The third floor of an old industrial warehouse in Brooklyn's Red Hook neighborhood was both sanctuary and prison for Marcus. The vast, raw concrete space, measuring four hundred square meters, housed the ghosts he'd brought back from Fallujah, Iraq. On the walls, memories of military service? No, emptiness. On the floor, nothing but a bed, a chair, a table, and a worn rug. Not minimalism, but a manifesto of annihilation.
Marcus was forty-four, but his eyes carried the weariness of sixty. His face was etched with deep lines carved by the desert sun and the terrors of the night. Now, at 3:15 AM, he sat in his chair, feeling the cold metal of the Colt M1911 pressed against his temple. The gun had been smuggled out of Iraq – a war trophy, a souvenir, and now, a potential escape.
During the day, he could occupy his mind while his body was awake: a security job at a friend's construction company, hours of walking on the Brooklyn Bridge, attempts to exhaust himself at the gym. But the nights... the ghosts were set free during the night hours.
Especially the ghost of Ahmed.
At night, it felt like a desert heat in the room. Sweat trickled down Marcus's back, but the window was open, and the November cold of New York was pouring in. Paranoia... a classic symptom of PTSD. But this time, it was different. This wasn't just a memory; it was a physical presence.
Ahmed was a fourteen-year-old boy, marked as "suspicious" by Marcus's team during an operation in Fallujah. His hands were empty. His eyes were filled not with fear, but with deep sorrow. Marcus had questioned the orders, hesitant to fire. But the others... the others hadn't hesitated. And now, Ahmed's ghost stood before Marcus every night, silently watching him, his eyes carrying not accusation, but only deep grief.
"I can't take it anymore," Marcus mumbled, his voice echoing in the emptiness of the room. His fingers danced on the trigger. A simple movement: pull the trigger. A burst of sound. Then silence... a permanent, final silence.
He increased the pressure on the trigger. His muscles tensed. His heart was like a bird beating in his chest. He closed his eyes. He saw Ahmed. Then his wife, Chloe...
His wife? No, she wasn't his wife. His wife, Clara, had left years ago. Chloe was a doctor. A soft-spoken, patient woman who tried to help him. She would be disappointed.
"I'm sorry, Chloe," he whispered.
The trigger reached its final point. A fraction of a second more pressure, and everything would end.
03:17:01
And at that moment, the world held its breath.
This wasn't a metaphor. It was a physical sensation. There was a sudden drop in pressure in Marcus's ears, as if he were going up in an elevator very quickly. Then, vibration. The entire building seemed to vibrate at an atomic level. The glass of the window vibrated slightly. The empty beer bottle on the table shifted a centimeter to the right.
Marcus pulled the trigger.
Click... It didn't fire.
Marcus opened his eyes. Swearing, he angrily aimed the gun at the brick wall at the other end of the room and fired. This time, the gun fired. Instinctively, he lowered the gun, scanning the surroundings. His military training was stronger than his ghosts. Danger. Physical danger.
But there was no one in the room. Only the pale ghost of Ahmed, now even paler. He seemed surprised. Really? He looked surprised.
His eyes fell on the empty shell casing on the floor. He reached out his hand. Then... the casing obeyed him and returned to his hand.
Then, heat...
In his palm, the red-hot casing of the gun...
Pain... White, burning, unbearable pain. Marcus instinctively screamed, throwing the gun into the air. The gun fell to the concrete floor, but it didn't explode. But the pain in his palm continued.
The casing seemed to be stuck to his palm, burning and melting his flesh. Marcus struck the casing with his other hand to drop it, but when he touched it, that hand also burned. Double pain... The scream was knotted in his throat, only a muffled groan came out.
"What... what happened?" he stammered, his voice filled with fear and surprise.
He looked at the gun on the floor... and at the casing. The casing... It was a cold, brass casing. It wasn't burned or melted. Had he dreamed? Or hallucinated... He wouldn't be surprised... He had lost his sense of reality for a while. But... the pain in his palm, the pain was real. And that orange mark...
Marcus got up, staggering towards the sink. He turned on the cold water, holding his palms under the water. The pain subsided a little, but that strange, deep ache continued. He looked in the mirror. In his eyes, there was something foreign, besides his own fear. An energy. A... power.
His instinct screamed at him: This was not a dream, a hallucination, or a delusion. Somehow... it was real.
