The High Priestess’ Game – Chapter 10
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Chapter 10
I stepped off the bus into a night so dense it felt like sinking into ink. The rain had turned the wooden planks of the docks into dark mirrors, each one threatening to pull me under if I trusted my weight to it. My phone cast a blue glow across my face, the only light that felt like it belonged to me in this forgotten corner of New York where the city’s pulse grew faint and irregular.
The bus pulled away with a hiss of brakes and a belch of diesel, abandoning me to the silence that followed. I stood alone, my suitcase handle slick in my grip, watching the red taillights shrink until they were indistinguishable from the distant harbor signals. The weight of what I’d come to do settled on my shoulders like the mist that clung to everything.
“You’ve come this far,” I whispered to myself, though the words felt stolen by the wind before they’d fully formed.
I raised my phone, the blue light of Google Maps illuminating my rain-spotted sleeve. The screen showed a maze of loading platforms and warehouses, a confusion of straight lines that made no sense against the organic chaos of the actual docks. I zoomed in, trying to orient myself. Mark was here somewhere—or what was left of him. The thought made my stomach twist.
A gust of wind pushed at my back, carrying the scent of salt and rot. I began walking, my shoes making soft, wet sounds against the wooden planks. The docks creaked beneath me, as if whispering secrets into the night. To my right, the dark water of the harbor lapped against the pilings, each wave a tongue tasting the edge of the human world before retreating.
My path took me past silent shipping containers, their massive forms looming like colorless monoliths. In daylight, they might have been cheerful primary colors, but night had leached them of distinction. I passed between them, feeling small and exposed despite the shadows that offered concealment.
The rain had thinned to a mist that beaded on my hair and eyelashes, blurring the edges of the few lights that punctuated the darkness. Ahead, a neon sign sputtered and flickered, its reflection trembling in a puddle at my feet. The Harbor Light Tavern.
I stopped, my breath catching. The weathered brick building with its fogged windows and faltering neon sign matched perfectly with what I’d seen in my vision the night before.
In that moment, standing before the physical manifestation of my vision, I felt a strange doubling of reality.
The brick facade was darker than in my vision, the neon a sicker shade of red. Through the windows, figures moved like shadow puppets, their features indistinct but their motions suggesting laughter and life. A life Mark no longer had.
“You’re right,” came a voice beside me, though I knew if I turned my head, I’d see nothing but empty air. “This is the place from your vision.”
Mister B.’s voice had a way of bypassing my ears and speaking directly to my thoughts.
“I know,” I said, speaking under my breath. A drunk stumbling from the tavern might think I was talking to myself, but I knew better. “I saw it exactly like this.”
“Not exactly,” Mister B. corrected. I felt rather than saw his presence shift from my right side to my left. “You have seen two places, merged into one. But almost …”
I glanced at the scraggly trees that lined the far side of the dock road. Their bare branches clawed at the night sky like desperate hands.
“Does that matter?” I asked.
“Not really. At least I’m here to guide you,” Mister B. said. “Look there.”
I didn’t need to ask where. My eyes were already drawn to it—a warehouse whose broken, graffiti-marred facade rose beyond the tavern. Unlike the other buildings, which huddled in defensive darkness, this one seemed to call to me. A single security light cast a sickly yellow glow over the loading bay, illuminating layers of spray paint that transformed the concrete into a canvas of rage and remembrance.
“Is that—”
“Where they took him? Yes.” Mister B.’s voice dropped lower, a whisper within a whisper. “The last place Mark was alive.”
The distant hum of water against the docks and the whisper of wind through the rusted metal of fire escapes set a tone both eerie and enticing. The warehouse pulled at me like a magnet, promising secrets hidden in plain sight behind its crumbling walls.
My feet moved before my mind had decided. I walked past the tavern, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the pools of light that spilled from the windows. Music escaped when the door opened, a brief burst of laughter and clinking glasses that seemed obscene against the gravity of my purpose.
Fear crawled up my spine like a cold finger. I’d come all this way based on a vision and the word of a spirit only I could see. If I were anyone else, I’d think I was crazy. Some days, I still wasn’t sure.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I said, stopping at the edge of the pool of light cast by the warehouse’s security lamp. The weight of doubt pressed down on me. “What if I’m wrong? What if none of this is real?”
“What’s more likely?” Mister B. asked, his voice taking on the edge it did when his patience wore thin. “That you’re having elaborate hallucinations about a man you never met? Or that something terrible happened to Mark, and something beyond your understanding is trying to make it right?”
I swallowed hard. “Neither seems very likely.”
“And yet, here you are.” There was a softening in his tone, almost like affection. “You know why you came. You know what you felt when his wife showed you his picture. You know what you saw in your vision.”
“Will I find him in there?” I asked, my voice small against the vastness of the night.
“Yes.” The word hung between us like fog. “But Rahel, listen to me. You’ll be safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“You’re a ghost,” I said. “What could you possibly do if someone comes after me?”
“I’m not a ghost,” he corrected, a familiar irritation in his voice. “I’m something else entirely. And you’d be surprised what I can do when necessary.”
The wind picked up, sending a scattering of trash across the cracked pavement between me and the warehouse. A plastic bag caught on a fence post and flapped like a trapped bird. I watched it struggle, feeling a kinship with its futile efforts.
“You’re not trapped, Rahel,” Mister B. said, reading my thoughts as he sometimes did. “You chose this path. You could turn around right now, get back on a bus, and forget everything. Sarah would never know you came.”
But I would know. I would know I’d turned my back on the truth, on the chance to give a grieving wife answers. And I would know I’d denied whatever part of myself had connected with Mark’s fate.
“I’m going in,” I said, stepping forward into the light.
“Good,” Mister B. said, and I swore I could hear a smile in his voice. “You’ll be safe. I promise.”
Promises from the dead—or whatever Mister B. claimed to be—seemed flimsy protection. But as I moved toward the warehouse, the wind at my back felt deliberate, like hands gently pushing me forward. Toward truth. Toward danger. Toward whatever awaited me in the shadows beyond.
