Catch’s eyebrows rose high, plowing rows in his forehead.

“You like arithmetic,” she said. “This is arithmetic.” She spoke as though checking entries in a ledger.

“Mr. Dawkins stopped breathing first,” said Imogene. “He did not fall. He did not struggle. His heart simply refused him. That happens when a man has rehearsed fear for too many years. The body remembers even when the mouth does not speak. Are you alright, Mr. Catch?”

He shifted in his chair again and cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”

“May I continue, then?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Dawkins was afraid of dark rooms. Not ordinary dark. Closed dark…. Contained dark. He used to place boys in closets when he worked at the county home. Just for a few minutes. To quiet them. To make them compliant. He stood outside the door and counted slowly. He liked the counting. He told himself it was discipline.”

Imogene lowered her eyes to the doll and stroked its hair once. Then she looked back at Catch. She continued.

“The last boy did not stop crying,” she said. “So, Mr. Dawkins left him longer than usual. That boy stopped making noise too.

“Tonight, when the lamp answered, Mr. Dawkins felt the door close again. He could not find the handle. His chest tightened the way it did the night the crying stopped. He did not want to count. But he did. And then he ran out of numbers. That is why he is upstairs.”

Catch looked up at the ceiling.

“You checked his pulse,” she said.

“Yes.”

“His body was still warm. Warm things cool quickly. You know that.”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Mr. Huxley lasted longer. He tried to reason. Men who stutter often believe thinking carefully will save them. He buried something once. Not a body. A letter. It was addressed to the woman who waited for him during the war. It explained what he had done to survive. He never sent it. He married her anyway. She never knew.

“He called silence mercy. But silence is not mercy, Mr. Catch. It is delay.

“When I stood, he remembered the letter. He felt it under the floorboards where he had hidden it in his mind. He reached for it. You saw his hand. He thought if he could retrieve it, he could speak.

“But the floor had already opened. So, his heart folded inward. Quietly. He was thinking of the word forgive. He did not reach it.”

She studied Catch’s posture. “Is something brothering you, Mr. Catch?”

“No,” he said.

“Perhaps something is not adding up?”

I’m fine,” he said. “Continue.”

She nodded.

“Mr. Lyell is not dead.

“You call him comic relief. You underestimate him. He likes contracts. Paper makes harm official. Official things feel cleaner. He has made men sign papers they could not read. He has made widows sign papers they did not understand. He calls it business.

“When the shadow leaned, he saw ink. Not blood. Ink. He saw his own name written in something thicker than ink. He believes he signed something. He is not wrong. He is laughing because laughter is easier than reading the fine print. He will laugh for some time. Then he will grow very quiet.”

The silence stretched.

“And the kid?” asked Catch.

“Mr. Anderson did not move,” she said. “You noticed that. He freezes when motion is required. He has always frozen.

“There was a road once. A woman called out for help. He stayed in the truck. He told himself it was not his business.

“Tonight, he heard the same voice. He tried to step forward. He could not. He is still trying. He will keep trying. His body will remember longer than his mind will.

“And that is not my doing, Mr. Catch. That is arithmetic.”

Catch stared at his shoes.

“You are different, Mr. Catch,” she said. “You did not freeze. You did not reach. You did not laugh. You observed. You always observe first.

“In North Africa, you told yourself that the man moved. He had not. You wanted him to move. It was easier that way. You still call that arithmetic. But arithmetic requires honest numbers. You removed one. You have been removing numbers for many years.

“You call that fate. It is not fate. It is selection. There is a difference.”

Catch did not answer.

“You asked me to explain what happened at midnight. Here is the bottom line. Nothing happened. Nothing new. Only alignment. When the clock finished its circle, what was hidden no longer had to remain hidden.

“The lamp did not bend. The light did not reconsider. It simply answered.”

He looked at her.

“You saw that. You are not a man who imagines things. That is why you are still alive.

“For now.”

She adjusted the doll in her lap.

“You think I killed them,” she said. “I did not. I do not touch. I do not wound. I do not tear. I reveal.

“Some men survive revelation. Some do not. That depends on what they have practiced.”

Catch’s gaze fell to the doll’s pale hair.

“You asked me to explain, Mr. Catch. I have. Now it is your turn to count again. Tell me about the man in the sand. The one who did not move. Tell me why you fired.”

Upstairs, Lyell’s laughter thinned.

The kitchen lamp flickered once. Then steadied.

She waited.

“Should I continue?” I asked her.

Silence.

“I didn’t run back. I’ve never been a man who runs without calculation. I moved quickly—that’s different.

“The laughter still hung in my ears when I stepped out into the night. Not loud laughter. It wasn’t hysterical. Measured. Like a man confirming an appointment.”

It didn’t affect her in the least. Talking about it pressed my memory. Lamarck’s laughter hung in my ears as I told Imogene about it. It reminded me of France. A corporal next to me took four rounds—one after another in just a couple of seconds—and he just started laughing. Not loud. Not hysterical. He looked down at his body at the four bullet wounds, as if he were going to say, “Would you look at that?” Instead, he laughed. Just like Lamarck.

“The air had changed. Like that feeling before a storm—when the sky looks ordinary but something in the pressure suggests revision. It was like that.

“The walk to the house took less than a minute. I remember the gravel under my shoes sounding sharper than before. The streetlight hummed faintly. I opened the door without knocking. It was silent in the house.”

