Prometheus, Inc.: Tooth & Nail

Chapter One - The Letter

Rhys stood at the window, his eyes boring beyond the glass pane, the torrential rain, and the city buildings. One fist clenched around a hand-penned letter, and the ink smudged against his fingers. In his other hand, he gripped his phone. A number hovered on the screen, patiently awaiting Rhys’ shaking thumb to strike the green “send” icon.

Everything had a place in Rhys’ world. Granted, those places were seldom “neat and orderly,” but he insisted that there was a method to be found within his domain. To Rhys’ back was a studio apartment more resembling a motel room. The furnishings were sparse: a twin bed, a small entertainment center with an equally small television, a writing desk cluttered with loose papers and books.

A table lamp on a nightstand shed warm light across the apartment, but it also cast deep shadows in the room’s crevices. Eggshell white saturated both the carpet and the walls. The sink in the open kitchen contained a dirty bowl and a fork, awaiting Rhys’ next meal when they would surely be rinsed and reused. His other dinnerware, meager as it was, sat in cabinets and drawers collecting dust.

Usually, Rhys’ clothes were heaped in two laundry bins, one for the soiled and one for the clean. Now, however, half of his shirts, pants, and underdrawers were haphazardly tossed into a suitcase splayed open on the bed. The other half had been lobbed back at the bins in a fit of indecisive frustration.

A ripped envelope rested on the floor. It had been slipped under his door and was addressed to “Mr. Rhys Fitz Nikolaos of Chicago, Illinois.”

No one used his full name. Next to no one even knew his name as anything other than “Rhys Nicholas.” His lip twitched in a subconscious attempt at a smile. His parents had been amateur lovers of linguistics, and they enjoyed a silly pride at weaving together a unique name that simply meant “Rhys, Son of Nicholas.”

“The silliest things can be the most profound,” in his mother’s words. “It’s the small things, the tiny moments, the miniscule details that tell the story. It’s those small, silly things stitched together that make a real person. The magic of life is in those things.”

Rhys’ eyes stung. He felt stupid. Stupid for reacting, for not reacting enough; for feeling, for not feeling enough. He felt stupidly locked in place, unblinking and unmoved. A growl burst from his throat as he twisted around and chucked his phone into his rumpled comforter.

After a deep breath and a deeper sigh, he slunk the few feet to his bed to sit heavily on its edge. His left fist still crushed the letter. With another shaky breath, Rhys released his aching hand and smoothed out the offensive script.

The letterhead, a stylized P made to look like a flame, preceded the following:

Mr. Nikolaos,

I am greatly pleased to have found your current residence, though I am less pleased at the current station where life has dropped you. Life is an unfair, unrelenting force. However, I have the disposition, not to mention the ample means, to relieve you of some of your pains, especially those of the financial kind. You will have your suspicions as to my intentions, and you will struggle with your decision to accept my impending invitation. You will ultimately assent. I know this as assuredly as I know the sun rises in the East and sets in the West. I know you believe. I know why you believe. Furthermore, I have irrevocable proof to sweep away the last remnants of your doubt. I have what you need, Mr. Nikolaos. Pack a bag for a long vacation and call the number.

With Highest Regards and Anticipation,

Mr. Prometheus

It was bizarre, of course. The self-sure manner of the penman was equal parts off-putting and intriguing, while the mixture of formality and familiarity perplexed Rhys. What disturbed him was that this enigmatically monikered “Mr. Prometheus” said he knew Rhys’ secret, and that statement rippled a shudder through his body.

Everything had a place in Rhys’ world. However, the world struggled to find a fitting place for Rhys himself. To think that an eccentric stranger would claim with such boldness to know Rhys as intimately as this letter did was equally frightening and tempting. His trembling hands turned the letter over to the back where a phone number messily sprawled. The penmanship scraped like a madman’s, starkly contrasting the flowing script of the letter’s body.

Rhys ruefully searched his bedding for his phone. He unlocked it with a twisting pattern across the screen and saw the phone number still there, awaiting the inevitable. The answer to his prayers was a phone call away.

But everything has a price, Rhys thought cynically, flipping the paper over once again. “I know you believe” jutted up from the page.

“No,” Rhys muttered. “I don’t believe.”

The letter in his lap insisted otherwise.

“I do not believe!” came harshly through his gritted teeth.

Still the letter defied him. It said it even knew why he believed.

Rhys crumpled it again then let it roll from his grasp to the floor. “I don’t want to believe,” he whispered sullenly, and the private voice of his mind replied, Ah, there’s the truth. His right thumb swung over the green icon on the phone screen. He says he has proof. Then let’s see it.

A man’s cool rasp came across the line half a ring later.  “Navy Pier, 8:00 AM.” The voice was smooth velvet on the surface hiding a grizzled edge just beneath. Rhys knew without a doubt that this voice belonged to the man who wrote both the letter and the number. “I would caution you to arrive on time, but I hear that punctuality is one of your strong suits. I will be most pleased to see you there.”

“Yes, so will I.”

All uncertainty left him. Why? that inner voice asked rhetorically.

Because I believe in monsters.

»»» Chapter 2 - The Cab Ride »»»

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Note from the Author

This is the first chapter of a horror/adventure story that’s been rolling around in my head for the better part of a decade. I’ve only written two chapters of it (the second of which will be shared next week), but I haven’t given up on it.

If you enjoyed this and would like to see more of this story, let me know! That might help me determine whether to revisit this project sooner rather than later.

Thanks for reading!

S.M. Osborne

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