I approached the warehouse’s side entrance with the cautiousness of someone who knows they’re crossing a boundary. The door stood half-concealed by tangled ivy, its metal skin rusted to the color of dried blood, flaking away like scabs from an old wound. My footsteps slowed, not from fear exactly, but from the weight of knowing that once I crossed this threshold, I’d be irrevocably changed by whatever waited on the other side.
“You’re hesitating,” Mister B. observed, his voice materializing beside my left ear.
“I’m considering,” I corrected, studying the vines that embraced the door frame. They were winter-bare but dense, like the veins on an old man’s hands. “There’s a difference.”
“Not much of one.” His presence shifted, and I sensed him examining the door alongside me. “No one’s been through here in weeks. Look at the cobwebs in the corner. Undisturbed.”
He was right. The delicate silk strands stretched across the upper corner of the door frame, beaded with moisture that caught what little light reached this forgotten entrance. No recent visitors, then—at least not through this door.
I reached out, my fingers hovering just above the rusted handle. “What if we’re wrong? What if this is just some abandoned building and Mark is somewhere else entirely?”
“We’re not wrong.” Mister B.’s certainty was like a physical pressure. “I led you here for a reason, Rahel. Trust that, if nothing else.”
Trust. Such a simple word for such a complicated thing. Three weeks ago, I would have laughed at anyone who suggested I’d be breaking into a derelict warehouse.
The ivy scraped against my sleeve as I pressed closer, investigating the lock. It was an old padlock, but the hasp it had once secured was broken, hanging loose like a torn fingernail. Someone had forced this door before me.
“Mark?” I whispered, though I knew it couldn’t have been him.
“No,” Mister B. said flatly. “The one who brought him here.”
My stomach clenched. The casual way he referenced the violence done to a man I knew only from stories made it suddenly, terribly real. This wasn’t just some spiritual quest or strange delusion. A man had died, and I was standing where it happened.
“Go on,” Mister B. urged, gentler now. “Step in. I’ll be with you.”
I took a deep breath, tasting the metallic damp of the night air, and placed my hand on the door. It was cold, the chill seeping through my glove like water through cloth. I pushed. Nothing happened except a faint grinding sound of metal against concrete. I pushed harder, leaning my weight into it.
The door gave suddenly, with a protesting screech that seemed to tear through the night like a living thing. I froze, certain that someone must have heard, that lights would come on and voices would call out. But there was only the distant throb of the city and the closer, softer sounds of the harbor.
The gap was just wide enough for me to slip through sideways. The darkness beyond was absolute, a void that seemed to breathe. I switched on my phone’s flashlight, its beam cutting through the blackness like a knife, revealing dust motes that danced in its path like disturbed spirits.
“It’s safe,” Mister B. assured me. “Go inside.”
I edged through the gap, feeling the door scrape against my back, hearing the scratch of my coat against metal. And then I was inside, the door still open behind me, my exit still assured if I needed it.
For a long moment, I simply stood there, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom, letting my lungs adjust to the different quality of the air. Outside was the sharp cold of a winter night, the bite of salt and pollution. Inside was something older, staler—the breath of a place long abandoned by life but still holding onto the memory of it.
I swung my light in a slow arc, taking in my surroundings. I stood in what must have once been a loading area. Concrete floor stretched away into shadows, marked with stains whose origins I didn’t want to contemplate. The ceiling rose high above, lost in darkness, but I could make out the skeletal shapes of old machinery—pulleys and chains hanging like the remains of industrial age creatures.
The door behind me creaked, shifting in the wind. I turned to see it closing, as if pushed by invisible hands. Before I could move, it shut with a soft but definitive click that echoed in the empty space.
“The wind,” I said aloud, needing to hear a human voice, even if it was only my own.
“Yes,” Mister B. agreed, but there was an undertone to his voice that suggested otherwise. “Just the wind.”
I took a cautious step forward, then another. The circle of light from my phone danced ahead of me, revealing more of the warehouse in disconnected fragments—a stack of pallets leaning at a precarious angle, a puddle of water reflecting the beam like a dark mirror, a spray of graffiti across a far wall that looked like screaming faces.
As I moved deeper into the warehouse, the sounds of the city faded like a radio being turned down. Each step took me further from the world I knew, from the familiar rhythm of life outside. The noise of traffic, the distant shouts of dock workers on the night shift, the low horn of a ferry on the harbor—all these receded until they were no more than the memory of sound.
In their place came new sounds, ones that belonged to this forgotten space. The low, resonant drip of water falling from pipes overhead, each drop landing with a plink that seemed to measure out time in its own unhurried way. The distant clatter of forgotten machinery shifting and settling, like arthritic joints adjusting in the cold. The soft sigh of air moving through broken windows high above, a whisper that might have been words if I’d known how to listen properly.
“Do you hear that?” I asked, stopping to tilt my head toward a sound I couldn’t quite identify.
“Hear what?” Mister B. asked.
“Like… scratching. Or tapping.” I swung my light toward the sound, but it revealed only more abandoned space.
“Rats, maybe,” he suggested. “Or water in the pipes. This place is falling apart.”
I nodded, not entirely convinced but unwilling to give voice to the alternative—that we weren’t as alone in this warehouse as we believed. The thought sent a shiver down my spine, raising goosebumps along my arms that had nothing to do with the cold.
I continued forward, more cautiously now. My light swept over abandoned tools, discarded work gloves stiff with age and grime, a clipboard hanging from a nail with papers still attached, their text faded to illegibility. It was as if everyone had simply walked out one day and never returned, leaving the place to gradually dissolve back into its component parts.
“Which way?” I asked, as I came to a junction where the open space split into corridors leading off in different directions.
“Left,” Mister B. said without hesitation. “Always left in this place.”
“Why? How do you know?”
There was a pause, longer than usual. “I just know,” he finally said. “Some things I can’t explain to you yet.”
