A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 13: Manfred

Hours had passed, the oppressive atmosphere of Dead Town grinding down on Michael's nerves as he and Larry scoured the decayed streets for any sign of Manfred. Each lead had brought them closer, but they all ended in the same place: uncertainty. Finally, in a crumbling square surrounded by sagging buildings, they found someone who claimed to have seen him—a ghoul.

The creature was crouched in a corner, gnawing on what Michael desperately hoped wasn't human remains. Its skin was leathery and stretched taut over a skeletal frame, its eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.

Larry stepped forward, his tone businesslike. "You there. I hear you've got a good eye for who comes and goes around here."

The ghoul looked up, its grin revealing yellowed teeth. "Depends who's asking."

"Larry Oblivion," Larry said, flashing a faint grin. "And my friend here is Michael. We're looking for someone—a living PI named Manfred. Heard you might've seen him."

The ghoul tilted its head, sniffing the air around Michael. "Living? Oh, yeah, I saw him. Not so much living now, though."

Michael's stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"

The ghoul cackled, its voice raspy. "Saw him dragged into the old warehouse on Blackspine Avenue. Funny place—lots of sparks, lots of noise. You'll see for yourself if you go."

Larry glanced at Michael, his expression grim. "That's not a great sign."

"Better than nothing," Michael said, his voice tight. "Thanks," he added, tossing the ghoul a small bag of coins.

The creature caught it with a grin. "Good luck, fellas. You'll need it."

The warehouse on Blackspine Avenue loomed like a rotting carcass, its roof sagging and its windows shattered. The faint hum of electricity emanated from within, punctuated by the occasional crackle of sparks.

Larry led the way, his hand resting on the hilt of a dagger tucked into his belt. "If he's in here," he said, glancing at Michael, "you'd better brace yourself. This looks like one of those places where bad things happen."

Michael nodded, swallowing hard. "Let's find him."

They pushed through the heavy doors, the hinges creaking loudly in protest. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of ozone and decay. The walls were lined with crude machinery, cobbled together from rusted parts and glowing tubes. Sparks danced along thick cables that snaked across the floor, feeding into a central apparatus that dominated the room.

The device was massive, a towering structure of metal and glass that pulsed faintly with blue light. At its center, a crude operating table was surrounded by an array of wires and electrodes. The whole setup looked like something ripped straight out of a Frankenstein novel, a mad scientist's dream brought to horrifying life.

Michael's gaze locked onto the figure on the table. "Manfred," he whispered, his stomach sinking.

The PI's body was strapped down, his chest bare and his skin pale. Wires connected to his temples and arms, feeding into the machine. His eyes were closed, his face frozen in an expression of terror.

Larry approached cautiously, his glowing eyes narrowing as he inspected the setup. "Looks like someone tried to bring him back. Question is, why?"

Michael's hands trembled as he stepped closer. "Is he...?"

"Dead?" Larry said grimly. "Yeah. Has been for a while, by the looks of it."

Michael stared at the contraption, his mind racing. The cables pulsed faintly, and the occasional jolt of electricity coursed through the wires connected to Manfred's body. It wasn't enough to animate him, but the machinery wasn't entirely inactive.

"Who would do this?" Michael asked, his voice tight. "Why hook him up to... this?"

"Undead doctor, maybe," Larry said, gesturing to the machinery. "Dead Town's full of folks with twisted ideas about life and death. Whoever it was, they weren't trying to bring him back for charity."

Michael leaned closer, inspecting the machinery. Glass tubes filled with a faintly glowing liquid lined the edges of the setup, and a control panel nearby bristled with switches and levers. The hum of the apparatus was constant, almost hypnotic, and Michael could feel the faint thrum of magic woven into its design.

"This isn't just tech," he said, his voice low. "There's magic in this."

Larry snorted. "Of course there is. No one in Dead Town builds something like this without adding a little extra... juice."

Michael reached out, his fingers brushing against one of the wires. It felt cold, almost lifeless, and yet he could sense the power coursing through it. "We need to figure out what this was for. And who did it."

Larry sighed, crossing his arms. "You're not gonna like the answers, kid. Dead Town doesn't give up its secrets easy."

Michael clenched his fists, his gaze locked on Manfred's lifeless form. "We owe it to him to try."

The warehouse was eerily silent as they began searching for clues, the faint hum of the machine the only sound. Michael couldn't shake the image of Manfred's terrified face, frozen in death. Whoever had done this hadn't just killed him—they'd turned him into part of something dark and twisted.

He wasn't sure what they'd find, but one thing was clear: this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

Michael and Larry were still inspecting the machinery when they heard the faint sound of footsteps echoing through the warehouse. They exchanged a glance, and Michael's hand instinctively went to his revolver. Larry didn't move to draw his weapon, though; instead, he straightened and crossed his arms, a faint smirk playing on his decayed lips.

