid and Stripesy Unearth Italian Underground Sect." He read the entire article, confusion setting in completely in his mind. Proceeding to flip through the pages, more and more they revealed colorfully-costumed men and women, interspersed with snapshots of regular World War II-era life.

"Hourman and Dr. Fate Defeat Nazi Spies."

"Justice Society of America Outwits the Key."

"Green Lantern to Appear in Central City for G.I.'s."

"JSA Does it Again!"

The scrapbook's later pages were filled almost to bursting with pictures of costumed figures in battle with criminals or maybe just smiling and waving for the camera, sometimes separately, sometimes together. All clips of text had the same byline of Walter Fleischer. And Corey paid particular attention to the pictures that captured two recurring characters. The man in red with the metal helmet, that he guessed was The Flash, and the blonde man in the cape with the glowing ring that some pictures depicted with beams of energy lashing out from it. The articles called him The Green Lantern.

He had seen them both in his dream.*

* Corey's been having nightmares of the JSA and the Spectre's exploits in Hell, as seen in last issue. -Jonah

The dream had come less and less frequently, but still the images brought forth from it could be recalled as clear as day in his mind. The two men from the photographs were younger versions of those he had seen fighting with the Spectre, and other individuals in a red, burning plane the Spectre had said was Hell itself.

But if extra-attention was focused on the pictures containing The Flash and the Green Lantern, obsession was delivered to the unsmiling white form, draped in a hooded cloak, boots, and trunk-shorts who flew through the air in shots with the rest of the Justice Society. This was the figure that Corey knew all too well, the one who haunted him in both his sleeping and waking hours.

Some of the photos were of the Spectre.

As he turned yet another in a multitude of weary old pages a photograph, different from the rest, fell out of it's holding place. This one was different from the rest. Slick and glossy, it was cool to the touch. This was direct photograph, not a reprint from a newspaper, as the other's had been. He peered at it closer. In it, four figures stood closely together, eyes focused outward. A short, thin African-American man, middle-aged with a thick head of hair, smiled widely his arms around two of the other figures in the shot. He wore the old-style of workman's clothes. Suit pants and a vest, and shirt sleeves rolled up around his forearms, with a leather strap in place over each bicep. His happy, expressive eyes reflected the light from the camera's flash back into the photograph, and the family eyes were how Corey recognized his grandfather.

Next to him, smiling jovially with his hand around the man's shoulder, was the Green Lantern. His practiced smile was still completely genuine in the photograph, and the small diamond mask he wore did little to hide the warmth in his face. The other figure however, had his face almost completely hidden by a brightly covered hood. Clad in black and some other color cape, he waved for the camera as well, powerful biceps obvious under a tight black shirt. Something resembling a small hourglass hung over his broad chest.

And in the back, like an error in the photo, standing behind all of them, was the visage of the Spectre. His face and features were, as always, mostly obscured by the darkness of the scene, but his cloak and hood, as well as naked upper torso distinguished him from the rest.

Corey's questioning hands traced the surface of the photo. When his soft fingers rubbed over a curious indent, he turned the picture over…

To Wyatt Jobe, we greatly appreciate the cheapest publicity-man ever. Best wishes, The Green Lantern, Hourman, The Spectre. April 11, 1945.

How?, he asked himself for the millionth time. How did grandpa know the Justice Society? How could they be connected to his death? And why hasn't the Spectre talked to me about this at all?

He folded up the picture and pocketed it. Scanning through the final pages of the scrapbook, he found nothing else of interest set it aside. The box was almost empty now, and he rifled through the last random pieces of paper, until he pulled out a small pad of papers. Inspecting it's yellowed pages, it soon became obvious that the nature of the little book was too be Wyatt Jobe's journal. It was filled from page to page with little notes. He squinted his eyes in the dying light, trying to speed read for any important words, any indication of the Justice Society, or the Spectre, or any clue as to the connection between them, but found none. As his eyes flashed over the dates, he noticed that they stopped at 1943, but jagged little edges of paper still clung to the rings after that point, as if there was more, much more included after the fact. And those entries had been ripped out.

He was about to put it away when he noticed a little note jotted down in pen on the back cover, in hasty handwriting.

JSA Museum- West Gotham City- 1-800-667-4340- Hrs. 9-5, weekdays

He ripped off the last page of the book as well, and stuck it in his back

pocket with the photo and stood up, cramped muscles aching. Fatigue was in his bones, but he just paced around the room to ease the tension. The last of the light disappeared and night was on the city of Divine Heights. And in that room, his brother's old room, in his old house, he made a promise too himself. On his head, he could feel where he'd hit the wall when on his roller-skates, and on the side, he imagined a throbbing where a mobsters gun had been pressed against his temple.

The thin boy stood up in the middle of the room, and to anyone watching, it would appear that he stood straighter and taller than he had days, if not years.

No more, Spectre, he promised himself silently. I've wasted too much time talking to you. Crying at you. Yelling at you. It's useless because you don't care and I see that now. I'm alone now. My dad's gone, and my brother's gone, and it's your fault. But from now on, I take care of myself.

He paused collecting his thoughts, mind drifting back to the photograph and phone number in his pocket.

…And that means taking care of you. I can't let you ruin any more lives like you have mine. I've stopped you from killing before, and for every second I have to spend linked to you, I will do everything I can to make your life as miserable as you have mine. If your mission, is to take life then I'll stop you, just to stick it to you, and the guy who put us together, and anyone else who think my life is toy for them to screw around with. I'm going to find out who you are, where you come from, and how to cut you apart from me so I can make you pay for everything you're responsible for.

His hands brushed over his back pocket to make sure his new collections hadn't fallen out of some random hole. Securing their presence, he pulled his zip-up sweatshirt closer around him, and huddled up in a corner of the cold room to go to sleep.

I'm going to Gotham City…, he thought as he closed his eyes.

Spirited Writings

Thanks to any and all loyal readers for sticking with this series enough to wait around for me to actually put this issue together. It took a while, but I'm trying out a new system for writing stories, and at the time I write these words to you, I should be finishing up the next to chapters of the series, which I've been working on simultaneous to this one. So hopefully, you'll be able to read them all as they come out together, making up for the lapse in time. It's the first time I've tried it, and I recommend it to anyone writing, either fan fiction or otherwise, or both, because it's great for getting past writer's-block. If you get stuck at one point during a story, just move on to one of the other two, and you're bound to find inspiration somewhere. And it works! At the moment, I'm so jazzed to write The Spectre, I could pump out a whole 12 issues before breakfast. (Well, we'll see how that goes.)
But anyway, lest I rename this featurette "Writing Tips from the Rookie…"
The story was a little low on action this go-round, but I hope the mystery aspect sufficiently picks at your brain enough to keep you around. The road to Gotham City could be a very long or very short one, I honestly have no idea, but expect to see a few of The Spectre's first super-hero guest-stars in the near or far future. And if action is what you crave, just hop on over to the next to issues in the series, because they're some fun, violent romps through the FDC Universe that I'm sure you'll enjoy.
As always, keep sending feedback! I love to here any and all thoughts on the series, no matter if it's a quick word or praise or criticism, or you've decided to write your college thesis on a piece of fanfic that's currently 6-8 issues long, and you want everybody to take a look. Whatever, man, it's all good.

See you on the other side!,
Jonah Rite

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