Yet. The word hung between us, a promise or a threat, I wasn’t sure which. But I turned left, following his direction, trusting in whatever connection had brought us together.
The corridor was narrower, the ceiling lower. My light reflected off metal walls that had once been painted cream but were now peeling and water-stained. Doors lined the passage, most hanging open to reveal small offices or storage rooms, their contents long since looted or decayed.
“A man brought him through here,” Mister B. said softly, his voice uncomfortably close to my ear. “He was still alive then, but only just.”
I swallowed hard, trying not to picture it. “Did he know? What was going to happen to him?”
“Yes. By then, he knew.” There was a heaviness to Mister B.’s words, a sorrow that seemed more personal than general compassion would explain.
“Mister B.? Why not just tell me who murdered Mark, and I’ll contact the police to handle the investigation?”
“Keep going,” he finally said after a long pause. “We’re close now.”
The corridor ended at a set of double doors, their small square windows covered in wire mesh. One door hung askew, as if something had tried to force it open wider than its hinges would allow. Beyond was darkness more complete than what I’d walked through so far.
I paused at the threshold, suddenly reluctant. The search for Mark had been abstract until now—a mission accepted based on curiosity. But in this moment, standing before these doors that seemed to lead into absolute darkness, I felt the weight of what I was truly seeking: a dead man, a murder, a truth that someone had gone to great lengths to conceal.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, the words coming out small and childlike.
“You should be,” Mister B. said, his honesty somehow more comforting than false reassurance would have been. “But remember, this is an important part of your journey. Don’t worry, it’s not your final destination, it’s just the beginning of something new. Something bigger. With this investigation, you start to fulfill your life purpose, and the purpose of your soul. You will help people more than you ever did, with all the card readings you’ve performed, and at the same time your soul will heal, blossom, grow and become whole again. There is no way around this. God has a plan for you. In this lifetime, you’re speeding down the fast track.”
“Will you stay with me for the rest of the night?” I asked, my hand on the door.
“Not just for tonight, but throughout the remainder of your journey, as I have been for centuries already,” he promised, and I felt a pressure like a hand on my shoulder, though I knew if I looked, I would see nothing there. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe.”
“How many times have I died so far?” I attempted to make a joke, but Mister B. wasn’t in the mood for humor. He stayed quiet.
I pushed the door open. It moved more easily than I expected, swinging wide with a soft sigh that might have been the building breathing, or might have been my own exhaled fear. In this single moment, the last echoes of the outside world vanished completely. I was in a bubble of silence broken only by the sounds of the building itself—the organic creaks and groans of a structure slowly surrendering to time and gravity.
The warehouse held stories long sealed away, and I was about to uncover one of them. I stepped through the doorway, into whatever waited beyond.
The darkness split open as my light cut through it, revealing a room that time had forgotten but dust remembered well. Stacks of yellowed papers rose like miniature cityscapes on my right, their edges curled and brittle with age. To my left, shapes lurked beneath tattered cloths—humped silhouettes that made no sense until I drew closer and lifted one corner of fabric. The unmistakable curve of a roulette wheel emerged, its once-gleaming surface now dulled and chipped like a fallen star.
“A casino?” I whispered, my voice sounding too loud in the tomblike silence.
“Not just any casino,” Mister B. replied, his voice seeming to emanate from everywhere and nowhere. “An underground one. Very exclusive. Very illegal.”
I let the cloth fall back, sending a puff of dust into the air that danced in my flashlight beam. The motes swirled like tiny galaxies, each one carrying decades of secrets. I moved deeper into the room, my shoes leaving clear prints in the fine layer of dust that coated the concrete floor.
The space opened up before me, far larger than I’d initially thought. My light couldn’t reach the far walls, creating the illusion that I stood in an endless cavern of forgotten things. The ceiling rose high above, supported by steel beams that crossed like the ribs of some mechanical beast. Water stains stretched across the concrete overhead, dark archipelagos on a gray sea.
“What does this have to do with Mark?” I asked, stepping carefully around a toppled chair, its cushion spilling yellowed foam like entrails.
“Everything,” Mister B. said simply. “And nothing. Keep looking.”
I wanted to press him, to demand the straight answers he never seemed willing to give, but something about the space commanded a reverent silence. This was a place of buried histories, and forcing them to the surface too quickly felt somehow wrong.
Instead, I followed my light to the nearest stack of documents. They were ledgers, I realized, bound in cracked leather that flaked away at my touch. I opened one gingerly, careful not to tear the brittle pages. Columns of numbers and names filled each sheet, some crossed out, others circled in faded red ink. Dates at the top of each page placed these records in the late 1980s.
“Betting records,” Mister B. confirmed, though I hadn’t asked. “And lists of debts. Very dangerous information to keep.”
“Is that why they’re still here? Too dangerous to move, too dangerous to destroy?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps they were simply forgotten when everything ended.”
I set the ledger down and moved on, sweeping my light across more of the room. The beam caught a gleam of metal, and I approached a row of slot machines pushed against a far wall. They stood like silent sentinels, their once-bright buttons now dimmed to near obscurity. One had its front panel removed, exposing the complicated mechanism inside, frozen in time like a mechanical autopsy.
The air here had a peculiar quality—still and heavy, thick with the ghosts of cigarette smoke that had seeped into every surface. Beneath that lingered other smells: spilled liquor, mildewed fabric, the metallic tang of old coins, and something else, something organic that made my nose wrinkle.
“How long has this place been abandoned?” I asked, running a finger along the top of a slot machine and creating a clean line in the dust.
“The casino? Nearly thirty years. The warehouse itself was used for legitimate storage until about five years ago.”
“You know a lot about this place.”
“I know a lot about many things.”
I continued my exploration, moving between narrow aisles formed by piled crates and ancient tables. Every step sent small echoes bouncing off peeling paint and collapsed tarps. The sound seemed wrong somehow, as though the acoustics of the space were slightly askew, returning my footsteps to me a fraction of a second too late.
