Sam Secours, P.I.

A shadowed figure walks slowly down the sidewalk of a narrow street. Clouds hang heavy with awaiting rain overhead as he passes by dim street lamps. The trenched man pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his inner breast pocket, and removes the last one. He places it in his mouth, and returns the pack, composing his lapels in one swift movement. Adjusting the brim of his fedora, he casually lights the cigarette, and extinguishes the flame with a quick breath. Sam Secours, private eye. His thoughts meander around his life and he takes in the inky scenery.

This could very well be the foremost important case I’ve ever taken, which is saying a lot, as only a few short years ago, I didn’t deal with this kind of bats in the belfry-cuckoo stuff. I worked normal cases, missing people, mysteries that the police couldn’t be trusted with. It was just like how you’d expect, dames coming in with more money than they knew what to do with, throwing it at me, sending me on wild goose chases. It was ridiculous, but I loved every smoky, drunken second of it, deep down. I was the best in town, I could solve any case, it was almost too easy, I could just see the clues, read people like words out a book. Until, of course, I took a vacation. That vacation changed everything, I took a boat out to sea, and what I found there was not the peace and quiet I wanted, it was another damned case. Monsters had had their doubloons stolen by pirate ghosts, and, well, haphazardly, I solved that case like all my others. Returning back to my office the following week, I’d found that word had spread to all sorts of phantasmagorical beings. It’s been like that ever since.

37 Orchestra Ave., a small and run-down three story building. The man enters through the dilapidated and creaky door. Starting up the murky stairwell, the door falls flat behind him, shattering what remained of the glass. He continues up to the second floor, and enters the second door on the left; same layout as his office building. A fine mist pools across the floor, and around his feet. He inhales the last of the cigarette, and tosses the butt down, snuffing out the smoking remnants with his shoe, twisting. As the smoldering remains die out, a spectral silhouette appears across the room; its haunting voice emanates, echoing throughout the room.

“So, you decided to take the case, eh, Sam?”
“Could I have not?”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“So, what’ve you got for me?”
“Not much, I’m afraid; the details are murky and ill-defined.”
“They always are; shouldn’t have expected more, even when taking a case from you.”
“You have to find out who killed me, and stop them.”

Light shines in from the streets onto the face of the spectral entity: an ethereal Sam Secours; body riddled with bullet holes.

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