Imogene was silent as well. Although she said nothing and her face carried that same emotionless stare, held by those caring-uncaring eyes, she seemed to be absorbing everything I said. I continued.

“I didn’t hear the restless quiet of men shifting in chairs. No creaking floorboards. A held silence. I don’t recall why, but I took the stairs two at a time. And halfway up, I heard it. It was a sound like someone trying to inhale through cloth. Then—nothing.”

I paused for a moment to listen—to hear her breathing. Her breathing was silent, too. I hadn’t stopped to listen to it before, but she breathed silently. Even with a stillness. Her chest didn’t rise or fall noticeably. I continued my recollection of the events.

“I reached the landing. The door to the master bedroom stood open. The lamp still burned. Dawkins sat in his chair nearest the door. Upright. Hands resting on his knees. Eyes open. Not wide. Not panicked. Just… open.”

There. She did it again. She leaned closer, as if interested. I didn’t comment on it. I needed to get through the story. I went on.

“I stepped inside. ‘Huxley?’ I said. No answer. I proceeded further into the room. Then I saw him. Huxley lay on his side near the cot, one hand stretched forward as if he had been reaching for something just beyond his grasp. No blood. No wound. His fingers were curled inward, knuckles pale.

“Anderson stood against the far wall. His skinny frame was rigid. Back straight. Arms at his sides. Sweat ran from his temples down his jawline, but he didn’t blink.

“Lyell sat on the edge of the second chair. He was whispering. I couldn’t make out all the words. Something about a ledger. Something about signatures.

“You were standing. You hadn’t been standing before. The cot behind you was empty. Your doll lay at your feet. You didn’t look at the bodies. You looked at me.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. There were moments when the mind records detail without commentary. This all happened less than an hour ago—it couldn’t be any more than two hours prior—but I could see the room. The lamp was steady. The window boarded up. The air was cold. Not winter-cold. But a controlled cold, like a root cellar. I opened my eyes and continued my story.

“Your shadow fell behind you against the wall. But the angle was wrong. The lamp stood to your left. The shadow bent slightly to your right. As if the light had been reconsidered. For a fraction of a second—no longer than the tick between seconds on my watch—the shadow leaned forward. You did not. The shadow extended toward Huxley’s outstretched hand. But your shadow didn’t touch his hand. It hovered over him, then settled back. It aligned itself. Then you tilted your head.”

Imogene tilted her head.

“Yes,” I said with a nod. “Just like that. Not inquisitively. It was as if noting that I had seen. Arithmetic requires observation. So, I observed. I didn’t speak.

“I stepped toward Dawkins first. I placed two fingers against his throat. No pulse. His skin was warm, so he wasn’t dead long.

“I knelt beside Huxley and whispered his name. There was no visible trauma. No blood. No foam at the mouth. No sign of struggle beyond the position of his hand. Heart attack maybe, I thought. Mass hysteria? Stress-induced collapse? Two men dead of fright? That was possible. Unlikely — but possible.

“I stood up and I went to Anderson. The kid didn’t move. His eyes flicked toward me. Barely. His lips trembled. Like he wanted to say something. ‘I couldn’t,’ he whispered. That was all.”

Imogene listened closely. Somehow, I could tell. I didn’t know how. My observations interested her.

“Lyell’s whispering grew louder,” I said. “‘…he signed it… he signed it… he signed it…’ He kept repeating those three words. I crossed the room in three steps and seized him by the collar. ‘Pull yourself together,’ I told him. He stared at me as though I was behind glass.”

“‘You saw it,’ he said. “‘Saw what?’ I asked him. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to lubricate a dry throat. ‘You saw,’ he said. He wouldn’t finish the sentence. I let go of his collar and turned back to you.

“You hadn’t moved. In the same place. Your feet were bare against the wood floor. I remembering wondering why you weren’t wearing shoes, then dismissing it as less important than everything else. Your hands hung loosely at your sides. Your pupils were wide. The white of your eyes seemed dimmer than before. Not black. Just less. You extended your arm. Slowly, pointing to the doorway.

“You wanted us to go downstairs. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

“I glanced once more at Dawkins. Then Huxley. Then the kid. Then Lyell. Arithmetic. Two dead. Two unstable. One child standing. I checked my watch. It was a minute past midnight. Whatever happened, only took a few seconds… because I was in that room for less than a minute.”

I pulled my watch out and paid special attention at the time. Twelve-thirty. Exactly. My God. It seemed so much longer. I’d swear it was two or three o’clock. I looked at my pocket watch again. The second hand rested for the briefest pause before continuing. Mechanical hesitation. Nothing more. I snapped the cover closed and put granddad’s watch away. I took a deep breath and soldiered on.

“I stepped past you into the hallway. You followed. Your shadow had moved correctly now. It was aligned. I didn’t ask you what happened. I didn’t accuse you. I didn’t touch you. Some things require observation before conclusion.

“Downstairs, the kitchen lamp flickered once, then steadied. I pulled a chair from the dining table. You climbed into the one across from me. You held our doll in the crook, then folded your hands in your lap.

“Upstairs, Lyell began to laugh. Not loudly. Not hysterically. It was Lamarck’s laugh. At least rhythmically. Like a man confirming an appointment.

“I folded my hands in my lap, just as you had. Then I said, “Explain. You blinked once.”

Share

Two identical Fords. A stolen note. A silver music box. A child taken cleanly from a quiet house in Wellesley.

He lied to a state trooper with a smile and a pocket watch.

He believed in kismet.

