Black Hood Press

Note: This story follows the events of “The Undressed Widow.”

CHARLIE “Cherry Nose” Caifano had been cooped up for the past three days in the hotel room where he lived in the lower South Side of Terminal City. It had been that long since he’d received The Spectre’s mark – a note card inscribed only with an “X.” He would never have admitted to anyone that he was scared, and certainly not even to himself. He was a hired gun for Vito “Spats” Gennaro, after all, boss of the South Side mob. He’d plugged many a guy that had it coming to him. So many, he’d nearly lost count. In fact, just the week before he’d taken down Frankie Maritote. Walked up and plugged him with a shotgun right outside his house, just after dark. Only it hadn’t gone off as planned. Just as Cherry Nose had squeezed the trigger, Frankie’s four-​year-​old little girl opened the door. It was a darn shame. But these things happen, Cherry Nose told himself over and over.

Frankie had it coming. No one else was supposed to have been home. It was an accident. So why should Cherry Nose even worry? He didn’t have anything to be afraid of.

But the fact was, Cherry Nose hadn’t gone out since getting that card. He’d heard plenty of stories about The Black Spectre. Stories about how he may not have even been human. Stories that couldn’t possibly have been true.

But Cherry Nose was hungry, and he was really itching for a drink. Even though the sun was already going down, Jack Smithy’s bar was only two blocks away. Cherry Nose shook off his nerves, reminded himself that he, too, was someone you didn’t want to meet in a dark alley, and grabbed his coat and .38 before he bolted out the door.

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JULIA DAVENPORT walked quietly through the large, Greco-​Roman-​styled Lakeview Heights mansion she shared with her husband, the baby, and their small cadre of servants. She never liked being alone, and even though the servants were there, she certainly felt alone when her husband wasn’t.

They had planned to go out together that night.  It was a business function and, as one of the most prominent attorneys in all of Terminal City, her husband, Cecil Davenport IV (heir to the Davenport fortune) always made an excellent impression with his young, beautiful wife dutifully at his side.  As such, their social calendar was always full – either going out on the town or hosting grand, lavish parties at home.  But she had come down with a headache just before they were to leave and had “with deep regrets” opted to stay home and retire early.  It had simply been an exhausting day.

Julia went into the sitting room with hopes of finishing the current novel that simply everyone was reading.  She would love to brag to her friends at lunch the next day that she had already completed it.  She curled up in her large Queen Anne chair and opened the tome to her bookmark. There was more left than she remembered.

She had been reading for some time when a man walked into the room

and began to peruse the shelves.  She thought it was Johnson, their manservant, and looked up with surprise to see that it wasn’t.  Nor was he a servant at all.  Julia dropped her book with a start and let out a small gasp.

He, in turn, wheeled around with a start himself.

Julia saw that he carried a large leather bag with handles that seemed rather full with several of their belongings.

He was a thief.

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IT HAD been a long day for Albert Johnson, but he wasn’t The least bit anxious to get home from his job as art editor for Thrilling Fables Magazine. He was a small, soft-​spoken, bespectacled man – the exact opposite of the kind that were featured in the monthly “pulp” magazine for which he worked. They’d just sent the latest issue to press and it was time to take a well-​deserved breather before starting the next issue first thing Monday morning.

The last place he wanted to go was home, However. His wife, Ruth, would be there waiting, though certainly not glad to see him. She had been an innocent, pretty young girl when they were married nearly twenty years Earlier. But the truth was that they had little in common and really didn’t much enjoy each other’s company.

Not that they ever did.

It was only a few Block’s walk to their apartment on the South Side of Terminal City. Albert took his time, enjoyed the night air, then stopped off at O’Doule’s Bar for a hearty drink. He’d only intended to stay for a short while, but the quiet solitude of the bar at that Late hour was too enticing. It was nearly two in the morning before the barkeep finally nudged him from his stool and made him face the uninviting prospect of completing his walk home. It was a warm June night And he found himself wishing that he had a hammock and a back yard (with trees) in which to string it.

After he stumbled up the long staircase inside their brownstone building and stopped more than once to Catch his breath and exhale a healthy belch, Albert finally opened the door and walked into the dim, modestly furnished apartment. It was comfortable enough and, other than the back yard, was all that he cared to have. He listened for a moment, then quietly called out for Ruth. There was no answer. Good, he thought, she’s already gone to bed. He wouldn’t have to answer for his late arrival.

Not until morning, anyway.

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JULIUS KENNELLY took a long, final puff on his cigar while lounging on the firm, dark leather couch in his ornately wood-​paneled office. It had been another good day, among what seemed lately to be an endless stream of good days. With the nation’s economy still struggling to recover, and the war in Europe that loomed ever closer, he had taken over a long line of businesses, and each for a song. Like cherries for the picking. On this night, he would take his mistress to Vicedomini’s to celebrate. No need for reservations. They always kept their best table ready for him. He was the controlling owner, after all.

Julius got up from the couch and stood, as he did each night before leaving, and gazed out of the large glass window. From his viewpoint high atop the Kennelly Building in Downtown Terminal City, he could see the whole metropolis stretched out before him. And each time he peered out, more of that city belonged to him. It was a very good feeling. Almost as good as seeing his own finely-​chiseled features reflected in the glass, perfectly superimposed over the landscape. To Julius, it looked just like a scene from a movie. One in which he was the author, producer, director, and star.