Scattered across one table were poker chips of various colors, their edges chipped and worn but still bearing the faint outline of an emblem—a stylized bird of prey, talons extended.
“The Falcon Club,” Mister B. said, closer to my ear now. “That’s what they called this place.”
I picked up one of the chips, feeling its weight in my palm—heavier than I expected, as if it carried more than its physical presence. “Was it mob-owned?”
“Not exactly. More of a… private enterprise with powerful backers. Politicians, businessmen, a few celebrities. People who needed discretion and could pay for it.”
I set the chip down with more care than it deserved, aligning it precisely with the others, as if maintaining their pattern might somehow bring order to the chaotic story I was uncovering. My light caught more objects: a dealer’s visor hanging from a nail, a metal cash box with its lid ajar, a bottle of expensive scotch still half-full, its contents turned to amber sludge.
The scene reminded me of those photos of Chernobyl—objects abandoned mid-use, a place where life had stopped abruptly. What had happened here to cause such a sudden desertion?
I moved toward the back of the room, where my light revealed a raised platform. Three steps led up to what must have been a small stage. The remains of a velvet curtain hung in tatters from a curved rod, the rich burgundy faded to the color of dried blood.
“They had shows?” I asked, climbing the steps. The wood creaked beneath my weight, the sound amplified in the empty space.
“Of a sort,” Mister B. replied, and I could hear the grimace in his voice. “Entertainment was part of the appeal.”
The stage was small, just large enough for a jazz quartet or a stand-up comedian. Or, I thought with sudden clarity, a dancer. At the back stood a tarnished brass pole, secured to both floor and ceiling. Not all entertainment was musical, then.
I stepped back down, oddly disturbed by this evidence of the warehouse’s past life. There was something sad about the abandoned stage, something that spoke of exploitation and desperation behind the glamour.
My beam swept across more gambling paraphernalia: a craps table on its side, green felt moldering; a blackjack shoe with cards still inside, their edges swollen with humidity; ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts turned to gray powder.
“The people who came here,” I said, picking my way around a fallen light fixture, “would they have been the kind to… hurt someone? To kill over what they were doing?”
“Some of them, yes,” Mister B. said. “But it’s more complicated than that.”
“It always is with you,” I muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” I directed my light toward a dark corner where something had caught my eye—a splash of color against the general grayness. As I approached, I saw it was a mural painted directly onto the concrete wall, partially hidden behind stacked chairs.
I moved the chairs aside, their metal legs screeching against the floor. The mural depicted the same falcon from the poker chips, this one rendered in faded gold and black paint. Its wings spread across ten feet of wall, and in its talons it clutched what looked like playing cards and bundles of cash. Beneath it, barely legible, were the words “Fortune Favors the Bold.”
“Their motto,” Mister B. explained. “Though fortune favored very few who came here, in the end.”
I stared at the falcon’s predatory eyes, painted with such skill that they seemed to follow me as I moved. Something about its gaze unsettled me deeply, as if it knew secrets I was still struggling to uncover.
A sharp noise from somewhere to my right made me jump, swinging my light wildly in that direction. The beam caught nothing but more abandoned equipment and shifting shadows.
“What was that?” I whispered, my heart suddenly pounding.
“The building settling,” Mister B. said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “This place is falling apart. Beams shift, water pipes expand and contract.”
I nodded, wanting to believe him, but kept my light trained on that section of the room as I slowly backed away. The shadows seemed deeper there, more resistant to my light, as if they had substance rather than mere absence.
Moving in the opposite direction, I came upon what must have been the casino’s bar. A long counter of dark wood, its surface dulled by years of dust, curved along one wall. Behind it, shelves still held bottles—some intact, others broken, their contents long since evaporated or congealed. A large mirror hung behind the bar, cracked down the middle but still reflecting my light in fractured beams.
I stepped behind the counter, my shoes crunching on broken glass. The space felt intimate somehow, as if I was intruding into someone’s personal domain rather than exploring an abandoned building. Beneath the bar, I found more ledgers, these smaller and bound in black vinyl. I opened one to find neat handwriting listing names, dates, and amounts—all in code, it seemed, with symbols instead of full words.
One of the names listed was “Mr. Goldstein.”
“Another Mr. Goldstein,” Mister B. said quickly. Too quickly for my taste, although Goldstein is a fairly common name here in New York City.
“What are these?” I asked, showing the open book to the empty air where I sensed Mister B. hovering.
“Client records. The real ones, not the sanitized versions they kept in the open.”
“And they just left them here?”
“When the end came, it came quickly. Some things were forgotten in the rush.”
I replaced the book and continued my search. The drawers beneath the bar yielded more evidence of the club’s operations: matchbooks embossed with the falcon emblem, cocktail napkins turned yellow with age, a loaded revolver wrapped in an oily cloth.
I recoiled from this last discovery, leaving the drawer half-open. “There’s a gun,” I said, stating the obvious in my shock.
“Leave it,” Mister B. advised. “It’s likely rusted beyond use, and you don’t need that kind of complication.”
I closed the drawer with my elbow, careful not to touch it again. The thought of the weapon lying there all these years, waiting, was unnerving. Had it been used? Was it connected to what happened to Mark?
Moving away from the bar, I followed the curve of the wall until I came to a door marked “Office” in faded letters. It was locked, but the frame around it was rotted, the wood soft and giving when I pressed against it.
“Should I?” I asked, already knowing what Mister B. would say.
“We came this far,” he replied, a note of anticipation in his voice that hadn’t been there before.
I leaned my weight against the door, feeling the wood splinter and give. With a crack like a gunshot, the frame broke and the door swung inward, revealing a small room that must have been the manager’s office. Unlike the chaos outside, this space was eerily preserved—a desk still held a blotter and pen set, a calendar on the wall was open to October 2012, and a leather chair sat pulled back slightly, as if its occupant had just stepped away for a moment.
