ty-ty

Every inch of him that is not clothed is wrapped in bandages, save for his eyes and the tips of his fingers - the former for sight, the latter for touch. Though it is clear that the gloves he wears once covered his fingers, they do not anymore.  They have been torn into the sorry shape that they are in now. The tips of his fingers are mottled and dark, with pustules and bulges scattered across their gnarled, bony appearance. On their scarred tips, twisted and knotted fingernails blend in with the rest of his fingers the color of dried blood. The thick leather sleeves which extend up from his gloves are worn over their cotton mirror, stretched

It was midnight, and the fall air was clear and crisp. As wind rustled the treetops, a lone car shone its headlights across the road. Charles Mott sat behind the wheel of the station wagon, humming a song that he had heard on the radio. He wished it was raining - this was the kind of job rain was perfect for. He was employed (as he called it) as a paranormal investigator, or (as others called it) at Walmart. Charles spent a lot of his free time sitting next to his telephone, hoping someone would find his website and call him with anything supernatural. When that failed, as it often did, he would head to the bar and complain about his wasted