Walking this beat on the East side of town s'never fun. I've always preferred to stay by the station, or maybe over near the opera house, or the market. All of those areas are quiet, no one moves, they stay in their bloody houses. Nothing out of the ordinary and nothing that wouldn't cause the usual amount of harm, I like things normal... even if that does make them horrible sometimes.

I hate the East side. The shadow of the crematorium looms over the buildings, its blocky shape standing starkly out from the sky. Now, I'm not normally one to complain. I get shot at, my leg doesn't work like it used to. and the burn on my face pulls taut when I try to eat. But, I do have a face, and a job that pays. S'all you can ask for these days, really. Even your own footsteps seem to echo off the stone here, the soles of these boots are thin enough that you shouldn't hear me at all. I can't keep my eyes off the damn thing: I hate how the smoke keeps drifting out of the stacks, even when it's down for the night. Makes me think that people could still be in there, who'd be able to counter a murderer if they just burned the evidence before anyone could even accuse them? Paranoid? Probably, but you can't help but think it with a job like this, can you?

They set the thing up five years ago, the crematorium, I mean. The city's crammed enough as it is and even the graveyards were starting to take up too much room. One of the men on council had a grand idea: just burn ‘em all, that'll give us more room. It did, can't lie about that one, loads more room to build on, and only the small sacrifice of this one area of the East side. S'only been here for five years, but already you can feel it happening, you can see it. for the love of God. People vanish, workers are replaced every few months, you never hear stories of accidents, and there's little to no street crime anymore. Walking around at night's gone and become damn eerie, and I'm not much into superstition, y'ken? The wind's picked up: l can hear it sliding over the white-washed walls like something long, thin, and alive. All I want to do is get home again tonight, just one more run through here alive. Then there's another two weeks before I have to run this beat again. The smell lingers; charred flesh and burning hair, it clings to the whole area, I won't be able to wash the scent off for days.

My eyes flick to the side as something white zips by in the corner of my vision. There's nothing there, of course, there's never anything there just the mist and fog and that damn building. Every time I'm here though...every time. It whips around corners, behind dustbins, over walls. always just beyond my field of vision, it moves. I used to think it was one of the local urchins having fun at the watch's expense, but no child I've ever seen could move like that. Then I thought maybe a cat, or a rabbit, even a weasel, but none of them have compared to the fluid motion that keeps just ahead of me. I can't help but allow my gaze to rove up the sides of the crematorium as I pass it. If I let them settle on the path I’m walking. I'll end up with a splitting headache from that flash flitting around every corner.

It's more than likely that I'm simply going mad. There's never been an actually incident over here, just rumors, and my sister likes to go on about how your mind'll play tricks if you give it enough room to. I caught a glimpse of it as it flashed by again, this time on the left up to the wall surrounding the building.

Then it stops. I can't help but turn to stare and finally look full upon the thing that's daunted my steps on the East side for nigh on three years. The figure crouches on the wall above me, hunched and pale, even its clothing, white as limestone. I cannot see its face as it slips silently over the wall and away. My feet seem to follow of their own accord as I turn the corner and give chase. Whoever, whatever, this is. it may be the cause I'm looking for. If it isn't, maybe I can pin it all the same and allow my mind to rest easier on some levels, at least. The doorway looms overhead, an archway into the hall inside, why bother barring the door when there's nothing to steal but the dead? I pass through at an easy lope, I do want to catch it, mind; but I don't want to be here. I'm not paid thirty pounds a week to be dead. The ceiling's at least thirty feet up. I can't see it in this light and I try to ignore the odd creak or groan of timber as I run. I stop, pistol drawn and gaze about myself.

There! The familiar white form flicks quickly around another corner. I follow as best I can, my feet finally muffled by the soft flooring. The hall opens up, the walls sloping away to a staircase and a hollow room, set down in the earth so as not to allow fires to rage out of control. had never imagined it would look like an oven. That it would be so simple a process is to make it look like doing up a chicken. The floor sways, though that may be me, and I attempt to move forward again. I can see it now, hunched and perched as before on the edge of the door to the kiln.

"Stay there." My words fall heavily, as though the air around them was too thick to allow them to ring out. The figure is still enough to be dead, I feel my spine tighten as though pulled by a cord, and I raise my hand to touch the hair that has fallen over its face.

Its head lifts and the eyes meet mine, milky, filmed, and unseeing. I stare down into my own face. I don't know how I remain standing, my hand allowed to drop to my side as though my strings were cut, and my eyes fastened to this grisly image. Swiftly, it moved, its own hand shooting out and brushing my shoulder. White ash flies away as though recently disturbed from a flue. Slowly its hand moves, repeating the gesture almost lazily as I remain transfixed; first clothing, then flesh, all of it nothing but ash, nothing real, nothing but ash.

The wispy figure drops to the floor from its perch, running its hands lightly through the pile, caressing the soft soot and allowing it to run through its fingers. It stops abruptly and looks down, pulling something from the midst and brushing it off, watching the dull copper of the badge reflect the dim moonlight from the hall. After a few moments it stands, pinning the badge to its chest, then swiftly, it lopes out into the night and on.