The air here was different, less disturbed by drafts and time. It felt contained, preserved like a specimen in amber. I stepped inside cautiously, my light playing over the desk’s surface. A thin layer of dust coated everything, but beneath it, I could see papers arranged in neat stacks, a coffee mug still half-full of desiccated liquid, a pair of reading glasses folded carefully beside a ledger.
“They never came back,” I said softly. “Whoever worked here—they walked out one day and never returned.”
“No,” Mister B. agreed. “They didn’t.”
I moved around the desk, drawn to the calendar on the wall. October 17, 2012, was circled in red, with a single word written inside the circle: “FALCON.” The next day’s square held another notation: “Clean sweep.” The rest of the month was blank.
“What happened on October 17?” I asked, though I suspected I already knew.
“The end,” Mister B. said simply. “The night everything changed.”
I turned back to the desk, pulled by a compulsion I couldn’t name. The center drawer was unlocked, sliding open smoothly despite the years. Inside lay a single photograph, face down. I lifted it carefully, turning it over to reveal a Polaroid of a group of men standing before the falcon mural. They wore expensive suits and confident smiles, arms draped over each other’s shoulders in the universal pose of men who believe themselves untouchable.
“That’s them,” Mister B. said, his voice tight with an emotion I couldn’t identify. “The owners. The ones responsible.”
I studied their faces, these men who had created the Falcon Club and later abandoned it so completely. They looked ordinary—handsome in the way that wealth makes men handsome, but otherwise unremarkable. Could one of them have killed Mark? All of them?
As I was about to return the photo to the drawer, something caught my eye. In the background, partially hidden behind the group, stood a younger man. Unlike the others, he wasn’t smiling. His expression was wary, his posture tense, as if he was ready to flee at any moment.
“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the figure.
Mister B. was silent for so long I thought he might have left me. Finally, he spoke, his voice so low I had to strain to hear it.
“That’s not important now. We need to keep looking.”
I slipped the photo into my pocket rather than returning it to the drawer, ignoring Mister B.’s soft sound of protest. Something about that young man’s face called to me, and I wasn’t ready to leave it behind.
Moving back into the main room, I felt a new determination guiding my steps. I was close to something—I could feel it in the way the air seemed to thicken around me, in the way my heart beat a little faster with each new discovery. Mark was connected to this place, and somewhere in this labyrinth of abandoned luxury and faded sin, I would find the truth about what had happened to him.
I just had to keep looking.
My hands trembled as I sorted through another disordered pile of casino debris. The night had grown deeper around me, time slipping away as I descended further into the Falcon Club’s secrets. The longer I stayed, the more I felt the warehouse watching me—its dark corners holding breath, its shadows clinging to my ankles like needy children. I was no longer just an intruder here; I was becoming part of its story, another ghost to haunt its hollow spaces.
“There’s nothing here,” I muttered, pushing aside a stack of water-damaged playing cards. They fell in a cascade, scattering across the floor like fortune-telling bones. “Just more of the same. Old gambling junk and moldy paperwork.”
“Keep looking,” Mister B. insisted, his voice tighter than usual. “You’re close.”
“Close to what? You keep saying that, but—”
“There.” His voice cut through mine, sharp with sudden urgency. “Under that tablecloth.”
I followed his direction, moving toward a large, round table on the far side of the room. Once, it might have been a high-stakes poker table, but now it stood forgotten, draped in a faded green tablecloth that hung unevenly to the floor. Nothing about it seemed special or different from the dozen other covered tables I’d already examined.
“What am I looking for?” I asked, crouching beside it. The cloth was damp in places, spotted with black mold that formed patterns like strange constellations.
“Not on the table,” Mister B. said, his presence shifting to hover directly above me. “Under it. The floor.”
I lifted the edge of the cloth, sending up a cloud of dust that made me cough. My flashlight revealed nothing but concrete floor, stained and cracked with age.
“There’s nothing—” I began, but then my beam caught something: a slight depression in the floor, a seam that didn’t match the natural cracking pattern of the concrete. I moved closer, brushing away decades of grime with my hand.
“Do you see it now?” Mister B. asked, though he must have known I did.
“A trap door?” I ran my fingers along the edge, feeling for a way to open it. The concrete felt different here—lighter, hollow somehow. Not concrete at all, but something made to look like it.
“Precisely,” Mister B. confirmed. “Now find the latch. It should be nearby, hidden.”
I swept my light across the surrounding floor, searching for anything that might serve as a handle or trigger. Nothing stood out. Frustrated, I sat back on my heels and considered the table itself. Why would a trap door be positioned directly beneath a poker table? Unless…
I stood and lifted the tablecloth completely, folding it back to expose the table’s underside. There, attached to one of the thick wooden legs, was a small metal lever, barely distinguishable from the table’s hardware.
“Clever,” I whispered, reaching for it.
“Be careful,” Mister B. warned. “The mechanism might be rusted. It could snap.”
I hesitated, then wrapped my fingers around the lever. It was cold and slightly damp, like everything else in this forsaken place. I took a deep breath and pulled downward.
For a moment, nothing happened. The lever resisted, frozen by years of disuse. I applied more pressure, feeling something give inside the mechanism—rust flaking away, metal grinding against metal. Then, with a sound like distant thunder, the lever moved, dropping downward with a definitive click.
Behind me, the false concrete trap door shifted, rising slightly on one side as hidden springs pushed it upward. The sound it made—a soft scraping followed by the sigh of escaping air—raised the hairs on my arms. It was too organic, too alive for a mechanical process.
“Go on,” Mister B. urged. “Look.”
I approached the now-visible edge of the door and knelt beside it. My heart hammered in my chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the dripping water somewhere overhead. What was I about to find? Secret records? Stolen money? Weapons?
None of my mental preparations could have readied me for what waited below.
With shaking hands, I gripped the edge of the door and pulled it fully open. It was heavier than I expected, the weight nearly pulling me forward into the darkness it revealed. I scrambled back, steadying myself as the door fell all the way open with a dull thud that echoed through the warehouse.
