A Late Night Call

The rain battered against the windshield of the car—an old, cheap town car that groaned with age every time it hit a pothole. James squinted through the streaked glass as the wipers screeched back and forth, smearing the downpour instead of clearing it. The rhythmic squeak was grating, an unwelcome companion to the rattling vents that struggled to push out warm air.

"I really need to replace these things," James muttered, half to himself, half to the car. But he knew he wouldn't. New wipers were just another expense he'd shove to the bottom of the list. The old town car wasn't much to look at—peeling paint, a faint mildew odor clinging to the seats, and a heater that worked when it felt like it—but it ran. That was all that mattered.

The city stretched out ahead of him, shadowed by storm clouds that loomed heavy in the sky. Streetlights flickered as the rain poured down in relentless sheets, their dim halos barely holding back the night. On either side of the road, abandoned factories and crumbling buildings stood like silent sentinels, their shattered windows catching faint glints of light. A distant horn blared, muffled by the storm, and James tightened his grip on the wheel.

The radio hummed softly, filling the silence inside the car. James always listened to the radio—never anything else. CDs were too much trouble to deal with, and nobody sold cassettes anymore, something that annoyed him more than it should. He'd never bothered with streaming or any of the new tech people were obsessed with. Why fix something that wasn't broken? James always thought. The simplicity of the radio was enough for him, even if the static from passing under bridges drove him mad.

The drive was slow. The rain made everything harder—driving, thinking, sleeping. Not that James got much sleep these days. Cases kept him busy, and nights like this had a way of stirring up memories of the past.

After thirty minutes of weaving through the nearly deserted streets, he finally reached his destination: a warehouse near the docks. The building loomed against the dark sky, its outline jagged and worn. He'd been called here before, just two months ago, and the memory of that night made his jaw tighten. It was a bad case, and the thought made his stomach drop at the possibility that this one could turn out the same way.

The docks were quiet now, a stark contrast to the chaos of the day. A few rusted shipping containers sat stacked in the shadows, the faint sound of water slapping against the dock walls echoing through the rain. Normally, there'd be a security guard patrolling, but James saw no one—just two squad cars parked near the warehouse entrance, their lights flashing silently.

James eased his car to a stop and shifted into park. He unbuckled and reached for the glove box. From it, he pulled an old revolver. A Smith and Wesson Model 19. The grip was smooth, worn from years of use. The metal still polished. James didn't take it out all the time on calls, but he still tried to maintain the firearm regularly. "Betty," he called it, a relic from when he first joined the force. They'd tried to push him into switching to a newer, sleeker model, but James refused. Betty had never let him down.

He reached into the glove box once more retrieving a box of .357 magnum rounds. Opening the box and sitting it in the passenger seat, he opened the cylinder of his weapon, loading six rounds into it. He double checks that the rounds are in and slides the cylinder closed. Closing the box of ammunition and returning it to the glove box, shutting it securely.

He tucked the revolver into his holster and grabbed his flask from the inner pocket. The dull ache in his head nagging again. Taking a quick swig of whiskey, he stepped out into the rain and placing the flask back in its resting place. The downpour soaked through his coat in seconds, but he barely noticed.

As he approached the entrance, a young officer stepped forward to meet him, the rain plastering the kid's hair to his forehead.

"Detective Nolan?" the officer asked, his voice uncertain.

"What? No." James' tone was sharp, his patience already wearing thin. "I saw your squad cars and pulled in looking for drugs and hookers."

"Wha—" the young man stammered, blinking in confusion, before another voice interrupted.

"Detective Nolan! Good to see you're in high spirits as ever."

James turned to see Sergeant Michael approaching, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Sergeant Michael," James said, shaking his head. "Glad to see someone competent around here." He cast a glare at the younger officer before looking back at the sergeant. "What's going on?"

Michael gave the young officer an apologetic look before clapping a hand on James' shoulder. "Come on, I'll give you the tour," he said, guiding James inside.

James stepped into the warehouse, the air thick with the smell of damp wood and rusted metal. The faint hum of mobile spotlights echoed in the cavernous space, their beams cutting through the darkness in harsh, narrow columns. Pools of light illuminated clusters of crates and barrels, casting long, angular shadows that seemed to shift as James walked deeper into the building.

The sergeant guided him past the caution tape stretched across the entryway. James glanced up at the ceiling, the darkness pressing down like a heavy weight.

