A New Ghost of Hong Kong Story -- By Steve Miller

 For those readers out there who want to know what happens next in "The Target", that story has bloomed into a novelette which will be included in the next Ghost of Hong Kong anthology (which is a few months away at this point).

Meanwhile, here's another tale of Mae Ling's adventures with bad guys and bullets...

The Ghost at the Opera

The Hong Kong Cultural Centre gleamed like a jewel against the dark waters of Kowloon's shoreline and historic pier, its angular white facade catching the city lights in geometric patterns that shifted with each passing moment. Mae Ling adjusted the diamond bracelet on her wrist—borrowed from Jackson Wang's personal collection—and allowed herself a small smile as cameras flashed around them. The photographers were eating it up: Hong Kong's most eligible bachelor, the real estate titan who'd reshaped half of Kowloon's skyline, arriving at the opera with a woman young enough to be his daughter.

Jackson Wang preened under the attention, his hand possessive on the small of her back as they ascended the red carpet. At fifty-eight, he maintained the physique of a man twenty years younger through expensive personal trainers and even more expensive supplements. His tailored Tom Ford tuxedo probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, and he wore it with the casual confidence of someone who'd never questioned his right to occupy space.

"You're absolutely stunning tonight," he murmured in Cantonese, loud enough for nearby guests to overhear. "Every man here envies me."

Mae Ling tilted her head and offered him a practiced smile, the kind that suggested mystery without promising anything. She'd spent three weeks cultivating this persona—the sophisticated companion who appeared at charity galas and private dinners, beautiful enough to turn heads but discreet enough not to embarrass. Wang had been delighted when his usual escort service had recommended her, never questioning why someone of her apparent caliber would be available on such short notice.

The lobby buzzed with Hong Kong's elite, their conversations a polyglot mixture of Cantonese, Mandarin, and English. Women in couture gowns air-kissed while their husbands discussed property values and stock portfolios. Mae Ling catalogued faces automatically, noting the shipping magnate who'd recently survived a hostile takeover attempt, the tech entrepreneur whose company had just gone public, the politician whose anti-corruption platform had made him remarkably wealthy.

Wang worked the crowd like a politician himself, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries while keeping Mae Ling prominently displayed on his arm. She played her part perfectly—demure but engaged, laughing at appropriate moments, touching his arm with just enough familiarity to suggest intimacy without vulgarity. Several men gave her appreciative glances that their wives pretended not to notice. Several women gave her looks that suggested they knew exactly what she was and disapproved accordingly.

"Mr. Wang," a silver-haired woman in Chanel approached, her smile sharp as broken glass. "How lovely to see you. And who is your charming companion?"

"Mrs. Chen, always a pleasure." Wang's grip on Mae Ling's waist tightened fractionally. "This is Lily. She's been keeping me company this evening."

Mae Ling offered a slight bow, noting how Mrs. Chen's eyes assessed her jewelry, her dress, her shoes—calculating the cost of Wang's generosity. The older woman's smile never wavered, but her eyes held the cold judgment of someone who'd spent decades navigating Hong Kong's social hierarchies.

The first bell chimed, signaling fifteen minutes until curtain. Wang guided Mae Ling toward the grand staircase, his hand never leaving her back. They climbed to the third level where the private boxes offered both prestige and privacy. The corridor was quieter here, carpeted in deep burgundy that muffled their footsteps. Gilt-framed mirrors reflected their passage, and Mae Ling caught her own image—the emerald silk gown that hugged her figure, the artfully styled hair, the diamond earrings that caught the light with every movement.

She looked like exactly what she was supposed to be: expensive decoration for a wealthy man's ego.

Wang's private box was positioned perfectly for both viewing and being viewed. Through the curved glass window, Mae Ling could see the orchestra tuning below, the audience settling into their seats like birds finding perches. The box itself was appointed in the same burgundy and gold as the corridor, with four plush seats arranged in two rows and a small table for champagne service.

"Wait here a moment," Wang said, his hand trailing down her arm. "I need to greet someone in the adjacent box. Business, you understand. I'll only be a few minutes."

