A scene opens upon a black empty void. A white, featureless silhouette walking into frame.
The man is proper and stiff, wearing a pinstriped suit, and collecting his briefcase.
Walking in a sharp gait for his work.
Only to be stopped by the flutter of his wife, now at his beck for a kiss. Logan nods to her, intending to brush past...
The camera moves in a fluid dance around the pair.
Expression now struck in horror when he sees the metal of a knife.
With each frame something comes from the delicate woman's back, her flowing dress no longer able to conceal...
The camera makes one final turn, she now atop her husband lying supine, arms futilely raised.
She stabbed and stabbed, dirtying the setting with lurid splatters of blood.
The image rippled like water, before collecting and furiously reforming itself into a desk.
Specks stained a folder of documents, dark black, and another tall man, more rounded and soft.
He struggled to walk.
Shuddering with a twist of a cardigan he made for a cane opposite his side. No one... no one could see him like this.
No sooner had that thought crossed did his knees completely give under their strain, grey cardigan turning to a single, thin hospital gown.
Keeling back under the desk only an arm was visible.
Travelling up the limb is a bottle of pills next to a younger, more sunken face.
In a whorl the image redid itself a third time, this time to two brothers staring each other down, pistols drawn.
The shot fires in an explosive bang, sending the receiver reeling as he slowly falls...
To death.
A splatter of blood spurts from his chest.
A boy's foot loses his balance, slipping down the step.
A mighty CLATTER.
The image disappearing, an impact is formed, cracks webbing a once constant, unchanging void.
Blue eyes are wide in surprise.
BANG.
The color inverts in a strong flash with one last flicker.
A ghost of a pyre cross set aflame.
The soul upon it screaming.
The boy shoots up to wakefulness with four faces staring at him in varying degrees of fright or indifference.
Thomas Masters looks to each in turn.
The opulent chandelier hangs above and the scene changes in a tear.
Thomas with Roman's head above him, both peeking into a corner of the Wisconsin mansion.
Flashlight beams piercing darkness and cobwebs, swiftly struck out by red stripes.
Vlad Masters appears smugly into frame, exerting complete control in his background of static.
There is some searching of yellowed papers and documents in crisp, slanted writing.
Thomas sneaking through the halls of his home in a wary crouch.
Cold, prim Logan Alabrassi follows, flickered by headlines of a murder, the police report, grainy photos of his wife in a straitjacket shrieking.
YOU ARE READING
The Myth of the Great Man Baby... And the Ghosts Who Raised Him
Fanfiction"I was a teacher in my previous life." "Lord Archwright at your service. And you?" "Oh kiddo, you could never be a burden." The Dairy King had been the longest lived of the Wisconsin Manor before the house became home to a family of three. Recent ba...