"Well, well," Larry said quietly, "looks like the doctor's home."

The footsteps grew louder, and then the figure emerged from the shadows. The undead doctor was a grotesque sight—his skin was pale and mottled, his face a patchwork of scars and stitches that crisscrossed like a macabre quilt. His body was thin but wiry, his hands long and bony, each finger tipped with yellowed nails. He wore a faded lab coat splattered with stains of unknown origin, and his eyes glowed faintly, like embers struggling to stay lit.

"What is this?" the doctor growled, his voice deep and gravelly. His gaze locked onto Michael, then Larry. "Intruders? How dare you invade my sanctuary!"

Michael tensed, but Larry stepped forward, raising a hand. "Easy there, Doc," he said smoothly, his voice dripping with nonchalance. "We're not here to cause trouble. In fact, I might have brought you a little... gift."

Michael shot Larry a confused glance, but the undead detective ignored him, his focus on the doctor.

"A gift?" the doctor repeated, his stitched face twisting into a grotesque sneer. "You expect me to believe that?"

Larry chuckled, gesturing toward Michael. "This one's special, Doc. A bit of a thorn in my side, but I figured someone like you might find him... interesting."

Michael's heart raced as he realized what Larry was doing. It was a bluff, a distraction—but a damn convincing one. He played along, feigning a mix of fear and indignation. "What the hell, Larry?" he snapped, stepping back as if in shock. "You're selling me out?"

"Relax, kid," Larry said with a wave of his hand. "The Doc and I go way back. He's not going to hurt you... much."

The doctor's gaze flickered between them, suspicion clouding his expression. "Why would I trust you, Oblivion? You've never shown much appreciation for my work."

Larry shrugged. "True, but I know talent when I see it. And you've got talent, Doc. All this?" He gestured to the machinery. "This is impressive. Almost as good as what they're doing over in the Necropolis."

The doctor's sneer faded, replaced by a faint smirk. "Better," he corrected, stepping closer. "The Necropolis fools are stuck in their old ways. My work is revolutionary. I'm not just raising the dead—I'm creating life!"

Michael glanced at Larry, whose expression remained calm. The detective leaned against a nearby table, gesturing for the doctor to continue.

"Creating life, huh?" Larry said. "I've heard that before. Didn't go so well for the last guy who tried."

The doctor bristled, his stitched face twisting in anger. "Don't compare me to those amateurs! I'm not a reanimator—I'm a creator! Life is the ultimate art, and I've perfected it."

He gestured grandly to the machinery around them, his voice growing more animated. "This equipment is the culmination of centuries of knowledge, blending science and magic in perfect harmony. With it, I can craft new beings, superior to the living and the undead. Perfect creations, free from the flaws of mortality."

Larry raised an eyebrow, feigning interest. "Perfect creations, huh? That what you were trying with Manfred over there?" He nodded toward the body on the table.

The doctor's expression darkened, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Manfred was a failure. His body wasn't strong enough, his will too weak. He couldn't handle the process."

Michael's jaw tightened, anger bubbling beneath the surface. "You killed him," he said, his voice sharp.

The doctor turned to him, a twisted smile spreading across his face. "Oh, he was dead long before I found him. All I did was give him a purpose. A chance to be part of something greater."

Michael's fists clenched, but Larry stepped between them, raising a hand. "Easy, kid," he said softly. He turned back to the doctor, his tone casual. "So, what's the endgame, Doc? You planning to populate the Nightside with your 'creations'?"

The doctor chuckled, a hollow, unsettling sound. "The Nightside? No. The world. Mortals and immortals alike have had their time. It's time for something new."

Larry nodded thoughtfully. "Ambitious. But let me ask you this: what happens when your perfect creations start thinking for themselves? Or when they decide you're the flawed one?"

The doctor's smile faltered, his glowing eyes narrowing. "You're stalling."

Larry smirked, stepping back. "Maybe. But it's been fun watching you monologue."

The doctor's face twisted in rage, but before he could react, Michael moved, drawing his revolver and aiming it squarely at the nearest piece of machinery. "Step back," he growled. "Or your little lab experiment gets shut down permanently."

The doctor froze, his hands twitching as he weighed his options. Michael's heart pounded, but his aim remained steady. Beside him, Larry's grin widened.

"Looks like the kid's got a spine after all," Larry said. "Now, Doc, why don't you tell us where you got this setup—and who else might be involved?"

Michael barely had time to react before Larry launched himself at the doctor with a speed that belied his undead frame. For all his laid-back demeanor, Larry Oblivion fought like a force of nature. He didn't hesitate, didn't flinch—he simply moved, his skeletal hands grabbing the doctor by the collar and slamming him into a nearby console. The machinery sparked as the impact jostled wires and tubes.