Mae Ling nodded, watching as he slipped through a connecting door she hadn't noticed before. The moment he disappeared, her entire demeanor shifted. The practiced smile vanished. Her posture changed from decorative to predatory. She moved to the box's entrance and locked it from the inside with a soft click, then crossed to the window and adjusted the curtain to obscure the interior from outside observation.

The maintenance access was exactly where her reconnaissance had indicated it would be—a narrow panel in the wall that led to the crawlspace between floors. The Cultural Centre's original blueprints, obtained through a contact in the city planning office, had shown these spaces as necessary for ventilation and electrical systems. They also provided perfect sight lines to several private boxes, including Wang's.

Mae Ling slipped off her heels and moved in stockinged feet, silent as smoke. The Walther PPK strapped to her inner thigh came free with practiced ease, its weight familiar and comforting in her hand. She'd chosen it specifically for this assignment—compact enough to conceal beneath an evening gown, reliable enough to trust her life to, and equipped with a suppressor that would reduce the report to something that might be mistaken for a champagne cork in the opera house's ambient noise.

The maintenance panel opened soundlessly. She'd oiled the hinges herself two days ago, posing as a cleaning contractor during the venue's routine maintenance window. The crawlspace beyond was dark and cramped, barely three feet high, with exposed pipes and electrical conduits running along the ceiling.

She moved through the darkness with the confidence of someone who'd memorized every inch of the space. Thirty feet forward, then left at the junction where the ventilation shaft branched. The air was stale and warm, carrying the faint smell of old insulation and electrical components. Her dress whispered against the rough concrete, but the sound was swallowed by the building's ambient noise—the orchestra's tuning, the audience's murmur, the HVAC system's constant hum.

The sniper's position was exactly where she'd calculated it would be. A crack between the wall and ceiling, widened slightly with careful work, provided a perfect sight line to Wang's box. The angle was steep but manageable for any skilled marksman andt he distance was child's play for a professional with a scoped rifle.

And there he was.

He lay prone on a sheet of plastic, his body positioned for maximum stability. The rifle was a Remington 700, chambered in .308 Winchester—a classic choice for urban assassination work. Reliable, accurate, and common enough that the weapon itself wouldn't provide useful forensic leads. He wore black tactical clothing and a balaclava, though Mae Ling could see enough of his profile to recognize him.

James Chow. Former PLA sniper, dishonorably discharged after a gambling scandal, now freelancing for whoever paid his rates. She'd worked with him once, three years ago in Manila. He'd been part of the support team on a complex extraction, providing overwatch while she'd infiltrated a drug lord's compound. Competent but not exceptional. Professional but not particularly imaginative.

He was so focused on his scope that he didn't notice her approach until the Walther's suppressor pressed against his spine, just below his left shoulder blade. A kill shot if she chose to take it—straight through to the heart.

Chow froze, his finger carefully away from the trigger. Smart. He knew that any sudden movement would end with a bullet through his vital organs.

"Don't move," Mae Ling said softly in Mandarin. "Don't speak. Don't even breathe too hard."

She could see his mind working, trying to place the voice. His head started to turn, slowly, and she allowed it. Recognition flashed in his eyes when he saw her face, followed immediately by confusion.

"The floosy," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Wang's arm candy. I was wondering where you'd disappeared to."

"Keep your hands where I can see them," Mae Ling instructed. "Slowly move your right hand away from the rifle. Good. Now the left. Excellent."

James Chow complied, his movements careful and deliberate. He was smart enough to know that resistance at this range would be suicide. But she could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, calculating odds and possibilities.

"I know you," he said, his voice taking on a note of recognition. "Manila. Three years ago. You were running point on the Reyes extraction."

"Good memory."

Chow's laugh was bitter. "So the mighty has fallen. The great Ghost, reduced to serving as eye-candy bodyguard for real estate moguls. How the world changes."

Mae Ling's expression didn't shift, but she pressed the suppressor a fraction harder against his spine. "I'm still on the job, James Chow. The difference is that my target was never Jackson Wang."

She watched the realization dawn in his eyes, saw the moment he understood. His body tensed, preparing for what he knew was coming.

"My target," Mae Ling continued, her voice soft and precise, "is the person I'm speaking to right now."