The room still seemed to be vibrating, but it was an internal vibration. In the air, there was static electricity; an electrical charge that made his hair stand on end. He looked out the window. The streetlights were burning normally. Below, a few night owls were walking, unaware of anything.
But something had happened. And it wasn't just limited to him.
Ahmed's ghost was still there, but now he looked different. Clearer, more real. And he raised his index finger, pointing at Marcus's burning palm. As if saying, "Look," he said. "Look what happened."
Marcus took a step towards the ghost. "What? What happened? Tell me!"
But the ghost was silent, as always. He just kept pointing with his finger.
Marcus looked at his palm. That orange mark was now more defined. A triangle within a circle... An ancient symbol? He remembered seeing something similar during a protection mission in one of the archaeological sites in Iraq during his military days.
And then, the urge.
An uncontrollable urge from within. He wanted to move something. Not just want, he could.
His eyes fell on the empty beer bottle on the table. He focused. He thought of the bottle. Lifting it, holding it in the air...
The bottle trembled.
Marcus's breath caught. No. This couldn't be. It was just a tremor, a vibration.
He focused more. Rise.
The bottle rose a centimeter from the surface of the table, hovered in the air, and flew directly towards his hand, obeying Marcus...
Marcus screamed, this time filled with shock and fear. His concentration was broken. The bottle fell halfway to the floor, onto the rug, didn't break at first, but after bouncing off the rug, it hit the concrete floor and shattered.
His heart was pounding as if it would jump out of his chest. His hands were shaking - this time from fear. He was having trouble breathing. What was this? Was it madness? A new, terrifying manifestation of PTSD?
But that orange mark on his palm was still there, throbbing slightly. And inside, he felt a strange power. Just like feeling his muscles, but this had nothing to do with muscle. A mental muscle, perhaps... a psychic limb.
"No," he moaned, shaking his head. "This isn't real. This can't be real."
At that moment, his cell phone rang. An unknown number. Marcus, with his trembling hand, answered the phone, brought it to his ear. A cold, professional voice was heard from the other end:
"Mr. Marcus? I hope I'm not disturbing you at this hour. My name is Anton. I want to talk to you about your... new... abilities."
Marcus's blood froze. With a sudden reflex, he took the gun in his hand. "What? What abilities? Who are you? Where did you get my number?"
"First... Please put down your gun. I want to help you. To guide your power..." Anton's voice was oily, persuasive. "Let's just talk. Tomorrow, in Central Park. At 10 AM. Come alone."
The phone hung up.
Marcus dropped the phone. His breath was steaming in the cold air of the room. This had to be a dream. A nightmare. But the pain in his palm, the broken bottle on the floor, and now this phone call... it was all real.
He looked at the ghost. Ahmed was no longer looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the window, on the night sky of New York. As if pointing to something bigger.
Marcus slowly sat on the edge of the bed. He examined his hands. They looked normal. But as if, inside, there was a sleeping volcano. And someone - this Anton - knew of its existence.
He had been trained as a soldier. He knew the threats. Anton... was definitely a threat. A physical, psychological, and now... a paranormal threat.
His eyes drifted to the gun in his hand. A few minutes ago, he was about to end his life with it. Now, his life had suddenly become terrifyingly and fascinatingly complicated. He hadn't been able to end his life for a reason, and now... There was a mission on the horizon. He had been a soldier long enough to know that.
He clenched his non-gun hand. That orange mark throbbed between his fingers. He had to make a decision. Either he would accept this power - this madness, whatever it was - and face Anton. Or he would run, hide, and maybe return to the gun, to the unfinished business.
But now the gun didn't seem like a solution to him. Because in his hand, he literally had a new power. And power always brings a choice: to control it or to be controlled by it.
Outside, a siren sounded in Brooklyn, fading away. Marcus got up, walked to the window. The lights of the city now had a different meaning for him. How many more people were experiencing the same thing among these lights? How many people felt a mysterious burn in their palms at 3:17 AM tonight? How many people received a phone call from someone named Anton?
Central Park. 10 AM.
Marcus opened his eyes, got out of bed. He opened his palm, closed it. The power was still there. It was frightening. But at the same time... it seemed to have a purpose again. Purpose... Something he hadn't felt in months.
"Okay," he mumbled into the darkness. "Let's talk then."
His fiery fate had begun to cool. And in its place, a new fire was burning, dangerous, uncertain, but proving that he was alive. Marcus was no longer just a ghost hunter.
He himself had become, inexplicably, the target of a ghost hunter.