Unburied: A Mark Hammer Story

"The gods are not always kind, and their gifts are often mixed with sorrow.”

The night air was heavy with the musky scent of rain, and the wind howled like a pack of wolves outside; its mournful cries whipped through the streets with ferocity. The gusts were so strong that they shook the windows in their frames, rattling the panes of glass with a hauntingly eerie sound and sending shivers up the spines of all who heard it. The buildings themselves seemed to come alive as if possessed by the spirits of the wind, their very foundations groaning under the force of the gale.

The rain was a deluge, cascading from the sky in relentless waves, battering against the windows of the building with a deafening roar as if the very heavens were unleashing their wrath upon the city. The streets were deserted, the only sign of life being the occasional flicker of lightning illuminating the deserted sidewalks.

The wind howled through the alleys, whipping trash and debris, giving the impression of a ghostly presence lurking just out of sight. The rain was so thick it was difficult to see more than a few feet in front of you, and the sound of it hitting the pavement was like a never-ending drumroll.

The only creatures brave enough to venture out were the rats and stray cats scurrying for cover. The city was eerily quiet as if the storm had sucked out all the life and energy, leaving nothing but a sodden ghost town in its wake.

The streetlights flickered on and off, their struggle against the storm's power adding to the eerie ambience and giving the impression that the entire city was deserted.

The only steady beacon in the storm-ridden city was coming from an old building, sitting lonely on the corner of an intersection. Its exterior, a dull grey concrete and brick facade bore the marks of a lifetime of neglect and disregard. The bricks were cracked and crumbling, and the concrete was tainted with grime and soot.

The windows, caked in a thick layer of filth, offered no glimpse into the interior, giving the impression of a forgotten relic from a bygone era. The metal fire escape, with peeling paint and rusted handrails, seemed to cling on for dear life. The overall effect was one of neglect and abandonment as if the building had been cast aside by the passing of time.

The dimly lit office which gave off the light belonged to private detective Mark Hammer and was a reflection of the man himself. The floorboards, worn and dark with age, creaked underfoot as one entered the space. The furniture was old and well-used, with a large wooden desk occupying most of the room. Papers, file folders, and empty coffee cups cluttered the surface. The sole source of light in the room came from a green-shaded lamp, casting a pallid yellow glow over the space and highlighting the thick layer of smoke that hung in the air. Behind the desk, a large window looked out into the city, the blinds sat open, but the grime blocked any decent view. A predominantly empty bookshelf with a few books on crime and investigation stood against one wall.

In contrast, the other walls were adorned with framed certificates and photos of Hammer in various locations. A map of the city hung on the wall next to the door. The musty smell of neglect and the thick cigarette smoke gave the space a hazy, dream-like quality, perfectly capturing the grim, no-nonsense attitude of its owner, who sat in a threadbare armchair with the stuffing coming out of the arms, opposite the desk.

The sound of the rain pummelling against the windows filled the space with a sense of impending doom. Hammer sat deep in thought. A sudden clap of thunder had jolted him out of his slumber, its echoes ricocheting through his mind like a ghostly echo of that fateful night from years past, still fresh in his memory like an open wound. The weight of his past mistakes, the burden of the lives he'd failed to save, came rushing back to him and was heavy on his shoulders. Those memories, that weight, served as a constant reminder of all the things he'd done wrong, all the things he wished he could take back. The ashtray on the desk was overflowing with cigarette butts, and the weight of guilt and shame hung heavy in the air.

As he gazed upon the deluge that drenched the city, a sense of foreboding loomed over him like the haze that filled his office. A feeling that something sinister lurked just beyond his peripheral vision. Maybe it was the result of a career spent peering into the abyss, his optimism long since drowned in a sea of cynicism. Or it was a more intrinsic understanding that safety was an illusion in this world.

The sudden knock on the door roused him from his trance, a discordant symphony of knuckles against metal. Who would him on such a foul evening? He rose from his seat, the creak of leather protesting against his bulk, and trudged towards the entryway. A glance at his reflection in the window revealed a man unkempt, his hair short dark hair dishevelled, his piercing blue eyes and a scar above his right eyebrow stood out in a haggard face with a hint of dark circles under his eyes, indicating his current state of semi-inebriation. His movements were slow, and his posture was slightly slouchy, but he had no time for vanity. The knock persisted in an insistent rhythm that would not be ignored. He hesitated in front of the door for a moment before finally reaching for the handle. The old metal felt cold and rough against his skin as he turned it; the sound of the wind and rain rushed in as he opened the door, almost as if it was trying to push its way into his office.

As he looked out, he saw a figure standing on his threshold, hunched over and drenched to the bone. The light from his desk lamp cast a greenish-yellow glow on the woman’s face, highlighting the exhaustion and worry etched into her features. Despite the weather and her dishevelled appearance, Hammer couldn’t help but notice her beauty. Her heart-shaped face, with high cheekbones and a small delicate nose, was framed by thick dark lashes. Her deep brown eyes scanned the room beyond, her rounded lips set in a determined line. Her olive-toned skin was smooth and flawless, and she carried herself with poise and confidence.

“Mr. Hammer?” she asked, with a slight accent, her voice steady but with a hint of urgency. Hammer could see she was here for a purpose, which couldn’t be good. His mind raced with possibilities. Who was this woman, and what did she want from him? Who sent her?

“That’s me,” he replied, his voice slightly gruff and uninviting. He leaned against the door frame, taking in the sight of her, the smell of wet clothing and a hint of expensive perfume.

“My name is Sarah, Sarah Lake. I need your help,” she said, her voice soft, barely audible over the sound of the rain.

“With what?” Hammer grunted, unconvinced. He did not like the way this conversation had started.

“My husband, Charles,” she said, her voice breaking. “He was murdered two weeks ago, and the police aren’t doing anything about it. I know they think it’s an open and shut case, but I know there’s more to it than that. I need someone who will actually investigate and find out the truth.”

Hammer took out a cigarette, lit it and took a long drag, studying her as she spoke. He could see the determination and desperation in her eyes, and the hint of a tear running down her cheek. He knew all too well the feeling of being ignored and dismissed by the police.

“What makes you think the police aren’t taking this seriously?” he asked, his voice still gruff, but with a hint of interest.

“They think it’s just a robbery gone wrong, but Charles had enemies. He had powerful enemies,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “I know they’re involved in this, and the police just aren’t looking in the right places.”

Hammer continued to smoke his cigarette, watching her carefully as she spoke. He remained silent, lost in thought as he weighed the gravity of her words. The sound of the rain against the windows provided a fitting soundtrack to the heavy atmosphere in the room.

“You should know,” he said, taking a final drag on his cigarette before flicking it out into the rain, “This isn’t going to be a walk in the park. It’s gonna cost you, and it’s gonna be rough.”

Sarah's eyes brightened with determination. “I understand,” she said firmly. “I'll do whatever it takes to find out the truth about Charles' death.”

With a nod, Hammer stepped aside, allowing her entry into his office. The sound of the storm outside receded as he closed the door, sealing them in a private world of their own.