"Why didn't you turn the lights on?" he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space.

"Power's out," Michael replied. "Might've been the storm. Lightning, maybe. We're not sure."

James stopped walking, raising an eyebrow. "You're not sure? Don't tell me that's why you called me."

Michael smirked faintly. "No, detective. The lights are the least of our worries."

They moved further into the warehouse, their footsteps reverberating off the concrete floor. The deeper they went, the colder it seemed to get, the air carrying a damp chill that made James' coat feel useless.

Ahead, a cluster of mobile lights illuminated an area cordoned off by crime scene tape. Two officers stood nearby, their postures stiff, their faces pale in the stark light. James caught sight of a figure lying in the center of the lit area, and his stomach tightened.

"My guess? It happened over there," James said, pointing to the scene.

Michael snorted. "Sharp as ever, detective. Forensics already had their look."

"And?" James asked waiting for more details.

"And, they didn't find much. Nothing you won't see in a brief observation. One victim, stab wound to the chest, no murder weapon, no ID." The Sergeant informed James. "Not that she looked very hard. She said she was sure you would bring her more after you got here."

Nodding, James stepped away from Michael and approached the body. Ducking under the tape, he immediately took in the details. A man, late twenties or early thirties, lay on his back in a pool of blood. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, unseeing. The blood formed an odd, almost perfect circle around him, the edges creeping outward like jagged veins.

The smell of blood was still fresh. James slipped on a pair of gloves handed to him by one of the officers and crouched next to the body. He pressed two fingers to the man's neck out of habit, even though he already knew the answer.

"Still warm," he muttered, his voice low.

He scanned the body. One stab wound to the chest and blood seeping from the man's eyes, thick and dark, as though he'd been crying tears of blood before he died. James frowned, leaning closer. It wasn't something he'd seen before—not even on his worst cases.

"and no one found a murder weapon?" he asked, looking up at the officers.

Both shook their heads. "We didn't find one, sir."

James turned to look at the Sergeant. "Did forensics say anything about the blood from the eyes?"

The Sergeant looked up from a clipboard he was now holding. "No, she didn't really tell us anything other than what i told you."

James shifted his attention back to the body, reaching under to check the back pockets, hoping for a wallet or ID. The victims pockets were empty, but his gloved fingers brushed against cold steel. Pulling it free, he held up a knife smeared with blood.

"This is why I get paid more than you," he growled, half to himself.

The officers exchanged uneasy glances, but James didn't care. His attention was on the knife, its blade jagged and unusual, as though it were designed for something more sinister than cutting. A chill ran up his spine, the sensation familiar and unwelcome. It was the same feeling he got when something wasn't right.

His gaze swept over the scene again. The circle of blood, the fresh warmth of the body, the eerie quiet of the warehouse—it all felt wrong. His grip on the knife tightened as he scanned the shadows beyond the light.

"Was this building swept?" he asked sharply.

"Yes, sir," one of the officers replied. "As soon as we arrived."

James didn't believe him. His instincts were screaming now, a tingling in his arms and a knot forming in his stomach. He returned his attention to the body, noticing something for the first time—a faint glint of white in the man's mouth.

"What is that?" he muttered. Reaching into the mouth with careful fingers, he pulled out a folded piece of paper, damp with saliva and stained with blood.

"What the hell…" James murmured, unfolding the paper. Strange symbols covered the page, written in dark, angular strokes. He didn't recognize the script, but just looking at it made the ache in his head throb. A sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes, like needles probing his brain.

He stumbled slightly, closing his eyes he gripped the knife and note tight. "Someone bag these," he said, holding out both items.

An officer stepped forward with a plastic evidence bag, taking the note and knife from James' trembling hand. As they left his grip, the pounding in his head lessened.

James stepped back pulling the gloves off of his hands. He balled up the gloves and tossed them to the side. Reaching in his coat, he pulled out his flask once more, taking another drink, then returning it again to its pocket. Feeling the burn of the whiskey helped relieve him of the throb in his head.

Before James could say another word, a loud bang echoed from the back of the warehouse. The sound was deep and hollow, cutting through the steady hum of rain outside.

James straightened, his hand flying to his revolver. "You said you swept the place!" he barked, glaring at the officers.

Sergeant Michael jogged up, his expression alarmed. "Detective?!"

"I'll yell if I need you," James said, already moving toward the noise, drawing his gun and pulling a small flashlight from his jacket. The beam light cut through the darkness as he ventured deeper into the warehouse.