But when he called the father to demand ransom, the father laughed. Not hysterically. Not afraid. As if the appointment had already been made.

“You have four minutes and fifty-five seconds,” Lamarck said. “And then… there will be hell to pay.”

Catch ran back to the house.

Upstairs, the lamp was still burning.

And nothing was the same.

Subtract hesitation. Subtract weakness. Subtract sentiment.

That’s how men survive war. That’s how men survive crime.

But upstairs in a boarded room under a single lamp, arithmetic fails.

Dawkins sits upright—dead.
Huxley reaches for something he cannot touch.
Anderson freezes.
Lyell whispers about signatures.

And the four-year-old girl?

She doesn’t move. Her shadow does.

When Catch checks his watch, it’s only a minute past midnight.

But something has already finished its circle.

Episode Three: Midnight.

You can count the seconds. You just can’t stop them.

Two dead. Two broken. One child standing barefoot in the lamplight.

No blood.
No wounds.
No explanation.

Only a whisper: “He signed it… he signed it…”

And a shadow that moved before she did.

At one minute past midnight, Catch realizes something horrifying:

Nothing new happened.

It was only alignment.

Catch’s Confession—Episode Three

But when Catch climbed the stairs, two of his men were already dead—no wounds, no blood, no struggle. Just open eyes. Hands reaching for something that was never there.

And the girl was standing.

The lamp hadn’t moved. The air hadn’t changed. Only the shadow had.

For one tick of his watch… it leaned forward.

Midnight doesn’t create monsters.

It reveals them.

Episode Three: Midnight

COMING SOON!

*

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

Catch closed the book and sighed. He stared at the cloth cover. He had read the opening line from Pride and Prejudice six times. He never breached the second line. He never intended to. He opened the book once more and reread the sentence for the seventh time. He closed the book.

At thirty-two years old, most might guess fifty-two. Perhaps the war aged him. His weathered, elderly appearance earned him the moniker “Mr. Catch” from the members of his crew.

Cal Anderson opened the 1949 Ford Tudor’s door and sat on the passenger’s side. His round, boyish face made him appear younger than his twenty years. The son of a Mississippi sharecropper, the young man hailed from Tishomingo. Catch found the kid’s farm-grown strength invaluable, despite his skinny frame.

“Took you long enough,” said Catch with a New Jersey accent that rolled off of his tongue like the turnpike from New York.

“Sorry, Mr. Catch. Hadda pee like a Tupelo plow mule.”

Catch pulled the pocket watch from his vest. “Ten minutes or so before we roll, if they’re true to their routine. You don’t need to piss again, do you?”

“Naw, sir, I’m done.”

“Did you keep out of sight?”

“Yessir. Theys a hedgerow yonder. Went in thar.”

Catch glanced at his watch. He held up his right hand, showing five fingers, clenched his fist, and displayed a handful of fingers again.

*

Charlie Lyell and Al Huxley sat in a black Ford two car lengths behind Catch and Anderson.

Lyell checked his wristwatch. “Ten minutes,” he said.

Huxley stuttered like an engine missing on a couple of cylinders. He spit out his sentence with some effort. “Mr. Catch did something with his hand.”

“What?” said Lyell. He lifted his head and stared at the Ford parked in front of them. “You imaginin’ things? Ain’t nothin’ goin’ on.”

The cars matched in make, model, and color. The black Ford Tudor was the most popular sedan in 1949. New England accounted for several thousand purchases in the year. Catch planned this part of the operation as well. The two Fords, being the only autos parked on Maple Drive in the wealthy city of Wellesley, Massachusetts, mattered not a whit or whistle. The cars’ descriptions would be useless information to the police, both city and state.

*

Darwin Dawkins perched himself on a stool at a house in neighboring Needham. He scanned the streets below from the building’s second story. He served as a lookout, watching for possible law enforcement, especially when the Fords returned with their victim.

Dawkins was the final member of Catch’s crew.

*

Catch looked at the pocket watch he owned. He admired the jeweled movements and the craftsmanship of the timepiece. His granddad’s watch. Lindbergh’s son. History had already rehearsed the blueprint. Catch grinned nostalgically and whispered the word, “Kismet.”

“Did y’all say sombpin?” asked Anderson.

“No,” Catch lied, then squashed himself low in the car seat.

A beautiful red 1935 Duesenberg SJ LaGrande Dual-Cowl Phaeton rolled down the street from the driveway. The Deusenberg turned right down Maple Drive, in the opposite direction of the parked Tudors.

Catch glanced at his watch—six o’clock. “Yep, right on time,” he said with a smile. He eyed the Phaeton until the luxury auto drove to the end of the long block and turned. Catch stared at his pocket watch again. He fixated upon the five minutes before he must drive up to the lavish Lamarck residence.

SNATCH

Catch planned everything with mathematical precision.

Lyell stayed out with the cars. Catch, Anderson, and Huxley went to the house to snatch the girl, Imogene Lamarck. Anderson and Huxley went to the back door.

Catch waited two minutes for them to be in place at the rear of the house. He snapped his pocket watch closed and rang the doorbell.

The child’s governess, Joanne Haldane, answered the door while Huxley jimmied the latch on the back door. The sound of the back door opening and closing caused Joanne to turn around. Then everything went black when Catch smacked her on the back of the head with a weighted leather blackjack.

Anderson and Huxley carried the nanny upstairs to her room.

“This little lady’s heavier than she looks,” said Huxley with a grunt.

