Ghost Light

            It was a constant struggle. He could not sleep, because in his sleep he felt the Faceless Man tugging at his consciousness, prodding, probing, looking for a point of weakness. It was absurd, truly, completely absurd. Torture was nothing compared to this… thing that stood before him, unmoving,

            He prayed that he had gone mad. It would have been such a relief to know that his mind had simply broken from the strain of trying to respond to questions whose answers he did not know. This thing – like a human with every single comforting aspect of humanity stripped away – just stood there. Every time the Faceless Man reached out – somehow, reaching through the glass and yet not penetrating it either, as if he were reaching with invisible arms – Milton retracted, both physically (though he knew that would do no good. This thing was not physical in any real sense) and mentally, beating the assault back.

            He was sure the people there had cameras pointed at him at all times. They must have been surprised by his outbursts. Oh, what a relief it would be to discover that he was simply mad - that the person who called himself the Diplomat had merely been a dream, and that this thing was a hallucination. Madness can be cured.

            During the last Question Time, he had watched the Faceless Man turn to the Shabby Man. The thing reached out with its hand and clutched the Shabby Man’s arm. Shabby Man looked like he was under hypnosis. Yet when the Faceless Man let go and turned away, the Shabby Man merely collected himself and acted as if nothing had happened.

            There was one source of light, back in the cavernous room outside his cell. It reminded him of something he heard about theaters. Even when a theater was empty, between performances or rehearsals, at all times there had to be a light on in the middle of the stage. While it served the very practical purpose of providing light in a huge, dark room, many believe that it was needed to ward off ghosts.

            This building’s Ghost Light was not doing its job.

            “He hasn’t moved, has he?” said the Diplomat.

            Milton turned, taking his gaze off of the Faceless Man for the first time in what seemed like hours. While it was light outside of the cell, it was still nearly pitch black inside. He could only make out a rough outline of the man standing behind him.

            “You startled me.”

            “I apologize. He hasn’t moved?”

            Milton looked back. The Faceless Man was perfectly still. “Not since he grabbed the Shabby Man’s arm.”

            “Hm.”

            They sat there in silence for a time. Then the Diplomat spoke again.

            “Jack, do you know who these people are? The ones who have you imprisoned here?”

            Milton frowned. “Know? I do not. I thought they might be Military Intelligence, or something. Contractors of some sort. Too unconventional to be real military. But they’re professionals.”

            “Milton, have you ever heard of the House?”

            He had heard of the House. It was an old legend, popular with conspiracy theorists, but dismissed by anyone with an ounce of skepticism. If you believed the stories, there were Agents of the House in every city, in every country, controlling everything in total secrecy. In his career, he’d never seen any evidence of their existence.

            “Yes. Are you trying to tell me that that’s who they are?”

            The Diplomat was quiet for a moment. “What do you think?”

            Milton thought about that. “I’ve been tortured for what must be months. I am disposed, at this point, to question everything, including my own sanity. It’s crossed my mind that you and this fellow across the glass are completely the invention of my own mind. I do not know why these people are under the impression that I know anything about the whereabouts of June Greene, but it became apparent very early on that nothing I say or do will convince them otherwise.”

            “I don’t know why they are so eager to find her, but I cannot imagine they have her interests at heart. To me, that implies some level of irrational panic. The woman I met was powerful, certainly, but I had no definitive reason to believe that she was a danger. Panic in the face of power? That sounds like government to me. Now, unless I’ve really been naïve, I don’t think Enforcement has any secret prisons like this, so that means it’s either Military Intelligence or National Intelligence.”

            “It would be quite fantastic to find that neither is the case, and that all the stories are true, but it would not exactly improve my position here.”

            The Diplomat took something out of a pocket and placed it on the ground. “So you’re a skeptic.”

            “I suppose you could say that.”

            “Good. Skeptics are good.”

            “What do you mean by that?”

            There was no response. Strangely, everything began to look slightly brighter. It was as if, before, he had gone from a bright room to a dark room, and only now were his eyes adjusting. His cell was empty except for him.

            He could only just make out the thing on the floor that the Diplomat had left. He picked it up. It was a knife. He pulled it from its sheathe. It was razor-sharp, and long.

            He held the knife close, propping himself up against the wall next to the door. The Faceless Man only stood there, staring without eyes, as he always did.

            “Don’t tell anyone,” said Milton.

            The Faceless Man said nothing.