Julius snuffed out his barely smoked cigar and gave a call to his very personal secretary. He smiled as she knocked on the door, admired her long legs as she rushed in with his long overcoat, and gave her a firm pat on her shapely posterior for a job well done.

Before the words “Good night, Dorothy,” escape his lips, she was already on his phone calling down for his car. It, of course, would be there waiting for him before his private elevator reached the ground floor. Life was good for Julius Kennelly.

“Good night, Mr. Kennelly” rang like a chorus as he walked brusquely through the vast lobby that looked like it had been carved from marble by Rome’s greatest artisans. The Doorman echoed the final greeting as he held the door open for Julius to pass through.

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OSCAR TRAVERS grabbed another shot from the bar in his anvil-​like fist and tossed it back like a glass of water.  His body was steeled from years of working on the docks, and now, thanks to a combination of whiskey and rage, his nerves were steeled as well.  He’d never beaten another human being to death before, but he was more than capable.  On this night, especially so.  His pride had been severely bruised, and he was smarting for revenge.

Feeling the alcohol work its way into his system, he glanced again out the window to the Orpheum Theater just down the street.  The doors would open soon to let the rich and influential step out among the masses for just a moment, then get in their expensive cars and ride back to their posh mansions in exclusive Lakeview Heights.

And Oscar Travers would be waiting.

Inside the Orpheum, the audience applauded as the curtains fell across the stage.  The sounds echoed through the small, but ornately-​crafted theater.  Brent Gregor clapped, too, from his wheelchair in Box Five.  As much as he enjoyed the show, a musical farce about love and mistaken-​identity, it only served to remind him that he was very much alone.  Of course, he had his faithful valet, Bernard Worthington, at his side – the only other living person who knew him as The Black Spectre.  But Brent longed for companionship of another kind, and those thoughts always led in the same direction. Vicky.

As the fates would have it, Victoria Rose, the headstrong, auburn-​haired reporter for the Daily Crusader, actually sat far above him in the uppermost balcony.  With her was her boyfriend and co-​worker at the Crusader, Denny Morris, who toiled daily in the newspaper’s archives.

They were celebrating the anniversary of their first date together and Denny had wanted to do something special.  He’d saved for many months and managed to pull a few strings to take her to the opening of a new show.  Though he wished he could have done a lot better than the “nosebleed section,” he was just glad to have a special night with her without having to encounter his chief rival for Vicky’s attention (aside from the newspaper) – Brent Gregor. Vicky was an angel, his angel.  And on this night, dressed in her beautiful soft-​blue gown, she looked just like one.

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BRENT GREGOR had long dreaded Halloween. The holiday, if one could call it that, brought nothing but old, very painful memories of that night so long ago. The night that he never wanted to remember, but could never, ever forget.

But this particular Halloween, as Brent stood on the downtown rooftop in the cold night air, things were different. For nearly six months earlier, in exchange for the ability to walk again, he had taken on a new guise – that of The Black Spectre. In exchange for the simple joy of once again standing on his own two feet, of feeling like a whole man, of feeling stronger than ever before, he was forced to stalk the night and bring justice to those who have none. It was a price he had been well prepared to pay.

As he gazed down on the cold, bitter streets of Terminal City, his mind drifted elsewhere. He couldn’t help but wonder if this particular Halloween would be any different from the last fifteen. For as strong as he was physically, it was those terrible memories of that fateful night so long ago that still haunted him deep inside.

Bernard Worthington, Brent Gregor’s dignified and faithful valet, sat in the long black car and tightened his thick wool coat around his neck in an attempt to escape the growing chill. It would take some more time to get used to nights like these. He wondered how Master Gregor withstood the evening temperatures as he prowled the rooftops above. He wondered even more if this nightly vigil would continue once winter had fully set in.

Worthington was startled when he heard a small tap on the glass of his car window. His thoughts raced for a lie that he hadn’t been prepared to tell that would explain his presence. He’d been certain that he’d parked the car well enough into the dark alley so as not to be seen.

He let out a quick sigh of relief as the dark figure with the gleaming skull mask peered inside. Mere seconds later, The Black Spectre climbed into the back seat and closed the door behind him. Worthington wondered if the cold had been too much for him as well, but he wasn’t about to suggest it.

“You’re back earlier than I expected, Sir,” was all that he could muster without being impolite.

“I just can’t stop thinking about it,” Brent Gregor answered as he pulled off the hat and mask. “Please, take me home.”

“Of course, Sir,” Worthington answered as he started the motor and put the dark-​curtained automobile gear.

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BORN into a wealthy family, young Brent Gregor’s life was shattered one fateful Halloween night when an intruder’s bullets killed his father, put his mother in an asylum, and left him in a wheelchair. Young Brent became a brooding recluse locked away, forever alone, in his family mansion.

When he reached adulthood, Gregor spent much of his vast fortune searching the world in vain for a cure. His far-​reaching efforts led him to an old gypsy woman who offered a fantastical proposition: by joining with a mysterious entity known as the Spirit Force, Gregor could summon it when needed to not only walk again, but to harness phantom-​like abilities: superhuman strength and agility, the power to hide unseen in the shadows, move objects with his mind, and easily pass through locked doors. In return, he vowed to stand for the righteous, to fight evil, and bring justice to those who have none.

Now…like a ghost, he moves through the shadows of the night, bringing evil-​doers to justice! When criminals and lawbreakers are marked with his signature “X,” they know there is no escape from… The Black Spectre!