"Wait—"

"No." She reached into the small clutch purse she'd managed to carry through the crawlspace and extracted a folded piece of paper with her free hand. With her free hand, she tucked it into the breast pocket of his tactical vest. "You're going to deliver a message to your employers. Tell them that Jackson Wang is protected. Tell them that any further attempts on his life will be met with extreme responses. with the same response. Tell them that the Ghost of Hong Kong is back in business, and her rates for protection are considerably higher than her rates for elimination."

James Chow's breathing had become shallow, rapid. "You're making a mistake. Wang is dirty. He's laundering money for the Triads, using his real estate empire to clean hundreds of millions. My employers won't accept this. They'll send someone else. Someone better."

"Then they'll die too," Mae Ling said simply. "And they'll keep dying until they understand that Wang is no longer available."

"You can't protect him forever."

"I don't need forever. I just need long enough."

Chow's voice took on a desperate edge. "Listen to me. The people I work for, they're not going to accept this. They'll send someone else. Someone better. You can't protect Wang forever."

"I don't need forever. I just need long enough."

"Long enough for what?"

Mae Ling didn't answer. Instead, she shifted her aim slightly, moving the suppressor from his spine to his right shoulder. "This is going to hurt. Try not to scream too loudly. We wouldn't want to disturb the opera."

"Wait, we can—"

The Walther coughed twice, the suppressed shots sounding like sharp exhalations in the confined space. The first bullet punched through James Chow's right shoulder, shattering his clavicle and rendering his dominant arm useless. The second took him in the right thigh, missing the femoral artery by design but ensuring he wouldn't be walking without assistance.

Chow's scream was muffled by his own hand, which he'd instinctively clamped over his mouth. His body convulsed with pain, but Mae Ling had positioned her shots carefully. Painful, debilitating, but not immediately life-threatening. He'd live to deliver her message, assuming he got medical attention within the next hour or so.

"The note in your pocket contains the address of a private clinic in Wan Chai," Mae Ling said, already backing away. "They're expecting you. They'll patch you up, no questions asked, and send you on your way. Consider it a professional courtesy."

She paused at the edge of the crawlspace, looking back at James Chow's crumpled form. Blood was already pooling on the plastic sheet beneath him, dark and viscous in the dim light.

"One more thing," she added. "Tell your employers that the next person they send won't receive the same courtesy. The next one dies. Make sure they understand that."

James Chow's response was a pained groan, his good hand pressed against his shoulder wound. Mae Ling didn't wait for anything more articulate. She slipped back into the darkness of the crawlspace, moving quickly now. The shots had been quiet, but someone might have heard something. She needed to be back in Wang's box before anyone came to investigate.

The return journey took less than two minutes. She emerged from the maintenance panel, secured it behind her, and had her heels back on and her weapon concealed before the orchestra finished tuning. A quick check in the box's mirror confirmed that her appearance was still immaculate—not a hair out of place, no visible signs of the violence she'd just committed.

The connecting door opened, and Jackson Wang returned, his expression pleased. "Sorry about that. Business never sleeps, as they say." He settled into his seat and gestured for Mae Ling to join him. "I hope you weren't too bored."

"Not at all," Mae Ling replied, her smile returning as if it had never left. "I've been looking forward to the performance."

The lights dimmed. The conductor raised his baton. The first notes of Puccini's Turandot filled the opera house, soaring and dramatic. Mae Ling sat beside Jackson Wang, her posture perfect, her expression serene, looking every inch the beautiful companion he believed her to be.

In the maintenance crawlspace, above the auditorium, James Chow was dragging himself toward the exit, leaving a trail of blood on the plastic sheet. He'd make it to the clinic. Mae Ling had calculated the wounds precisely—painful enough to make her point, but survivable enough to ensure her message reached its intended recipients.

Wang leaned close during the first aria, his breath warm against her ear. "Thank you for accompanying me tonight. You've made this evening truly special."

Mae Ling turned to him, her smile mysterious in the darkness. "The pleasure is mine, Mr. Wang."

And it was, in its own way. She'd been hired to protect Jackson Wang from assassination, and she'd done exactly that. The fact that she'd also sent a clear message to the Wo Shing Wo about the consequences of targeting her clients was simply good business practice. In her line of work, reputation was everything.

And in Mae Ling's case, it was a reputation of discretion when needed and audacious displays when unadvoidable. 

