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Moran looked into his empty coffee mug. He just had time to wash it out in that makeshift kitchen they had set up in their precinct. Wash it out and then head home to his wife. He had more than earned it after last night. Moran knew from experience that a full moon brought out the werewolf in people. Moran had felt like howling himself, but tonight there was a different energy. One that made him feel restless and antsy. He had almost enjoyed the snail’s pace set earlier this evening except for that odd electric energy making him tingle. He had no idea what was making him so nervous. What was there under his skin itching at him to look beneath the surface and see what dwelt under that rock. Moran ignored that telltale instinct to scratch. Instead he stood up, cup in hand, preparing to go to the kitchen.
He moved steadily, but not quickly. His forty-seven year old legs felt weary beneath his big, burly frame. They had always gotten him where he wanted to go even if these days he arrived a little slower at his destination. He ambled back to the kitchen area and rinsed out his cup. He gave it a wipe with a paper towel and sauntered back. All he needed to do was put some papers away and lock up his desk. Then he would be on his way to Mary. He felt a desire to be held by her quiet grace. It erased whatever bad feeling the day had deposited. She fi lled him with love. Without her, Moran would never have survived the ordeal of working on the police force. Moran would have brought home all the atrocities lived out at work and kept them inside where they would have festered and driven him insane. Thank God for Mary who could drive those demons away with her gentle touch. Love conquered all and without Mary, Moran would have been another walking wounded, going through the motions, but empty inside.
Moran bent over and tucked the final sheets of paper in his drawer. He locked his desk and placed his cup to the side, cleaned and ready for tomorrow morning’s brew. All in all it had been a good day despite the reservations. He had gotten a lot accomplished. Besides any day was a good day when you made it home in one piece. You never knew. You could never be sure. Overconfidence got a hold of Moran as he stood ready to leave. Overconfidence could sometimes get you killed.
Moran stood and stretched out his arms. He touched the small of his back that seemed to be hurting him more these days. He put on his jacket still wet from the liquid pelting earlier that evening. It felt cold and uncomfortable around his shoulders. Like being embraced by a nightmare. He shivered and deliberated taking it off. Moran was from the old school and rarely walked around without a jacket. He left it in place.
He saw the light on his phone go on. Simultaneously he heard the ring. He debated about answering it. It was time for him to leave. Someone was trying to sneak under the wire. Moran surveyed the room and saw that the other detectives were busy with calls of their own. Screw it. After twenty-seven years let someone else get it. If it was important, they’d find him. They always did. Not that Moran shirked his duty. Not at all. It was just that Moran now had a clearer sense of what being a part of a team meant. In the beginning he had felt differently, feeling that each and every phone call had to be handled by himself alone or it wouldn’t be handled correctly. He no longer felt that way. He knew the men in his department were there to back each other up. He could rely on it and now trusted in them. Not that there weren’t the occasional fuck-ups that seemed to get past all the stop points and make it to onto the police force, but that was the exception and not the rule. Moran had seen them come and go. Moran loved it when they went because homicide didn’t need any screw-ups. It was a tough enough job without idiots impeding the process. Yes, Moran had seen more of his share of jerks make it on the police force, but more often than not, they didn’t last long and the cream rose to the top. Like the guys working in his department. Moran loved these guys he was working with and they returned the sentiment. And by guys, he meant women also. Moran had seen a lot of changes of the years, some good and some bad, but he always believed in giving people a chance. Never sell anyone short was his motto. It had always worked. You expect the best from people and you usually get it. Yes, he would be sad to say good-bye to these folks and in another three months, that’s how long it would be. Moran would be retiring and saying his fi nal good-byes. He would miss this place terribly, but he had stayed at the party too long. Way too long. He should have been retired by now and on some beach in Bermuda, but didn’t have the heart to give up what he loved. He was ready to give it up now. His eyes filled up a little thinking about it. He remembered his wife and those tears disappeared. He could devote all his time to Mary. That was reward enough for Moran. Moran moved away from his desk. Just a step. The phone rang a second time the little light blinking telling him there would soon be a third. What the hell? It might be Mary asking him to bring something home. Maybe she needed milk for breakfast. Moran picked up the line. The line that everyone else had been too busy to answer.