My flashlight beam trembled as I directed it downward into the revealed space. It wasn’t a room or storage area as I’d expected, but a shallow pit—perhaps three feet deep—dug directly into the earth beneath the false floor. And in that pit…
“Oh God,” I whispered, the words escaping me like a prayer or a curse.
The pit revealed the lingering stench of death. It had only been six months, but the putrid odor hung heavy in the air, a sickly reminder of decay. What lay before me was a mere shadow of a body, showing slight signs of decomposition. The remnants hinted at a human form, now more an echo than a solid presence. In the dim light of my flashlight, I saw fragments of what once was – ragged clothing clinging to partially exposed bones that glistened faintly in the beam’s glow. A once lavish suit jacket now reduced to tattered remnants draped over human remains. A weathered leather belt still encircled what remained of a waist, cracked but holding on.
But it was the face that drew my gaze inexorably. It suggested a violent end; its jaw hung open frozen in what seemed like eternal horror. The empty eye sockets stared blankly upwards, devoid of life yet seemingly holding onto some unspoken truth amidst the decay and desolation around them.
My stomach lurched, and I fought against the urge to vomit. The smell was overwhelming.
“Is it—” I couldn’t finish the question. My voice had abandoned me.
“Yes,” Mister B. confirmed, his tone gentler than I’d ever heard it. “That’s Mark.”
The name gave substance to the horror before me. Not just remains—Mark. A person. Someone who had laughed and loved and lived until he’d ended up in this makeshift grave beneath a poker table in an abandoned illegal casino.
I was shaking now, my whole body vibrating with shock and a strange, detached fury. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. A man had been murdered and discarded like trash, hidden away where no one would think to look, where his wife would never find him to say goodbye.
“Who did this?” I asked, my voice rough with emotion.
“That’s your task to discover, not mine,” Mister B. said.
The Polaroid in my pocket seemed to burn against my thigh. Those smiling men with their expensive suits and air of invincibility—they definitely had done this. They must have.
“We need to call the police,” I said, reaching for my phone.
“Not yet,” Mister B. said sharply. “First, you need evidence. Proof that you were here, that you found him. Something concrete they can’t ignore or explain away.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take pictures, Rahel. Document everything. The body, the trap door, the table. All of it. If you go to the police with just your word, they’ll bury it again.”
He was right. I knew he was right, though the rational part of my brain screamed that I should run, that I should call 911 immediately, that I should get as far from this nightmare as possible.
Instead, I steadied my hands and opened my phone’s camera app. The bright screen momentarily blinded me, its sterile light incongruous in this place of decay and secrets. I switched to the camera function and began to document everything.
The trap door mechanism.
Click.
The pit itself, shot from multiple angles.
Click. Click. Click.
The body, captured with clinical precision.
Click.
The surrounding area, the table, the tablecloth.
Click. Click.
The poker chips scattered nearby, the fallen cards.
Click.
Each flash illuminated the scene with harsh, white light, burning the images into my retinas and, I feared, into my memory forever. I was methodical, detached, as if by focusing on the technical aspects of documentation I could ignore the horror of what I was documenting.
“Look there,” Mister B. directed, and I felt a cold pressure like a finger pointing toward something near the body’s right hand.
I leaned closer, careful not to disturb anything, and directed my light where he indicated. A glint of metal caught the beam—a watch, its band still clasped around the skeletal wrist. The face was cracked, the hands stopped at 10:47.
“The time of death?” I asked, zooming in to capture the detail.
“Perhaps,” Mister B. said. “Or when the killer put him in the ground. Either way, it’s evidence. Good.”
I continued photographing, moving in a careful circle around the pit. As I shifted position, my light caught something else—a small object half-buried in the dirt near what had been Mark’s left pocket. I knelt closer, squinting to make it out.
“A key,” I said, zooming in with my camera to capture it. The flash revealed a small, brass key attached to a faded leather fob.
“Yes,” Mister B. confirmed. “To his apartment, most likely. The one Sarah still lives in, hoping he’ll come home.”
But now wasn’t the time for questions. I completed my documentation, taking more photos than necessary, ensuring that every angle was covered, every detail preserved. By the time I finished, my phone’s memory was nearly full, and my hands had stopped shaking.
In their place came a cold, clear certainty. This wasn’t just about finding Mark anymore. This was about justice. About making sure the murderer paid for what he’d done.
“We should cover him again,” I said, moving to grasp the edge of the trap door. “It feels wrong to leave him… exposed.”
“Yes,” Mister B. agreed. “But not completely. Leave it cracked open, just enough that someone looking would notice.”
I followed his instruction, lowering the door most of the way but leaving a small gap—enough that a beam of light would catch the unnatural seam in the floor. It felt like the closest thing to respect I could offer Mark now.
Standing, I brushed the dirt from my knees, though the action felt absurdly mundane given what I’d just discovered. My mind was racing, calculating next steps, thinking about how to approach the police, or what to tell Sarah.
“You’ve done well,” Mister B. said, his voice coming from just behind my right shoulder. “Better than I expected.”
“What happens now?” I asked, not really directing the question at him—more thinking aloud, trying to process the enormity of what lay before me.
“Now—” he began, but the word was cut short by a sound that froze us both.
Footsteps. Deliberate and measured, echoing from somewhere near the entrance to the main room. The sound of expensive shoes on concrete, moving with purpose and direction.
Someone else had entered the warehouse. And they were coming our way.
In the instant after my discovery, the world narrowed to a pinpoint of pure animal instinct. The sound of deliberate footsteps echoed across the cold concrete floor; smooth, measured steps that punctured the silence like a ticking clock. My breath caught in my throat, a trapped thing desperate for release but too frightened to move. Mister B.’s voice came urgent in my ear: “Don’t panic. They can’t know who you are if you stay hidden.”
