Luke had begun to notice things he was not supposed to. He had seen a homeless man talking to the wind, and heard it answer back. He had observed that unnaturally pale men and women gathered at the bar across from his house on the third Tuesday of every month, and they didn't look like Goths at all. He watched as a street magician conjured various objects and had checked- the hat really had been empty. He began to notice how many news reports attributed things to gas leaks and mass hysteria which, when you thought about it made no fucking sense in the slightest as explanations.
He supposed that he was probably going mad, and watched himself with a quiet curiosity. This was not a good time in his life (I'm given to believe the issue was boy-trouble) and despite the best efforts of his friends he felt numb to most things- even the possibility of going mad.
7pm and he walked across the road to the horsestead, the upper-crust bar featuring pale men and women, like clockwork, on every fourth Tuesday. As usual, they came and headed upstairs to the private area. Some of them looked altogether too posh even for here, dressed in elegant brand suits. This was far from universal though, one of them was barefoot and in a singlet, pale arms protruding –the staff didn't deign to notice.
Luke could feel something about them, something odd, off or unnatural. He'd seen too many anomalies, now was the time to talk to one. He strolled upstairs, preparing to put together a cover story about being lost on the way to the bathroom.
But he would ask them why they were there. He'd find out the truth about their unnatural pallor.
This is stupid, maybe they just don't like going out in the sun. Maybe they're a support club for people with the same skin disease.
But he knew that wasn't true. He knew there was something odd about them, something off, something unnatural and though he could pretend to doubt that knowledge, it still felt like a certainty in his mind.
They are not ordinary folk and you know it.
He kept climbing the stairs.