The shadows seemed to grow darker around him, the crates and barrels forming towering silhouettes that loomed like silent watchers. His steps were slow, deliberate. Every footstep beneath him, every distant drip of water, set his nerves on edge. Training his light and weapon on every nook and cranny.

He rounded a corner and froze. A door stood slightly ajar, the faint outline of a room visible beyond. James tightened his grip on his revolver and edged closer, his flashlight casting shifting shadows across the floor.

When he reached the doorway, he moved swiftly, stepping inside and sweeping his light across the room. It was an office, undisturbed except for an open window on the far wall. Rain blew in through the gap, soaking the floor below.

James approached the window cautiously, peering outside. Footprints in the mud caught his eye, leading away from the building and into the darkness. The downpour was already erasing them, the edges blurring with each passing second.

James thought to himself for a moment. Trying to decide between climbing out the window to follow the trail, or going back to he other officers and having Sergeant Michael send some people out.

"Better play this one by the book," James muttered to himself.

James turned from the window and hurried back through the warehouse, his boots splashing through shallow puddles that had gathered on the uneven floor. The flashlight's beam jittered with each step, carving out fleeting details in the surrounding darkness.

"Sergeant Michael!" he shouted as he neared the main area.

The sergeant glanced up from his conversation with one of the officers, his face immediately shifting to concern. "What is it, detective?"

"There are footprints outside the north-side window," James said, his voice clipped. "They're heading away from the building, but the rain's already washing them out."

Michael's expression hardened as he reached for his radio. "All units, possible suspect on foot, heading north from the warehouse. Be advised, conditions are poor—exercise caution." He released the button and looked back at James. "I'll call for a team to track the trail, but in this weather…"

James nodded grimly. "I'll head back to the station. Forensics might have found something useful by now." His eyes swept the room. "I'll take the knife and that note with me."

Michael gestured to the officer holding the knife in a sealed evidence bag. James approached, taking it, but his gaze shifted to the other officer standing at the edge of the light. The young man was staring at the unfolded note in the plastic bag, his brow furrowed deeply, his body unnaturally still.

James narrowed his eyes, walking closer. "What's going on?"

The officer didn't respond, his gaze locked on the strange symbols scrawled across the paper.

"Hey!" James barked, louder this time, but the officer remained frozen.

Annoyed, James snatched the note out of the man's hands. The officer blinked, suddenly snapping out of whatever trance had gripped him.

"Huh?" the officer muttered, looking dazed.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" James snapped, holding the note aloft.

"I… I don't know," the officer stammered, his voice unsteady. "I was just looking at it, and…" He trailed off, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.

"Useless," James muttered under his breath, slipping the note into his coat pocket. The symbols were still scratching at the edges of his mind, but he ignored the faint throb.

He turned back to Michael. "I'm heading out. Let me know if you find anything else."

"Will do," Michael replied. "Be careful out there, detective."

James didn't answer as he walked back towards the entrance of the warehouse. He stopped, another knot forming in his stomach. An idea caught him, or more so a lack of information. He turned around back to the Sergeant who was still talking with the officer while filling out paperwork on his clipboard.

"Who called this in?" James asked almost yelling to make his voice loud enough to reach Michael.

Michael turned looking up from his clipboard once more. "It was an anonymous tip. No one was here when we arrived."

James looked down at the ground, trying to put what pieces he had together. Something didn't add up here. No ID, anonymous call in, happened recently. James thought over what he saw. It didn't look like there was a struggle. He shook his head and started walking for the entrance once more.

He stepped out into the rain, the cold drops hammering against his face and soaking through his coat for a second time. The storm was relentless, and the wind howled through the skeletal remains of the nearby shipping yards.

Sliding into his car, he set the evidence bags on the passenger seat. The engine sputtered before roaring to life, and James pulled away from the warehouse, his wipers screeching against the windshield.

The knife and note sat in plain sight beside him, a silent reminder of the night's events. His gaze flicked toward them every so often, unease curling in his chest. Something about the symbols on the note felt wrong, like they were digging into his subconscious even without him looking at them.

He gripped the wheel tighter, his mind racing. This case wasn't like the others. The body, the symbols, the strange chill in the warehouse—it all pointed to something beyond the usual murders and robberies he'd seen over the years.

As the city blurred past in the rain, James muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the pounding storm.

"What the hell have I gotten myself into?"