Anderson said nothing.

The two men tied Joanne up with cotton cords they brought with them. Huxley gagged her mouth. Anderson laid her in her bed and covered her with the large, quilted bed covering.

Catch walked into the second-floor hallway while Anderson and Huxley finished. He stood in the doorway of the room belonging to Imogene. His eye glimpsed a small, ornate, silver case upon the credenza. Without a thought, he reached over, picked up the metal box, and slipped the item into his left coat pocket.

Imogene sat in a small rocker, facing the window on the west side of the house. She stroked the long blonde hair of her doll.

“Imogene?” said Catch.

The girl stopped rocking.

“I’m Mr. One. Your nanny... er... Nanna Jo is sick. I’m supposed to take you to your mommy and daddy.”

Imogene stood and turned. She held her little missy to her breast. At four years old, her composure sent a chill up Catch’s spine. Imogene took her ten little paces across the room and gave Catch her hand.

Catch took her hand, walked her into the hall, down the stairs, and to the door.

Cal swung the front door open

Catch stopped. “Mr. Four, did you leave the note?” he asked Huxley.

“Ya-ya-yu—” Huxley stuttered.

“Stop.” Catch sighed and turned to the kid. “Mr. Two?”

“Yessir, Mr. One,” replied Anderson. “Mr. Four pinned the message to the bed cover.”

“Alright, let’s go,” ordered Catch.

*

Catch knelt in front of Imogene. “Mr. Four will take you to where you can talk to your mommy and daddy. You’ll be fine.” Catch placed her hand into Huxley’s.

Huxley led her into the black Tudor, with Lyell, aka Mr. Three, behind the wheel.

Catch stood in the driveway and watched Lyell, Huxley, and little Imogene drive away, circle the roundabout driveway, and head down to the street. When they turned left at the end of the driveway, Catch tossed the kid the keys. “You drive.”

Catch and Anderson got into the car, circled the roundabout driveway, and drove to the street. They turned right at Maple, going in the opposite direction from Lyell, Huxley, and Imogene. Catch removed the silver box from his coat pocket. He set the trinket on his stolen copy of Pride and Prejudice, which lay on the seat between them.

They drove a few blocks away from the Lamarck house when the red lights flashed in the rear-view mirror. Anderson pulled to the curb. Catch drew the nickel-plated Smith & Wesson .32 caliber revolver from the shoulder holster and placed the weapon between his legs, just under his woolen top coat. The kid rolled his window down.

The state police officer walked slow and steadily to the vehicle. When he arrived, he peeked in once and stood up. “Driver’s license and registration, if you please,” he said with a Massachusetts accent as thick as chowder—every ‘r’ swallowed whole and every vowel stretched like saltwater taffy.

“Yessir,” said Anderson. He pulled his license from his breast pocket and handed the card to the cop.

“Mississippi? What are you doing up here?”

“Visitin’ family, sir.”

“Registration?”

Anderson leaned over and opened the glove box. Empty. “‘Fraid, the dang registration ain’t here,” he said.

“This is my wife’s car, officer,” Catch lied. He stole the automobile, as well as the one Lyell and Huxley were in.

The officer pointed his flashlight toward the inside of the car to snatch a glimpse of Catch. “And you are, sir?”

“Jasper Percival,” said Catch.

“Got a license, Mr. Percival?”

“Not on me, sir. Sorry. Didn’t bring one since my nephew’s driving.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from Mississippi.”

“Well, sir. I’m not. My wife is, though.”

The officer glanced at Anderson’s license again. “From Tish, Tisho-mi—”

“Tish’minga,” Anderson offered, in southern pronunciation.

“No, sir,” said Catch. “My wife’s from nearby Tupelo. She’s the kid’s aunt, and I’m his uncle by marriage.”

“This so, son?”

“Yessir.”

The officer’s flashlight beam caught a reflection from the silver container on the seat. He brought the light back to the metal case. “Beautiful box.”

Catch grabbed the container. He opened the lid, taking a considerable risk. Brahms’ Lullaby started to play. The melody wavered slightly, as though the notes were bending. “Picked this up for a niece of mine,” said Catch.

“Down in Mississippi?”

“No, sir. On my side of the family. In New York. She loves these kinds of things.”

“Where’d you buy it?”

“Little curio shop on Weston.”

“Down by the college?”

“No, sir. The one across the tracks, about a block from Linden. I don’t recall a store on Weston near the college.”

The lawman shut off his flashlight. “You’re right. There isn’t.” He handed Anderson his license. “I stopped you tonight because your taillight is out. I’m letting you off with a warning. Mr. Percival, you’ll want to fix the light before your wife takes the vehicle out at night.”

“Yes, sir,” said Catch, “I will. Thank you, officer.”

The officer returned to his car. He never realized how close he came to losing his life.

“Gawd,” said Anderson, wincing. “I gotta piss so bad.”

“Let’s go,” said Catch.

“Wees lucky he warn’t knowin’ Tupelo ain’t anywhars close to Tish’minga.”

“Drive.”

*

“You enjoyed this part,” said Imogene.

I stared at her for several seconds. It was the first time she had spoken. Her voice was smooth and unspoiled. What you’d expect from any four-year-old girl. But her words were carried upon the breath of something much older than her years—hell, much older than my years.

WATCH

Catch and Anderson approached the corner house in Needham from the east. The light shone in the second-story window. No cops in sight. They pulled the Ford into the garage and went inside.

