-LOGAN-
As I stepped into the dimly lit alley, the stench of decay mingled with the tension in the air. I already know where I need to be. I'm not your typical homicide detective, and I'm not saying this to boost my ego...I have psychic ability passed down through the women in my family. It's a gift that allows me to tap into the minds of the criminals I hunt down.
Tonight, my senses were on high alert. I smell blood. I can almost taste it. He's been in a frenzy since I made contact with his twisted mind. I could feel the darkness that surrounded me, the hostility that hung in the air like a thick fog. It was the signature of the sadistic serial killer I had pursued for months.
My heart pounded as I followed an otherworldly trail of psychic impressions. The images and emotions flooded my mind like a torrent of nightmares. It was a twisted mosaic of violence, fear, and suffering that only someone like me could decipher. It's a small price to pay to put these criminals behind bars.
I turned a corner, and there he was - the monster I've been after. His eyes gleamed with sick pleasure as he hovered over a terrified young girl. She couldn't have been more than twenty years old, her tear-soaked face contorted in a silent scream.
Time slowed as I focused my ESP abilities, honing in on the killer's mind. I could sense his intent, his twisted desire to end this girl's life. It was a gruesome ballet of gore and violence, but I refused to let it play out.
With a surge of mental energy, I entered his mind, forcing him to freeze. The girl's terrified sobs echoed in the stillness as I approached, my gun drawn. There was a cold determination in my eyes, a resolve born from years of subjecting myself to this. I didn't want to use my gift for a lofty life, like my sister. I want to make a difference, no matter the price I pay.
I whispered words of reassurance to the trembling girl, never breaking my gaze on the sadistic killer. My ESP abilities held him in a paralyzing grip, rendering him powerless. It was a battle of wills, but I had the upper hand.
"It's you..." he whispered fervently.
"Drop your weapon," I ordered. "It's over."
I lessen my grip enough to allow him to do so. I hadn't been able to do that before. It's as if my power grows after each case. I don't let on how mentally exhausted and sick I've become, combing through his mind to find him. This always took a toll on me, but it was worse to sit by and do nothing. That's why I became a detective.
"Drop it," I repeat sharply. "Now."
"He's been waiting for you," he sighs happily.
"Who?" I ask, almost taken off-guard. I hadn't felt any alters in his mind. "Who the hell is waiting for me?"
"You'll find out soon enough," he giggles. "I'm nothing more than a messenger."
With a manic grin, he drops the switchblade he's been using. Backup sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. I knew I had to act fast. My head was pounding, and it worsened as I disarmed the killer, allowing the police to apprehend him.
I had saved the young girl from a fate worse than death and the city from another gruesome murder. As they led the killer away in handcuffs, I let out a sigh of relief as the EMTs escorted the girl to an ambulance.
************************
"Great work today, Kade," Captain Blake congratulates me. "Get some rest, you damn sure earned it."
I nod, not trusting myself to keep my lunch down. He casts one last look over my face, and I know he's concerned: the pale, clammy skin, the dark circles that make my eyes brighter than they already are...he has no idea the sacrifices I make to solve my cases. He can't know.
"MUNROE!" he barks after a few moments.
"Sir," he announced his presence.
"You see her home," Captain Blake requests.
"Yes, sir," Mike nods.
Mike Munroe is my partner on the force and the only one who knows what I put myself through to get these monsters behind bars. While I call them monsters figuratively, Mike hunts down literal ones. If it weren't for my abilities, I wouldn't have known. Mike keeps people at arm's length except for me.
It was an accident. The day he had been assigned to be my partner, I was still raw from tracking down a serial arsonist, and I hadn't had time to build the walls I'd constructed. When I shook his hand, I saw a werewolf sneak up on him in an abandoned warehouse and maul him. I couldn't keep that to myself, so I warned him.
Later that night, he came knocking at my door, injured, and asking me how I knew about the attack. He told me that if I hadn't warned him, then things would have been much worse. From then on, we became close friends, bonding over a world we couldn't let anyone else know about.
Mike understood the toll that my powers took on me. Anyone else would assume that I overworked myself on a case, and they weren't entirely wrong. Our routine is always the same: he'd cook dinner because I damn near burned down my apartment the last time I tried to, we would watch something mindless so I could decompress, and he would stay over as I slept, building the mental defenses that had worn down during the case.
But lately, I'd have some odd dreams. Random images that filtered through before I was safe again. Sometimes, I'd see long, twisting hallways with moving pictures full of horrors that I couldn't bear to look at for too long. Other times, I saw a man, tall and leanly muscled. A Marine, along with others, is fighting creatures underground.
Of all the things I saw, I don't know why I saw him the most. At some point, I began to hear his distinct Southern accent. I thought I had to warn him about the monsters he fought...but from the clues I gathered, the things I saw happened in 2003. So why am I seeing this now? My friend Raven joked at first that I was seeing him because I don't date. Well, I don't anymore. It's a long story.
But soon, the dreams began to change. I saw Mike and what he had gone through before joining the force. He spoke to me about it, but seeing it was different. I didn't try to fight them anymore because I was sure that they meant something. I was still able to mount my defenses when the dreams were over.
"You okay?" Mike asked me as he led me out of the precinct.
"...It was different this time," I whispered. "He said that someone was waiting for me...everything he had done was to send me a message."
"Wait, what?!" he hissed.
"Yeah," I sighed. "It's not over."
"We'll look into it once you're better," he decided, and by his tone, I knew better than to argue.
********************
When I went to bed tonight, I didn't expect to end up in a place like this. It looks to be of Victorian design, with seemingly endless corridors and crossroads, and I'm not sure where I should go. The walls were made to look the same, adding to the disorientation I felt.
The walls are dark blue wallpaper with intricate white patterns and dark wooden tiles. The carpets are the color of fresh blood, but even with all of that, what caught my attention was the windows. They were on the ceiling, forming an arch...as I moved on, burning with curiosity, I finally noticed the walls. The walls are hung with gold-framed paintings of various sizes, but they were moving. They played out images of violence and death and creatures that defied imagination...
I couldn't have dreamt this up. I see forests full of creatures tearing people apart...underground caves where soldiers fought what looked like demons...what the hell is this? I keep watching these as I make my way down the corridor. Someone or something brought me here. I know that now for some reason.
"I am The Curator. The Curator of Stories. Stories of love and hate... greed and beauty... life... and death. Stories such as this one."
A stoic voice fills my head with the greeting, and I frown, wondering if I've heard him somewhere. I finally reached the end of the corridor, feeling an odd mix of fear and curiosity.
This must be The Curator's room. It's spacious and elegant, filled with bookshelves, small tables, dark brown leather chairs, and a sofa. The room has several high windows with crimson curtains and one big window on the roof. Despite this, the room is still dimly lit.
Sitting at the desk in the middle of the room was a man who looked to be in his late 40s or 50s. He has pale, wrinkled skin. His eyes seem soulless and ancient, with an icy blue color. His hair is short and dark brown, slicked back and shaved sides. He appeared to be wearing a three-piece suit, and he motioned to a book that lay open in front of him on the desk.
"Who are you?" I ask him.
"As I have stated before, I am The Curator," he says in an eerily calm voice. "the guardian of all of these wonderful stories... and I have a very special tale for you to tell...are you ready to begin?"