The night was cool in the city, the steam clouds rising to the sky from the nearby ocean from the ports. Edward looked out from the window as he tried to get his sleep. But why bother? He hadn't a care in the world, and didn't even have to work. The moon glowed faintly from behind the shadowy clouds as he thought about how he ended here. As of now all he knew was his name, the things he learned in life from a life unknown to him, and that he lived where he was. He did not get out of his bed all day unless he was hungry or thirsty, or had to relieve himself in some way. He got out of bed for the umpteenth time, and headed to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror as he found himself inside, his hair straight and shined, even his beard and handlebar mustache, as if it were greased, which it was. He turned on the faucet, turning the brass knob. He watered his face with the cool liquid, and looked at his mirror again; his mind blank of memories, only of common sense and knowledge, but where he gained the knowledge was shrouded in utter darkness. He walked back into his room in the apartment high in the building, looking down upon what were the streets of Berlin, Germany. The ways were nearly deserted, save for the few steam-automobiles and horse-drawn carriages of gold and silver and other metals, made known from the gas-lamps that lined the sidewalks. It was a moment before he noticed a very tall figure… looking at him. The features of the person were clear, the wide hat and glowing red eyes, the ankle-length coat and the long scarf, and it was all black, except for the eerie eyes that made the figure seem inhuman, unless of course it was part of a mask, though it was disturbing nonetheless.
A knock sounded at the door, and he looked at the polished brass door, and its golden knob and peek-hole, and looked back for a moment to see that the figure was gone. The knock sounded again, accompanied by a friendly sounding "Hello?" Edward looked to the door once more and rushed to it to look through the peek-hole, buttoning up his white frilly-shirt. He looked out the peek-hole, and saw a man, dressed in a uniform showing that he was a telegram boy. Edward opened up his door slowly and cautiously. "What is it?" He asked doggedly at the boy with ginger hair. "A telegram, sir. The person who had sent it to you wanted me to deliver it to you but I've been knocking on your door every half hour. Are you alright?" Edward waved his hand at the comment. "Exhausted. That's all." The boy handed a letter to him, bowed, and swiftly walked away.
Edward looked at the letter as he closed his door, and then walked towards his window again as he shuffled the papers out of their thin entrapment.
Edward, I know you are confused, and if I'm right, you have no recollection of the past events or any of your life. Please allow me to elaborate some past hardships of ours. Both you and I have been working on a series of murders interconnected with happening here in Germany that can only be described as… "Supernatural." I cannot recount the tails, for, alas, there is only so much time before more are killed. But I can say that so far, we have found over 230 homicides, each of these victims killed in a similar, horrifying way. I have included photos of our work. There is only so much time dear friend. What I have been able to find suggests the most terrifying plot known unto humanity, and we must stop it. As for your memory, the only reason I can think of is that HE has found you. You are in danger. I will try to get to you soon, JUST DON'T LEAVE THE CITY.
-H.G.
Edward was merely stupefied into a state of oblivion, lasting mere moments before he came back to his senses. He looked back into the envelope, and found himself several photos of the most disturbing deaths he couldn't even imagine: Bodies, bodies in the forests, hung upon a pole, skinned and naked and put into a position like a scarecrow, and blindfolded, and that was just a fraction of them. Others were hanged by their own intestines, their throats slit wide open, smoothly and again, blindfolded, and the rest, those that took the largest portion of the photos, looked as if some surgical doctor had become deranged, preforming various surgeries and experiments with flesh and blood and bone. He looked at these photos, and he felt nothing, for there was no emotion to suit the predicament… but he found himself afraid, afraid like nothing else could make him afraid like such- he couldn't even describe what it is, not in words at least. Nothing in the human language could describe this. Then another knock on the door, yet this time, it was only one knock and nothing else. He cautiously approached the door, thinking of the tall figure with the red eyes, paired with the bodies, disfigured, distorted, and deformed. How could someone do these things? Then it came to him- the word rang in his mind like the largest bell on the planet: "Paranormal" Could this be some demon from the hellish pits, some kind of ghost that murdered without reason? How could he escape this?