On stage, Princess Turandot sang of riddles and death, of princes who'd failed her tests and paid with their lives. The audience sat rapt, absorbed in the drama unfolding before them. None of them knew that a different kind of drama had just unfolded in the shadows above their heads. None of them suspected that the beautiful woman in the emerald gown, sitting so demurely beside Jackson Wang, had just put two bullets into a professional assassin.

That was how Mae Ling preferred it. The best work was invisible work—the kind that prevented attacks before they happened, that made potential enemies reconsider their plans, that established boundaries so clear that crossing them became unthinkable.

Jackson Wang reached over and took her hand, his grip warm and slightly possessive. She allowed it, maintaining her cover as the beautiful companion, the woman no one would ever suspect of what she'd done in the darkness above.

The aria reached its climax, the soprano's voice soaring above the orchestra. The audience erupted in applause, and Mae Ling joined them, her hands coming together in perfect rhythm with everyone else's. Just another opera patron. Just another ghost, moving through Hong Kong's shadows.

The lights came up for intermission, and Jackson Wang stood, offering his hand to help Mae Ling to her feet. "Champagne?" he suggested.

"That would be lovely," she replied.

They joined the crowd flowing toward the lobby, and Mae Ling caught her reflection in one of the gilt mirrors. The woman looking back at her was elegant, poised, perfectly composed. No one would ever guess what she'd done. No one would ever suspect that the Ghost of Hong Kong had just sent a message written in blood and pain.

That was exactly how she wanted it.

---

If you enjoyed this story, you can read more in The Ghost of Hong Kong, a collection of 15 exciting stories!

Safety Tools (and more) for "Graveyard Shift", a new game coming soon!

Next week (or perhaps even as soon as this coming weekend), we're going to release a new mini-RPG. It's a zombie horror game, and we've been discussing "Safety Tools" and whether or not they really need to be in something released by NUELOW Games.

It's clear we're releasing a horror game. It's clear from the earliest stages of character creation that it's a horror zombie survival game, inspired by films like Evil Dead, Return of the Living Dead, and any number of second-rate (and even a few first-rate) Italian George Romero rip-offs. We don't think there's going to be any surprises for any players as far as what they are getting into.

But, just in case someone misses all the obvious clues and hints, here are some Safety Tools. We are very unlikely to put these in the game, however.

SAFETY TOOLS

Horror games can be intense. Use these tools to keep everyone comfortable:

Step Out: Anyone can tap out of a scene that’s too much, at any time, no questions asked.

Lines and Veils: Discuss what topics are off-limits (lines) or should happen off-screen (veils)

Check-Ins: The GM should periodically ask if everyone’s okay
Breaks: Take them when needed

Remember: The goal is to have fun being scared, not to actually traumatize anyone.

And, as a preview, here's the Quick Reference rules that may be cut from the booklet:

QUICK REFERENCE

Stats: BODY, MIND, NERVE. Distribute 9 points between them, minimum 1 and maximum 5.  
Making a Skill Roll: Roll dice equal to your stat. 4+ is a success. Need at least 1 success.
Combat: Your BODY/NERVE vs. Undead Threat Level. Winner by most successes.
Advantage: Roll twice, pick the best result. 

Disadvantage: Roll twice, pick the worst result.
Physical Injury: Lose Health equal to difference in successes (usually 1-3).
Sanity Loss: 1-3 points depending on the horror witnessed.
Flashlight: 6 uses before battery dies.
The Night: 6 hours from 11 PM to 5 AM. Dawn ends the nightmare.
Victory: Survive until dawn.

A must-have feat for d20 System action hero characters!

DRAMATIC SLOW-MOTION DIVE
You've mastered the art of diving dramatically through the air while firing weapons, even though physics suggests this shouldn't help (or even be possible) at all.

   Prerequisites: Dex 13+, at least 3 levels in any class (or combination of classes)
   Benefit: Once per encounter, you may declare a Dramatic Slow-Motion Dive as a full-round action. You leap through the air in an unnecessarily theatrical manner while firing your weapon. You take a -4 penalty to AC/DR until your next turn, but you gain a +4 bonus to all ranged attack rolls made during this action and automatically confirm any critical threats. All allies within 30 feet who can see you must succeed on a DC 15 Will save or spend their next action saying "Whoa" or "Did you see that?" instead of acting.
   Special: If you miss all your attacks, you land prone and take 1d6 non-lethal stun damage. Your allies may mock you mercilessly.