I moved without conscious thought, my body responding to the primal need for concealment. The trap door—I couldn’t leave it open. In three swift, silent steps I was beside it, easing it back into place with trembling hands. It settled with a soft click that sounded deafening to my heightened senses.
The footsteps were closer now, accompanied by the murmur of male voices—too low to make out words, but clear enough to confirm there were two of them. I glanced frantically around the room, searching for a hiding place. The stacks of crates against the far wall offered the best option—a shadowed nook between them and the corner, partially concealed by a fallen tarp.
“There,” Mister B. confirmed, as if reading my thoughts. “Go. Now.”
I crossed the space in a crouch, my shoes making the softest whispers against the concrete. Each sound seemed magnified in the quiet, each breath a betrayal of my presence. The fabric of my worn jacket rustled softly as I pressed myself closer to the ground, sliding into the narrow space between the wooden crates and the wall.
The tarp smelled of mildew and rat droppings, but I pulled it partially over me anyway, creating a screen that would break up my silhouette without completely blocking my view. Through a gap between crates, I could see the entrance to the room and a portion of the area where the trap door lay hidden.
Just in time. Two figures appeared at the threshold, backlit by the dim glow from the warehouse’s main space. They paused there, as if surveying the territory before entering. Even in silhouette, I could see they were tall, broad-shouldered men in impeccably tailored suits. Not workers or security guards—these were men of authority and means.
They stepped into the room, and their features became clearer in the ambient light that filtered through high, broken windows. Both were middle-aged, with the hard, unreadable expressions of men accustomed to power. One was taller, with silver at his temples and a face that might have been handsome once, before years of whatever sins he’d committed had hardened it into a mask. The other was stockier, completely bald, with thick fingers that flexed rhythmically at his sides.
“It’s been cleaned out pretty well,” the bald one said, his voice unexpectedly refined. “Just junk left.”
“That’s what we paid for,” the taller one replied, moving further into the room. His shoes—expensive leather that gleamed even in the dim light—made soft clicking sounds as he walked. “But we need to be sure. The development company starts demolition next month.”
Development company. Demolition. The words penetrated my fear-fogged brain, offering context. The warehouse was scheduled for destruction. That’s why they were here—to ensure nothing remained that could link them to what had happened here decades ago.
“Check over there,” the taller man directed, gesturing toward the area where the poker tables stood. Where Mark lay beneath the floor. “I’ll take this side.”
My pulse drummed in my ears as the bald man moved toward the trap door. If he noticed it, if he realized it had been disturbed recently… The sweat on my back turned cold, trickling down my spine like ice water.
“Stay calm,” Mister B. whispered, his voice somehow both distant and intimately close. “He won’t find anything unless he’s specifically looking for it.”
The bald man kicked at debris as he walked, sending a playing card skittering across the floor. He seemed bored, perfunctory in his examination. This was routine to him—a final check before demolition erased all evidence forever.
“Place gives me the creeps,” he muttered. “Always did.”
“It served its purpose,” the taller man replied, examining the bar area with gloved hands. “And it will again, in a way.”
They continued their conversation, but their voices dropped too low for me to catch more than fragments. “Ensure nothing is left behind” and “final loose end” drifted to me across the space, chilling in their casual delivery.
I pressed myself harder against the wall, trying to make my body as small and still as possible.
“They won’t find you,” Mister B. assured me, though he sounded less certain than before. “Just stay still. They’ll leave soon.”
I focused on controlling my breathing—slow, silent inhales and exhales through my nose, fighting against the panic that threatened to send me into hyperventilation.
The bald man had moved on from the trap door area, much to my relief. He was now examining the stage with its tarnished pole, running a hand along the remnants of the velvet curtain.
The taller man approached my hiding place, and I felt myself go rigid. He paused just a few feet away, close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle that seemed obscenely out of place in this mausoleum of secrets. He bent down, examining something on the floor.
A playing card. My playing card. The one I’d touched earlier, with my fingerprints all over it.
“Someone’s been here,” he said, his voice sharp with sudden alertness. “Recently.”
“Kids, probably,” the bald man replied, unconcerned. “Place isn’t exactly secure. Teens come in to drink, do drugs. You know how it is.”
“Maybe.” The taller man straightened, the card still in his gloved hand. “Check the other rooms again. Make sure we’re alone.”
The bald man sighed but complied, disappearing through the doorway. The taller man remained, turning slowly in place, his gaze sweeping the room with methodical precision. When his eyes passed over my hiding place, I stopped breathing entirely, certain he could see through the shadows and the tarp to where I huddled, exposed and vulnerable.
“He can’t see you,” Mister B. insisted, but his voice had taken on a strange, strained quality. “Just stay still. I’m making sure of it.”
I didn’t understand what he meant, but I clung to the reassurance anyway. The taller man completed his survey of the room, then moved toward the office I’d explored earlier. I heard drawers opening, papers rustling, the sounds of thorough searching.
Minutes stretched like hours as I waited, every muscle tensed for flight. My legs began to cramp, pins and needles spreading through my feet from remaining so still. A bead of sweat trickled down my forehead, dangerously close to my eye, but I didn’t dare move to wipe it away.
The bald man returned, his footsteps quicker now. “Nothing. Place is empty except for us.”
“Good.” The taller man emerged from the office. “Let’s finish up. I want to be gone before midnight.”
They moved through the room once more, this time with purpose rather than casual inspection. The bald man took photos with a professional camera, documenting the space from multiple angles. The taller man made notes on a small pad, occasionally consulting what looked like a floor plan.
“The structure charges will go here, here, and here,” he said, pointing to different support columns. “The fire will take care of the rest. Investigators will attribute it to faulty wiring in an abandoned building. Open and shut.”
They were planning to destroy the evidence before the official demolition. To burn down the warehouse with all its secrets still inside. Mark would be reduced to ash, unidentifiable, forgotten.
“We’ll come back next week,” the taller man continued, putting away his notebook. “Silva will bring the equipment. This place will be rubble and ash, and Westside Development can begin construction right on schedule.”
