We open in a dusty, dimly lit room, the air heavy with the scent of formaldehyde and age-old wood. It’s Tombstone’s Mortuary. Dust particles float lazily in the little light that filters through the drawn curtains, casting a spectral glow around Luther Grim.
He stands at the center of the mausoleum, his eyes reflecting back the room’s grim austerity. Luther’s figure is a stark contrast against the chilling backdrop of caskets and mourning accessories.
“It is said that The Mortuary is where we meet our end. Where terrible men like myself come face to face with the consequences of their transgressions. Funny, isn’t it, that Tombstone would tell you not to fear the end? To not fear him? Yet, he is nothing more than a symbol of fear. He brings death wherever he goes, and everything he represents, every action he takes, is an invocation of fear. The mortuary is not a welcoming place. It’s cold, it’s unforgiving, it’s life-ending. It is a realm of horror.”
“But you see, this place, this mortuary, it is no horror to me, for I have seen the true face of terror. It is not in the lifeless bodies that lie on these slabs. It is not in the sterile tools that perform the final rites. The real horror is in the mirror – in the eyes that have seen too much, in the hands that have taken too much. It is in the faces and the voices that follow me, a relentless parade of those I have wronged.”
“I have ended lives. Veterans. The elderly. Innocent children. I have heard their final words, seen their last breath, and lived to tell the tale. I have seen the horror, created it, lived it. And I can’t escape it. For each life taken, is a voice added to the cacophony that plagues my existence. Each face, a haunting reminder of my deeds.”
“For a while now, I have played with the idea of my end. I have always speculated that Colt Ramsey, that persistent journalist, would be the one to fit the pieces together, to see through the veil and expose me. Surely, he has seen something, knows something.”
Luther pauses, rubbing his grizzled chin thoughtfully.
“Then, there is Jackson Cade, that ever-nosy bloodhound, constantly digging deeper, unearthing truths to keep Arcadia safe. It wouldn’t be long before his sharp senses traced my scent, before he’d come knocking on my door.”
Luther looks around, his eyes bouncing off the walls of the mausoleum.
“But yet, here I am. Not in a jail cell, or courthouse, but in Tombstone’s Mortuary. A place of endings, where the living are prepared for their eternal rest. Is this my end? Have I been brought here to meet my fate? Or is this just another twist in my sordid tale? The air here hums with uncertainty, the room’s silence interrupted only by the ticking of the clock. Each tick echoes ominously, a cruel reminder of the passing time, and I am left to ponder the question – is this the end of Luther Grim?”