A brand-new horror story by Hundal & Miller!

 A tale of terror by L.L. Hundal & Steve Miller. If you like it, consider checking out Shadow Stories and Moonlit & Other Stories -- anthologies with stories by them writing together and separately.

'Til Death

The cemetery gates had been locked for hours, but Veronica knew the gap in the fence behind the maintenance shed. She'd used it three times before—once to confirm the burial, once on what would have been their anniversary, and now tonight, when sleep proved impossible and the bourbon wasn't working anymore.

Her heels sank into the soft earth as she navigated between headstones, their shadows stretching long and skeletal under the half-moon. October had stripped most of the leaves from the oaks that lined the cemetery's eastern border, and their bare branches clawed at the sky like arthritic fingers. The air carried that particular autumn smell—decay and damp earth and something else, something that made her think of endings.

Robert's plot was in the newer section, where the grass hadn't fully established itself and the headstones still looked too clean, too new. She'd paid extra for the marble angel, though she couldn't say why. Perhaps because his mother had been there, watching with those red-rimmed eyes, silently accusing. Perhaps because appearances still mattered, even when you were standing over the grave of a man who was supposed to be gone.

She stood at the foot of the grave, swaying slightly. The bourbon was catching up with her now, warming her from the inside despite the October chill. Her black dress—the same one she'd worn to the funeral—clung to her curves, and she was suddenly, acutely aware of how alive she felt. How free.

"Hello, Robert." Her voice sounded strange in the silence, too loud and too intimate at once. "I know it's been a while. Nine months, two weeks, four days. Not that I'm counting."

A laugh escaped her, sharp and bitter. She pressed her hand to her mouth, but it bubbled out anyway, echoing off the surrounding headstones. As the echo died, she took a swig from the bourbon bottle she was clutching in her other hand.

"God, you'd hate this. Me standing here, drunk, talking to your corpse like we're having one of our little chats." She took a step closer, her heel catching on the edge of the grave marker. "You know what's funny? Sometimes I actually miss you. Not you-you, but... having someone there. Someone to cook for. Someone whose dry cleaning I had to pick up."

The wind picked up, rustling through the dead leaves scattered across the cemetery grounds. Veronica wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the alcohol in her system.

"But then I remember." Her voice dropped, hardening. "I remember the bruises I had to cover with makeup. The ribs you cracked when I overcooked the roast. The time you held my head underwater in the bathtub because I'd smiled at the waiter. The hospital visits I explained away as clumsiness, as accidents, as anything but what they were."

She crouched down, running her fingers over the engraved letters of his name. Robert James Holloway. Beloved Husband. The lie of it made her stomach turn.

"So no, Robert. I don't regret it. I don't regret finding that number in the back of that dive bar in Newark. I don't regret the meetings in parking garages, the cash withdrawals, the careful planning. And I definitely don't regret spending thirty thousand dollars—your thirty thousand dollars, from that account you thought I didn't know about—to have someone put a bullet through your skull."

The memory of that phone call still sent a thrill through her. It's done, the voice had said. Professional. Detached. She'd asked if it had been quick, and the voice had paused before answering. Quick enough. He didn't suffer.

Good, she'd thought. But not good enough.

"You know what would have made it perfect?" She stood, brushing dirt from her knees. "If it had been a woman. A hit-woman. Wouldn't that have been poetic? You, who always said women were weak, who said I was nothing without you, taken out by someone with tits and a trigger finger."

She laughed again, the sound carrying across the empty cemetery. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, and she wondered if anyone could hear her. If anyone would care.

"The undertaker wanted to fix your face. Did you know that? He said he could make you presentable, that he could fill in the hole, use makeup and prosthetics. But I told him no." She smiled, remembering the man's shocked expression. "I told him to leave it. To let everyone see what you really were—a man with a hole where his brain should have been. Closed casket, Robert. You didn't even get a proper viewing."

The satisfaction of that moment still warmed her. His mother had wept, had begged to see her son one last time, but Veronica had been firm. The damage was too extensive, she'd said, her voice appropriately broken. You wouldn't want to remember him that way.