"Let's skip the villain monologue," Larry growled, his glowing eyes inches from the doctor's patchwork face. "You've been a bad boy, Doc. Time to answer for it."

The doctor snarled, swinging his arm in a wide arc. His bony fist collided with Larry's side, but the undead detective barely reacted. Instead, he twisted, his trench coat flaring as he spun the doctor around and sent him sprawling across the room.

"You're not normal," Michael muttered, watching in stunned silence as Larry advanced again.

"I'm dead," Larry shot back, grinning grimly. "What's normal about that?"

The doctor scrambled to his feet, reaching for a jagged piece of metal on the floor. With a snarl, he lunged at Larry, but the detective ducked under the swing and delivered a brutal uppercut to the doctor's jaw. The sound of bone on bone echoed through the warehouse, and the doctor staggered back, hissing in pain.

"You think I don't know how to deal with patchwork freaks like you?" Larry said, his tone almost conversational. "I've been dead longer than you've been stitched together."

The doctor snarled, his stitches stretching grotesquely as he lunged again. This time, Larry didn't dodge. Instead, he stepped into the attack, grabbing the doctor's arm and twisting it with a sickening crunch. The doctor screamed, and Larry slammed him against the wall, pinning him with one hand while pulling something from his coat with the other.

Michael's breath caught as he saw it: a wand, long and blackened, with faint traces of silver in its carved surface. It radiated power—dangerous, cold power. Queen Mab's wand.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Michael blurted out.

Larry glanced at him, grinning. "Took it off a worse guy than him." He turned his attention back to the doctor, the tip of the wand pressing against the undead man's forehead. "Now, Doc, you're going to talk. Who sold Manfred to you?"

The doctor glared, his patchwork face contorted in defiance. "I don't answer to you."

Larry sighed dramatically. "They always make me work for it." With a flick of his wrist, the wand crackled to life, and a streak of silver lightning arced from its tip into the doctor's skull. He screamed, his body convulsing as the magic tore through him.

"Care to reconsider?" Larry asked, his voice calm.

"Go to hell!" the doctor spat, his glowing eyes filled with rage.

Larry chuckled. "Already been there, Doc. Didn't like the company."

He turned the wand slightly, and the lightning intensified. The doctor writhed, his stitched flesh smoking as the energy coursed through him. Michael winced but didn't intervene. He wasn't about to get in the way of Larry's interrogation—especially not when it was working.

"Alright!" the doctor finally screamed, his voice hoarse. "Alright, I'll talk!"

Larry stepped back, lowering the wand but keeping it pointed at the doctor. "Good. Now spill it."

The doctor gasped for breath, his patchwork chest heaving as he slumped against the wall. "It was the DeLucia family. They sold him to me. Said he was poking around where he shouldn't have been. I paid them to bring him here... alive."

"And then?" Larry prompted.

The doctor glared but continued. "I needed a fresh subject. Manfred was perfect. I wanted to see if I could push the boundary between death and life—create something new. But he... failed." His gaze flickered to the machinery. "His body couldn't handle it. The process tore him apart."

Larry's lips curled into a grim smile. "So you tortured and killed him, and when it didn't work, you left him strapped to this monstrosity."

The doctor sneered. "You wouldn't understand. I'm an artist."

"Artist, huh?" Larry said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Well, let's see what's inside your masterpiece."

With a brutal motion, Larry plunged his hand into the doctor's chest, his skeletal fingers tearing through the patchwork flesh like paper. The doctor screamed as Larry yanked out a mass of wires and tubes, the grotesque mockery of organs spilling to the ground.

"Talk fast, Doc," Larry said, his tone cold. "Because you're running out of guts."

The doctor sobbed, his defiance gone. "It was the DeLucias! They told me to make him disappear! Said he'd been asking too many questions about Bennett and Pembroke! That's all I know, I swear!"

Larry stared at him for a moment before letting go. The doctor collapsed to the floor, clutching at his ruined chest, his breaths ragged and shallow.

Larry turned to Michael, brushing his hands off as though nothing had happened. "DeLucias," he said. "Big mafia family. Looks like your boys were tied up in some nasty business."

Michael nodded, his mind racing. "And now they know I'm involved."

Larry smirked. "Welcome to the Nightside, kid." He turned to the doctor one last time, his expression hard. "You're lucky I don't finish the job. But if you so much as twitch in my direction again, I'll come back and make sure you stay dead."

The doctor whimpered, nodding weakly.

"Let's go," Larry said, motioning for Michael to follow. "We've got a family to visit."

As they left the warehouse, Michael couldn't help but glance back at the broken, smoldering machinery—and the lifeless body of Manfred still strapped to the table.

"You sure about this?" Michael asked as they stepped into the decaying streets.

Larry grinned, his glowing eyes flickering. "Not even a little."