“What are you doing here?” said Catch to Lyell. “Where’s Dawkins?”

“I couldn’t stay another minute, Mr. Catch,” said Lyell. “I asked Darwin to switch places with me. The little girl is creepy?”

“What?”

“She’s eerie. She don’t say nothin’.”

“She’s a four-year-old,” Catch said, a little perturbed. “Four-year-olds don’t say much to strangers, much less to a silly sally like you. For Christ’s sake.”

“Maybe she’s quiet ‘cause she’s scairt,” said Anderson.

Catch turned to Anderson. “Can you believe this? Really? Will you stop dancing around and go to the head already?” Catch sighed with raised eyebrows. “The bathroom. Go.”

Anderson ran to the bathroom down the hall.

“When you improvise—,” Catch told Lyell, “when you deviate from the plan—this is when things go wrong. Your just tempting fate. And that’s futile.”

Catch pulled out his pocket watch, checked the time, and returned it to his vest pocket. He craned his neck and looked toward the hall in the direction Anderson had run. “Look, you two are coming with me,” said Catch to Lyell. “I want you to see for yourselves. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Not with that little girl.”

*

The night air woke Catch’s face with a brisk kiss. He walked down the street with his copy of Pride and Prejudice in hand. The streetlights stood tall and lifeless, offering no light at all as Catch approached the corner house at the end of the block. Vacant lots flanked the building on either side. The building’s boarded windows made the structure as dark as a dungeon at new moon.

Anderson and Lyell followed a few paces behind him.

While gloom and eerie darkness may have given some men reason to be fearful, it was not so for Catch. He survived countless battles against forces led by Erwin Rommel, both in North Africa and France. He differed from Charlie Lyell and namby-pambies of similar constitution.

Catch entered the house. He grabbed a bottle of beer from the icebox in the kitchen. One small desk lamp on the kitchen counter provided the only illumination downstairs. Some dim beams floated down the stairway from the landing upstairs. He opened his bottle and followed the light.

Anderson and Lyell helped themselves to a beer apiece from the icebox.

The light came from a single lamp standing in the master suite at the top of the stairs. Three living souls occupied the room. Imogene sat on a cot shoved in one corner of the room. Huxley and Dawkins sat in two wooden chairs near the door.

Catch wanted to chastise these two for deviating from the plan. He changed his mind. Imbeciles—every one of them. “So, what’s going on here?” he asked.

Lyell grabbed a wooden folding chair leaning against the wall and set it up by the boarded window, across the room from the girl. Anderson did likewise and sat next to Lyell. They sipped on their beers in silence.

“We’re doing our best to keep an eye on the girl,” replied Dawkins.

Huxley attempted to stutter his agreement. Stopped. Then nodded twice.

Catch sat in a wooden chair set up next to the standing lamp. He nursed his beer and tried to read beyond the opening line of his book. Every attempt failed. The second line blurred each time he tried to read it.

Lyell’s words ran through his thoughts. She’s eerie. She don’t say nothin’. The young girl possessed beauty; yet the more Catch glanced at her, the more the girl bothered him. He couldn’t put his finger on what or why. Five bottles of beer and two visits to the restroom caused him to fidget.

Catch pulled out his pocket watch. 11:45 p.m. What! He jumped to his feet.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Catch?” asked Dawkins.

“I need to go to the other house and make the phone call.”

“Whyn’t you call from here?”

“It’s not part of the plan. Stay here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about us, Mr. Cat—I mean, Mr. One,” Anderson called out.

Catch did not hear Anderson as he ran down the stairs and bolted out the door. He started with a quick walk but ended in a dead run. He entered the house, got to the telephone, and dialed the number for the Lamarck home. The call clicked live on the second ring.

“Hello,” said Lamarck.

Catch quickly pulled his polka dot handkerchief from his pocket and covered the mouthpiece. “Did you receive our note?”

“Yes. Sad, you deemed this necessary to kill our beloved Nanna Jo.”

She’s dead? “The same will happen to your daughter if you don’t do as we ask.”

“Well, let me make certain I understand your desires. This is what you wrote: ‘We have your daughter. Don’t call police. $250,000 or else.’ Nothing appears to be on the backside. This is the gist of your demands, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Alright, I accept your terms,” said Lamarck.

“Excellent,” said Catch.

“You pay me one quarter of a million dollars, and I’ll take my daughter off your hands.”

“No, wait. You misunderstood.”

“You’re quite persuasive,” said Lamarck. “Normally, we wouldn’t take her back for anything less than half a million. You have four minutes and fifty-five seconds remaining to return her. According to my watch. Otherwise...”

Catch glanced at his watch—nearly midnight in under five minutes.

“…well,” continued Lamarck, “the term ‘hell to pay’ comes to mind.” Lamarck laughed softly. Not loud. Not frantic. Measured. As if something had gone according to schedule. “Indeed. There will be hell to pay.”

Lamarck’s laughter chilled Catch as he hung up the phone.

“Since you haven’t killed me yet… just call me Catch.”

Seated across from a four-year-old girl with empty, unblinking eyes, Catch began explaining himself—not with remorse, but with arithmetic. War taught him efficiency. Efficiency taught him survival. Survival justified everything else.

He does not believe in guilt. He believes in timing. In kismet. In numbers that add up.

The girl listens. She does not interrupt. She does not accuse. She simply waits.

Catch insists this was inevitable. That the blueprints arrived by accident. That opportunity presented itself. That fate aligned.

