was nearly lost within the shadows, so much so I could not make out any details of his face. His hair, too, was long and black, framing the near white of his pale skin, what little was visible.
“I see you, sir!” I said in the most authoritative voice I could muster. “Why are you following me?”
No reply came, only the slight tilt of his head.
“Should you continue, I will summon a constable!”
Had he seen me throw the bone saw?
Had he seen me flee the hospital?
I could not be sure.
I turned back around and continued down Francis Street, my ears keen to the sounds behind me. I heard the click of the man’s cane but not his shoes; they made not a single sound on the cobblestones. Now I wished I had kept the saw; I had no weapon on my person, and while I could hold my own in a fight, this man was half a head taller than me and broad in the shoulders. At such a distance, and under these brooding conditions, discerning his age proved impossible. But he stood tall and firm, lacking the telltale slouch of an older man, so I imagined him to be no older than I, and a formidable opponent.
I hastened my pace, not to the degree that I would appear to be fleeing but just enough to increase the distance between us. He moved slower than I; I could tell from the steady click of the cane. At this point, I suppose I moved at a speed nearly twice his, yet there was something abnormal about his gait—at such a clip, I should have noticed a diminishment in the sound of the cane clicking behind me as the distance between us increased, but instead the click of his cane grew louder, as if he were gaining ground on me despite only taking half the number of steps.
As I neared St. Patrick’s Cathedral, I stopped and turned around again and found my fear confirmed. When I first spotted him, he had been maybe thirty feet behind me, yet somehow he managed to close that gap by more than half. He stopped moving when I did and again stood stock-still, aside from the slight tilting of his head a moment after my eyes fell on him. He was close enough now that I could make out his face and it caused a chill to rush over me. His skin was nearly translucent, lined with tiny red veins that seemed to absorb the light from the streetlamp and glimmer with the dancing flame of the gas. His nose was best described as aquiline, with a prominent bridge and slight curve at the base, yet perfectly in proportion with his other features. His eyebrows were of the thickest black, and his long hair flowed out from his top hat to nearly his shoulders. He had a light beard, not thick enough to be considered unruly but enough to aid in the concealment of his face, for it seemed to grasp at the shadows around his head and pull them in a little bit closer. Those eyes, though! My God, those eyes. His sloe-black eyes were death’s own and yet they teemed with life. As his head tilted, I swear on my soul they flickered bright red before returning to bottomless black pools. His lips were a ruby red, enhanced by the dark hair and pale skin, and they were parted ever so slightly, as if he were sucking in a breath, yet he made no such sound.
I daresay his teeth frightened me most, for when his lips opened, I saw them protruding; they were profoundly white and appeared to be filed to points, resembling the teeth of a canine more so than those of a man.
“I have money, if that is what you want.” The words escaped my lips before I realized I uttered them. I felt so completely alone, vulnerable in the open street, for there was not another living soul in attendance. What I would not give for a knife or a gun, anything I could use to defend myself.
“I do not want your money,” the man said. Oh, and that voice! His voice was rich with bass, thick, each word pronounced with deliberate care. There was also