"Twenty-third precinct. Lieutenant Moran here."
Silence. There was silence on the other end of the phone. Silence on the other end being broken by a disturbing sound. A rhythmic intake of air. Faint. Shallow. Irregular. Breathing. Moran heard breathing. A strained breathing like someone trying to hide. Disguise that they were there and alive and that they required breath to exist. Moran heard it. That itching under his skin took hold. His skin was crawling as he listened to the sound of breathing. The sound so comforting when he listen to his wife Mary breathe at night, asleep lying next to him. The sound so peaceful now had an ominous tone. A tone that foretold death. Another joke? Yet another call from some April fool who wanted the holiday to never end? Moran wanted to hang up that phone, not willing to listen to that troubling noise, but decided against it. Suppose he was wrong. Suppose it was someone in trouble. Suppose it was someone that wasn’t able to talk. If he hung up that phone, there would be no way to trace that call. He would break the lifeline that the person needed to be saved. So instead of hanging up, Moran tried one more time.
"Lieutenant Moran here. Is there anyone there? Hello? Is there anyone there?"
The volume increased, Moran could hear more clearly the expulsion of air. The inhalation. Oxygen being drawn through fluid as if smoking hashish by means of a hookah. Sucked in and spit out. The manipulation of air by the serpentine figure on the other end of the phone. Moran could almost hear a death rattle in that breath now. Someone pulling in life from a victim. Inhaling air from the lungs of an unwilling soul. Pulling it into their lungs and expelling death in return. The hidden one on the other end of the phone was doing this now. Doing it with every breath taken. Filling their lungs once filled with purity and somehow make it foul. Expelling that which is deemed unfit and not human. Someone seeking to turn good into evil with every rhythmic intake of breath. Moran could hear that now.
It must be some kind of joke. A joke that was proving to be very effective this night after the full moon. Moran felt a cold chill travel up his spine. That sudden storm hadn’t helped matters. That goddamn storm coming out of nowhere, disappearing just as fast. It had happened yesterday as well. Moran felt the wetness of that storm, his jacket charged with the storm’s negative energy and now here was this fucking breathing. Enough to unnerve even a man like Moran who had heard it all. He tried a third time. Three times the charm.
"Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?" Moran gave up. He would hang up on this mysterious breather. He had no time for games. He had moved the receiver away from his ear to replace it on the cradle when he heard the voice. A dark, muffled voice. A voice that matched the breath in its personification of evil. Evil inherent in the voice that spoke, evil having been drawn in with every breath. Moran listened in spite of the compulsion to hang up that goddamn phone. He wished he had never picked it up. He wished to rid himself of this call.
"The murders will start again," that voice told him.
"What?" Moran said quickly putting the phone to his ear. "What murders?"
"The murders will start again," the voice repeated. Moran looked at the wall clock. It was midnight. On the dot.
"If you are reporting a murder . . ." Moran started to say, but the voice cut him off. In one slice as if delivered from a razor, the voice cut Moran off in midstream. Moran sat down in his chair quickly, his legs feeling suddenly weak.
"I said the murders are to begin. They will begin again."
Moran gathered his strength. It was a joke. Midnight. Someone’s idea of a prank. Someone was trying to scare him. He wasn’t about to be pushed around by some little punk with nothing better to do than scare police officers. Old ones at that.
"Look, if this is some kind of joke . . ."
The voice passed through him again. Clean through, its blade going deep.
"No joke. They will begin again. The White Lady Murders will begin again"
Moran froze. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. "The White Lady Murders." Moran heard that phrase repeat in his head. He listened to the dial tone. The caller had hung up. Moran sat staring at the phone he still held in his hand, "they will begin again."
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THE
WHITE LADY MURDERS BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL AWAITS TRUE TERROR ...
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