Imogene Lamarck says nothing. Not yet.

Now, he will tell her how it happened. Clean. Precise. Without embellishment.

The cars. The note. The knock at the door.

Midnight is approaching.

And this is the last moment the plan still makes sense.

He will.

Every detail.
Every minute.
Every choice.

The cars match.
The note is pinned.
The girl does not resist.

The plan unfolds exactly as designed.

But at 11:55 p.m., a father laughs.

And somewhere between the tick and the tock, something shifts.

Not loudly.
Not violently.
Just… correctly.

Episode Two: The Caper.
The last moment before alignment.

• A wealthy house in Wellesley.

• A precise knock on the door.

• A weighted blackjack.

• A four-year-old girl with steady hands and steady eyes.

Catch believes in timing. He believes in calculation. He believes that hesitation is weakness.

But when the music box plays and the police light flashes and the father laughs on the telephone—

The arithmetic changes.

And something is already waiting.

Episode Two drops soon.
The caper begins.
Midnight approaches.

Two identical cars. A stolen book. A silver music box. A child who did not cry.

Catch calls it arithmetic. He calls it kismet. He calls it inevitable.

But when the ransom call is answered, the voice on the other end is not surprised. And at 11:55 p.m., for the first time that night, the numbers begin to slip.

Episode Two: The Caper.
Where the plan works perfectly.
Until it doesn’t.

Coming in just a few days…

I pulled my pocket watch out, looked at it, and closed it. More out of habit, I guess, because I didn’t even notice the time. This small child had thrown me off my game. It may have been after midnight, I supposed. “That’s fine,” I continued, “I’ve always preferred delay to spectacle.”

The little girl, Imogene Lamarck, wore an expression that seemed sad to me. Even ancient, but eerie. Yes, her eyes were empty—but not void. They cared without caring. I wanted to look away but couldn’t. An icy chill did a Bojangles tap dance up and down my spine. Her silence was unnerving. Maybe if I screamed. No. Control. Keep it together, man. I took a deep breath, and after a few seconds of that horrid silence, I spoke again.

“I know I told you to call me Mr. One. Just call me Catch. Everyone else does. The first name is ornamental and rarely survives introduction. You may dispense with it.” Did I… was that… The corners of her mouth seemed to curl up. Almost a smile but not quite. Perhaps names were important to her.

I never liked my given names. The surname was no problem. I rather liked it, quite actually. It was my grandfather’s name, dammit, and my father should have left it with him: Jasper Percival Catch. The name suited him. Old Granddad Catch shook Lucky Lindy’s hand at a gala dinner in 1932. The event took place a few weeks before the infamous kidnapping of Lindy’s son, Charles Augustus Lindbergh, Jr. My pocket watch was once granddad’s too. Call it kismet.

“You’re studying me, aren’t you?”

She blinked. At least I thought she did. Maybe she didn’t. But if she did, her eyes were just as empty as before.

We sat at the kitchen table downstairs. The staircase that led upstairs was visible through the kitchen door. Imogene sat in the chair across from me, but on the same side of the table. She held her doll with the long blonde hair. My eye caught a glimpse of the icebox. What I wouldn’t do for a cold brew.

I nodded, believing she was studying me. “That’s interesting. Men usually look at me to measure advantage. You look as though you’re measuring something else. Depth, perhaps. Or weight.”

I must have been fidgeting. At least one of my hands stayed busy. My thumb traced the shape of grandad’s pocket watch in my vestment. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” I don’t know why I thought of that. I had read it so many times that I had the damn thing memorized. I clipped the blasted book for crying out loud. Why? Because I must. The doctor at the Veteran’s Administration called it kleptomania. Made that damn alienist write that mouthful down. He said I had “an impulsive inability to refrain from stealing.” Possibly, triggered by an occurrence during the war, he said. Eggheads.

“If this is judgment, you’re doing it quietly. I appreciate that,” I confessed.

She blinked again. Just once. Was this a nod of sorts? Was she sitting in judgment? Yes. I think the blink was an affirmation or acknowledgement.

“I should begin somewhere respectable. War, I suppose. That’s where most stories pretend to begin when they’d rather not begin at the actual fault line.”

The girl shifted in her chair. Seemed like—to get more comfortable—like settling in.

I cleared my throat. “War rearranges a man. It simplifies him. Strips the unnecessary flourishes and leaves behind something efficient.”

She wanted to hear it, I think. She needed to hear it. Imogene, monster that she was, could not know the content of my thoughts. My motivations couldn’t be seen from the skin. Hell, I didn’t even know them. Not really. But I needed to tell her. The hellish allure of her empty, caring-uncaring eyes beckoned me to speak. No. Forced me. But I was glad to tell her my story. At least… I’m in control.

“Efficient men survive,” I continued. “Sentimental men do not. That isn’t philosophy. It’s arithmetic.”

She tilted her head.

“Did that bother you? Arithmetic?”

Her head straightened slowly, but she didn’t blink.

I shrugged and continued. “Arithmetic troubles people. It suggests outcomes without emotion attached. Numbers don’t care if the sum displeases you. In North Africa, we counted water by the ounce and bullets by the handful. We counted men, too. You learn quickly that hesitation costs more than ammunition. If someone twitches and you’re holding a rifle, you don’t compose a moral essay. You move.”