“Good,” the bald man grunted. “I’m tired of dealing with ghosts.”
If only he knew how literal his statement was. Mister B. made a sound that might have been a laugh, but there was no humor in it—only cold, sharp edges of something I couldn’t name.
The men completed their work, moving toward the exit with the confident strides of those who believe themselves untouchable. The taller man paused at the threshold, casting one final glance around the room.
“Goodbye,” he said, his voice so soft I barely caught the words. “You served us well.”
Then they were gone, their footsteps receding down the corridor, growing fainter until silence reclaimed the warehouse. Still, I didn’t move, terrified it might be a trick—that they were waiting just outside to catch anyone foolish enough to reveal themselves.
“Give it five minutes,” Mister B. advised. “Then we leave. Quickly, but carefully.”
I counted seconds in my head, reaching three hundred before I dared to shift my position. My muscles screamed in protest as I uncurled from my hiding place, blood rushing painfully back into my compressed limbs. The tarp slid away, releasing a cloud of dust that made me stifle a sneeze.
“They’re gone?” I whispered, still afraid to trust the apparent emptiness.
“Yes,” Mister B. confirmed. “But they’ll be back, as they said. With others.”
I stood shakily, steadying myself against a crate. My phone felt heavy in my pocket—the evidence it contained now even more precious. If the warehouse burned, if all physical traces were destroyed, my photographs might be the only proof of what had happened here.
“We need to go,” I said, already moving toward the exit. “Now.”
“Yes,” Mister B. agreed. “But Rahel, listen to me. You need to be silent. They might still be outside, in their car, waiting to leave until they’re sure the place is secure.”
I nodded, picking my way through the debris with exaggerated care. Each step was measured, deliberate, my ears straining for any sound that might indicate the men had returned. But there was only the whisper of my own movement and the distant drip of water from the ceiling.
The warehouse seemed different now, charged with new danger. What had been merely eerie before was now actively threatening. The shadows felt deeper, the darkness more complete. Even the air seemed thicker, harder to move through, as if the building itself was trying to keep me within its walls.
I retraced my steps through the main gambling floor, past the bar with its broken bottles and forgotten ledgers, through the corridors lined with empty offices. Mister B. guided me, his voice a thread I followed through the maze.
“Left here. Now right. Careful of the broken glass. Stop—listen.”
I froze, holding my breath. For a moment, I thought I heard something, but it didn’t repeat. Just the building settling, or my own frightened imagination conjuring threats from empty air.
“It’s nothing,” Mister B. confirmed after a tense moment. “Keep going. You’re almost there.”
The side entrance appeared ahead, a rectangle of slightly lesser darkness against the general gloom. The door stood as I’d left it, slightly ajar, a thin sliver of night visible beyond. Freedom. Safety. Escape.
I moved toward it with renewed purpose, no longer caring about stealth, simply wanting to be gone from this place of death and secrets. Three steps from the door, my foot caught on something—a pieceof debris, a fallen tool, something hidden in the darkness. I stumbled, catching myself against the wall with a soft thud that sounded thunderous in the silence.
I froze, listening. No responding sounds, no returning footsteps. Just my heart hammering and the distant hum of the city beyond the warehouse walls.
“You’re fine,” Mister B. reassured me. “Keep going.”
I reached the door and peered through the gap. The night outside seemed clean and pure compared to the tainted darkness within. I could see a sliver of the docks, the water beyond reflecting distant lights. No sign of the men or their car.
“Slip through sideways,” Mister B. instructed. “The door will creak if you open it wider.”
I turned my body, edging through the narrow opening. The rusted edge of the door scraped against my jacket, catching on the fabric momentarily before releasing me to the night. The cool air hit my face like a blessing, and I drew it deep into my lungs, desperate to replace the warehouse’s stale atmosphere with something fresh and living.
Once outside, I pressed myself against the building’s exterior wall, still wary of being spotted. The docks stretched before me, largely deserted at this late hour. The Harbor Light Tavern’s neon still flickered in the distance, but the streets between were empty, the warehouses dark.
“Which way?” I whispered, scanning the area for any sign of the men or their vehicle.
“Back the way you came,” Mister B. said. “But stay in the shadows. Move quickly but don’t run. Running attracts attention.”
I nodded and began walking, keeping to the darkest patches along the building’s edge. My steps were measured but swift, my body hunched slightly as if making myself smaller might render me invisible. Every few paces I glanced back, expecting to see figures emerging from the warehouse behind me, but the door remained closed, the building silent.
As I rounded the corner, I caught sight of a black sedan parked at the far end of the street—expensive, gleaming even in the dim light. The kind of car men in tailored suits would drive.
“Don’t look at it,” Mister B. warned. “Just keep moving. They can’t see your face from there.”
I averted my gaze, focusing instead on the path ahead. The Harbor Light Tavern was brighter now, its windows spilling golden light across the damp pavement. Music drifted from its open door, incongruously cheerful against the night’s grim revelations.
I walked past it without slowing, though the temptation to duck inside, to surround myself with normal people doing normal things, was almost overwhelming. But I couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk being seen, being remembered, being connected to what I’d discovered.
Beyond the tavern, the street widened, connecting to more trafficked areas. Signs of life returned—a few pedestrians hurrying toward destinations unknown, the occasional car passing, homeless figures huddled in doorways. The ordinary world, continuing as if nothing had happened, as if a grave hadn’t just been discovered and murderers weren’t planning to destroy the evidence of their crimes.
“There’s a bus stop two blocks ahead,” Mister B. said, his voice sounding fainter now, as if the distance from the warehouse was affecting him.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The adrenaline that had carried me through the warehouse was beginning to ebb, leaving me shaky and nauseous. The images of what I’d seen—Mark’s remains, the trap door, the men discussing demolition and fire—flashed through my mind in disjointed fragments.
The bus shelter appeared ahead, a small island of harsh fluorescent light in the darkness.
