The Other Ring.

Disfigured 

THURSDAY 8:25

Since it had taken most of the night to find a decent hotel room, they started their search for Wind bright and early the next day; at least, they had intended to start bright and early, though fatigue kept them under the covers for most of the morning.

Even with the ample sleep, Daria still did not feel rested; her sensation of being watched had not waned, and during the night she had had to continually resist the urge to flip over in bed and check if someone was standing behind her.

Though she had been terrified to see who it might be. In the bright, fully-awake light of day, such fears seemed absurd, but the desire to glance over her shoulder remained.

The only experience that Daria had with police stations was from the incident with Mystik Spiral, out in the middle of nowhere, and she found the central police headquarters of Baltimore – their first stop – slightly different. It was cleaner, for one thing, and the various officers and employees went about their jobs with what looked to bear some resemblance to competency.

Nevertheless, the place still felt oppressive, badly lit and close. The man sitting at the front desk barely looked up as they approached.

Jane: We're looking for my brother Wind . . .

Man: You can fill out a missing persons report after forty-eight hours.

He interrupted in a bored, distracted monotone.

Jane: No, it's not like that. You might have brought him in for being drunk or disorderly or passed out in the street. Have your guys arrested a Wind Lane in the past two days?

The officer sighed and typed at his computer a few moments.

Officer: We don't have anyone named 'Wind', Not here, or anywhere else in the city.

Daria: What about John Does?

Officer: What does he look like?

Jane opened her mouth to give a description, then visibly changed gears.

Jane: Get me a pencil and some paper, (her voice excited) and I'll sketch him for you.

Daria was shocked; she had been nervous at the idea of even picking up a pencil since the incident the morning before, not wanting to see what she might produce.

Daria: Jane, are you sure you want to do this?

Jane: I've got to try, (Jane replied, determined.) I'm not just going to give in to this; maybe if I really concentrate, I can control it.

She gripped the provided pen so tightly that her knuckles paled. The phone at the desk rang, and the officer answered, leaving the two of them ignored once again.

Jane started in on her work, and it seemed to be going well. Wind's features quickly took shape under her hand, with his vapid stare and lost expression, and soon she had completed a convincing likeness, formed from just a few lines of ink.

Then, as evenly and calmly as though it was merely her finishing touch, she ran the point up and down over the face, until no features could be seen.

Daria: Jane!

Jane jerked her pen up from the paper with a tiny cry.

Jane: Damn! I thought I was doing so well, too!

She crumpled up the paper with a frustrated clench of her fist.

Jane: I'm not going to lose my art to this thing; I'll try again later.

She looked up, to make an oath to the sky above her, and stopped dead.

Jane: Or maybe it's not just me. Daria, look at that.

She pointed to the security monitor attached to the top of the wall across the room. Daria looked to see the image of the two of them standing at the desk; at least, she saw two figures standing at the desk, wearing their clothes, but it was impossible to tell that it was the two of them – their faces were smeared, distorted, as though viewed through extremely flawed glass.

Daria waved her hand in front of her face; the image wavered like water, and snapped back into place.

Daria: How courteous. Identity screened to protect the innocent.

Jane: No one else here looks like that.

She was right; several other people were visible in the screen, and they were all normal.

Daria: No one else here is innocent.

It was weird, to be sure, but to Daria's relief, this was the most benign symptom of the tape they had yet seen. Daria wondered when she had reached the point when she could shrug off as minor an event this bizarre.

Still, at least it was just the two of them in the picture; the way she had been feeling, she would not have been all that surprised (horrified, but not surprised) to see a shadowy third figure behind them.

Daria: (Thoughts) Damn, it sneaks up on you. I don't believe in ghosts. There's no such thing as hauntings. I sound like the scarecrow.

The officer hung up the phone, and turned back to them.

Officer: Well? (impatiently) Is the sketch ready?

Jane: I . . . um . . . don't think I can do him justice. (Recovering quickly) I can describe him, though. He's about five foot ten, with brown eyes and shoulder-length blonde hair. Not very muscular. I don't know what he would be wearing.

Officer: We haven't had anyone like that come through here.

Daria Well, what about the other precincts?

Daria was, trying to stay reasonable and not sound like she was addressing a Kevin-clone. She longed to slip in a subtle barb, but her opponent held too much potentially valuable information for her to risk antagonizing him.

The man turned to his computer, spent a few minutes bringing up the records – leaving Daria and Jane to drum their fingers on the desk in apprehension – and then finally turned back to them.

Officer: We aren't holding any John Does of that description anywhere in the city.

Jane thanked him, and they both made a beeline to the door.

Daria: Time to check the hospitals now.

Daria was, fighting off discouragement at having come up with nothing at their first stop.

Jane: If he's not in one now. (Her tone not a threat but a promise) He will be after I find him.