My words came back to my hearing ear as soon as they left my mouth. I never had to articulate these things before, but the weight of its truth began to hit me. My truth. The war didn’t corrupt me. It clarified me. I took the book, dammit, because it was ripe for the picking. If the storekeeper couldn’t keep an eye on his inventory, it was his loss. Simple arithmetic.

“Later, in France, we moved faster. And I was good at it. Da—er, darned good. That isn’t arrogance. It’s documentary.

“Um, you’re still watching. You don’t blink often. I noticed that earlier.”

I waited a moment, thinking that she might speak. Silence.

“I thought you might speak by now,” I said. “Most children do. They ask questions. They fill silence with noise. You don’t seem inclined toward noise.” I shifted in my chair to get a little more comfortable. Or as comfortable as I could get in this most uncomfortable situation. At least she wasn’t some chatterbox. “That makes this easier.

“I suppose you want to know how we arrived here—in this house, with my associates scattered through the house, either dead or pretending bravery. Well, it wasn’t random.

“The blueprints arrived by mistake. That’s the official version. A simple delivery fiasco. An envelope placed in the wrong slot. When I rolled them out on my kitchen table and saw the layout of your father’s home, I didn’t feel guilt or fear reprisals. I felt… validation.

It was subtle, but she leaned into my words. Just a little. Perhaps that interested her.

“You see, Imogene, opportunity has a signature. Some men call that coincidence. Some call it providence. I prefer kismet. It’s a useful word. Soft. Foreign. It implies inevitability without requiring evidence. My friend in France used it often. His grandfather was Turkish. He said it meant ‘portion’ What’s allotted. What’s assigned.

“The Lamarck house, your house, was assigned to me—by kismet. The article in the paper that same morning—your father’s philanthropic gala, his charitable gestures, his smiling photograph beside that ridiculous red automobile—that was… confirmation. Do you…”

I didn’t realize I had closed my eyes when I told of Wallace Lamarck and his riches—because, when I opened my eyes, Imogene’s face was more expressionless than it had been, if such a thing was possible. My balls felt like they crawled from my groin, through my chest, and into my throat. I almost puked. I managed to swallow hard and take a deep breath.

Imogene remained unmoved.

“You see how neatly it fits? Blueprints. Wealth. Routine. Isolation. I didn’t have to hunt you down. Kismet placed you within reach.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“You don’t agree? But consider the alternative: that I conjured the plan from nothing. That I engineered every detail without invitation. That I chose to do this.” I laughed.

Imogene continued to stare at me. Unamused.

I choked off my levity as best as I could and continued. “Choice is a heavy word. Fate is lighter. I prefer lighter words.”

Imogene looked down at her doll.

“You’re thinking of the nanny—er, Nana Jo, aren’t you?”

I waited for some kind of response. Nothing. She kept looking at her doll.

“Joanne Haldane,” I said, “if we’re being precise. We didn’t intend harm beyond what was necessary. A weighted blackjack ends argument with speedy efficiency. She was collateral damage. A casualty of war. Arithmetic.”

Imogene stroked the doll’s long blonde hair, the same way she had when we abducted her. That was disturbing.

“I’m curious. If you were simply prey, there would have been a struggle. If you were merely child, you would have been afraid. You displayed neither. When I told you Nana Jo was sick, you didn’t hesitate. You just took my hand. Easy as you please. You do remember that. Don’t you?”

Imogene stopped stroking the doll’s hair and held the little missy to her chest. The same way she had done when I entered her bedroom.

“Of course you do.”

I didn’t think about it then, but her skin was cold to the touch, colder than you’d expect. Not corpse-cold, mind you. Just… temperate, but below normal. As if... that was how she always felt. I nodded at the thought.

“You didn’t squeeze my hand the way children do. You rested it there.” Again, I didn’t think of it then—too many other things on my mind—but it was if she were… testing pressure. Or checking temperature. Like a mother laying the back of her hand upon a fevered child.

“You didn’t ask where we were going. You didn’t ask why your father hadn’t come himself. You simply went along with us. I don’t have a lot of experience with four-year-olds, but that just doesn’t seem normal behavior.” What’s normal? “But then again, normality is a flexible term,” I told her with a shrug.

I don’t think anyone could call my crew normal. A more motley bunch of hooligans never assembled under creation’s blue sky. But we came together. It had to be. Kismet.

“Lyell thinks you’re eerie,” I told her. “The kid, Anderson, thinks you’re quiet because you’re frightened. Huxley avoided looking at you altogether. And Dawkins—he watched you the way a man watches a locked safe—curious but unwilling to test it. And me? I’m speaking to you as though this were a negotiation… Because it is.”

The little girl didn’t stir an inch. Her eyes remained empty, vacant, measuring.

“You’ve killed at least two men tonight.”

Imogene cocked her head and her expression changed.

“Don’t look surprised,” I said. “I heard two screams as I got to the door. The scream cuts off differently when a man loses blood than when he loses air. I’ve heard both. It’s something you never forget.

“You may have killed my entire crew. I only heard two screams when I entered. And I only saw two dead men before we came downstairs. If you killed them, you simplified the problem. Again—arithmetic.”

From what I guessed was a look of surprise, her face returned to the same expressionless gaze. It was penetrating.

“I should be afraid,” I said. “I’m not.” That was true. I wasn’t afraid of death. I wasn’t afraid of this predicament.

“It’s not because I’m brave,” I confessed. “Because it fits. Men like Dawkins multiply harm. Men like Lyell leak it. Men like Huxley bury it and call that mercy. Remove them and the ledger balances slightly. You see? Arithmetic.”

I shifted in my chair to get some circulation going. My foot had fallen asleep.

“You watch me as if waiting for a correction,” I said. “You won’t get one. I didn’t invite you. That’s the part you’re waiting for, isn’t it? Invitation implies consent. Consent implies responsibility. Responsibility implies choice. And I have already told you—this was kismet. Blueprints delivered. Routine predictable. Opportunity aligned. You didn’t appear in my life because I summoned you. You appeared because the numbers added up.”

I waited a long moment to see if she would respond. She didn’t so much as bat an eyelash.

“If you intend to correct me, you may do so,” I told her. I maintained an even, indifferent tone with her. “If you intend to kill me, you may do that as well. But until you decide, I will continue.”

Again, I waited for some kind of response or reaction. Nothing. Perhaps five seconds ticked by. I continued.

“There was a man in North Africa I haven’t yet mentioned. We took him prisoner near Kasserine Pass. The winter of ’43—February. He was young. Sand in his hair. Spoke some English. Hands raised before we reached him. He moved. I fired. That’s the arithmetic of war.”

Imogene leaned forward slightly.

“That interest you? It shouldn’t. It was simple. Necessary. It was fate. Unless—No. We’ll return to that later.”

She settled back in her chair and began to stroke her doll’s hair.

“You haven’t killed me yet. So, I suspect you’re listening for something more precise. Very well. I’ll give you precision. But you’ll have to wait for it. After all, arithmetic requires patience. Unless, of course, you intend to correct my math.”

And she smiled. Just barely.

He called it war.

He called it kismet.

In the winter of 1949, J. Peabody Catch orchestrates the perfect crime—a kidnapping—timed, rehearsed, inevitable. But when the clock strikes midnight, inevitability fractures.

Two men die of nothing.

Two others begin to unravel.

And the little girl at the center of it all does not run, does not cry, does not plead.

She waits.

CATCH’S CONFESSION is a serialized descent into moral metaphysical horror—where guilt takes shape, where shadows do not always align with the light, and where a man who once chose convenience over mercy must decide whether responsibility is worse than death.

But our wait is almost over. Don’t miss an episode of this serial and get this serial horror delivered to your inbox.

By midnight, two are dead.

No blood. No visible injury. No struggle.

The girl never raises her voice.

She simply watches.

Told through alternating confession and judgment, CATCH’S CONFESSION explores what happens when a man who believes in fate is forced to confront responsibility.

This is not a story about a vampire. It is not a story about possession. It is a story about exposure.

Because some horrors do not kill you. They make you see.

And for certain men, that is far worse.

“Since you haven’t killed me yet,” I told the little girl with the empty eyes, “I assume we are operating under some form of delay.”

In 1949 Massachusetts, a war-hardened rationalist kidnaps the wrong child.

J. Peabody Catch believes in arithmetic. In efficiency. In fate. He believes men are shaped by circumstance and that hesitation is the only real sin.

But at midnight, two men die without wounds. Two others begin dying more slowly. And the child they abducted does not scream.

She listens.

CATCH’S CONFESSION is a serialized literary horror about moral exposure, metaphysical justice, and the terrible cost of calling your choices “kismet.”

Some monsters feed on blood. Others reveal what you’ve buried.

And not every man is killed only once.

COMING SOON!

It was born of this idea I had one day:

I first encountered Jackson’s short story in either 1969 or 1970. I saw a film adaptation of the story at Taper Avenue Elementary School in San Pedro, California. It was shown in the school auditorium. An educational endeavor produced by the publishers of the Encyclopedia Britannica. If you’ve never seen it, I found it on YouTube, and it is well worth the near-eighteen minutes.

Jackson’s story left us pondering a number of other things more important than the why of it all. Nevertheless, the question plagued me for a long time, and The White Ledger was my answer.

You can download the free eBook on various Amazon sellers around the world (sorry, I’m still working on India and Japan). But here’s a list of the various Amazon country platforms where it is available for free:

In the U.S. and others using Amazon.com, https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GR6R12J8

• In the U.K., https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0GR6R12J8

• In Canada, https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0GR6R12J8

• In Australia, https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B0GR6R12J8

• In Germany, https://www.amazon.de/dp/B0GR6R12J8

• In France, https://www.amazon.fr/dp/B0GR6R12J8

• In Spain, https://www.amazon.es/dp/B0GR6R12J8

• In Italy, https://www.amazon.it/dp/B0GR6R12J8

• In the Netherlands, https://www.amazon.nl/dp/B0GR6R12J8

• In Brazil, https://www.amazon.com.br/dp/B0GR6R12J8

• In Mexico, https://www.amazon.com.mx/dp/B0GR6R12J8

The White Ledger is also currently available for free on these eBook reader platforms:

• Apple, https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-white-ledger-a-folkloric-horror-novella/id6760041955

• Barnes and Noble (Nook), https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-white-ledger-j-jose-cohen/1149617057?ean=2940182904308

• Kobo, https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-white-ledger-a-folkloric-horror-novella

• Bookshop.org, https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-white-ledger-a-folkloric-horror-novella-j-jose-cohen/cd0c8cbb55a0f88e

• Smashwords, https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1981963

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• Everand, https://www.everand.com/book/1007682786/The-White-Ledger-a-Folkloric-Horror-Novella

• Tolino, https://www.thalia.de/shop/home/artikeldetails/A1078470540

Enjoy.

Keep under the covers.

That is all.