"I hope that hole is still there." She kicked at the grave marker, her heel leaving a scuff on the marble. "I hope it's with you wherever you are. I hope every time you look in a mirror—do they have mirrors in Hell?—you see it. That perfect, round reminder that you're not invincible. That you're not God. That you're just a dead man in a box."

The wind gusted harder, and Veronica stumbled slightly, catching herself on the angel statue. Its cold marble face stared down at her with blank eyes, and for a moment she felt a flicker of something that might have been shame. But no. She'd earned this. She'd earned her freedom, her life, her right to stand here and spit on his memory.

"You're probably in Hell right now." She straightened, smoothing down her dress. "I hope you are. I hope you're burning, Robert. I hope every day is agony. I hope you're surrounded by demons who do to you what you did to me, over and over, for eternity."

The thought made her bold. Made her reckless. She took another long pull from the bourbon bottle, letting the burn settle in her chest, fortifying her. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached down, finding the hem of her dress.

This was it. This was the line. Once she crossed it, there was no taking it back—no pretending she was just a grieving widow, no hiding behind propriety or shock or the convenient amnesia of trauma. She'd be choosing to desecrate his grave, choosing to stand here naked and defiant in the dark. Choosing to reclaim what he'd tried to own.

She thought of his hands on her. His voice in her ear, whispering mine, always mine. She thought of the fear, the smallness he'd made her feel. And then she thought of that perfect, round hole in his skull, and something crystallized inside her—cold and sharp and absolutely certain.

She hurled the bourbon bottle at the headstone. It shattered against the granite with a satisfying crack, and she hiked her dress up around her thighs. The night air was cold against her skin, raising goosebumps along her legs.

"You remember these legs, Robert? You used to say they were your favorite part of me. That they were the reason you married me." Her voice dripped with venom. "Well, guess what?"

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties—black lace, expensive, the kind he used to buy her before the honeymoon phase ended and the real Robert emerged. She slid them down slowly, deliberately, stepping out of them and holding them up in the moonlight.

"You'll never touch them again." She let the panties fall onto the grave, watching them settle against the fresh earth. "You'll never touch any of this again. And all those side-whores you thought I didn't know about? Jennifer from your office? That bartender at O'Malley's? The personal trainer you were fucking in our bed? They're done with you too. You're nothing now. Just bones and rot and that beautiful, perfect hole in your head."

She pulled her skirt higher, exposing herself to the night, to the grave, to the memory of the man who'd tried to own her. The gesture was crude, obscene, and absolutely liberating.

"This is mine now, Robert. My body. My life. My—"

A sound cut through her declaration. A scratching, scraping noise that seemed to come from beneath her feet. Veronica froze, her skirt still bunched around her waist.

But the sound came again, louder this time. Deliberate. And the earth on the grave—the fresh earth that had been smooth and undisturbed moments ago—seemed to shift. To bulge upward, as if something beneath was pushing against it.

"No." The word came out as a whisper. "No, that's not—that's not possible."

Run, her mind screamed. Run now.

But her legs wouldn't obey. She stood frozen, watching in horror as the grave continued to shift and buckle. Her panties, still lying on the disturbed earth, began to slide down the mound as the dirt beneath them gave way.

A hand burst through the surface.

Veronica screamed, the sound tearing from her throat raw and primal. The hand was gray, desiccated, the skin hanging loose on bones that looked too white in the moonlight. Dirt clung to it, falling away as the fingers flexed, curled, grasped at the air.

She stumbled backward, her heel catching on a root. She went down hard, her palms scraping against stone and earth, but she barely felt it. All she could see was that hand, now joined by another, both clawing at the earth, pulling, dragging something up from below.

"No, no, no, no—" The words tumbled from her lips as she scrambled to her feet, her dress still hiked up around her waist, her legs shaking so badly she could barely stand.

The thing—because it couldn't be Robert, it couldn't be, the dead didn't rise, the dead stayed buried—pulled itself further from the grave. Shoulders emerged, covered in the remnants of what had once been an expensive suit. The fabric was stained and rotting, hanging in tatters from a frame that was far too thin, far too angular to be human.

And then the head.

Veronica's scream died in her throat, replaced by a sound that was more animal than human. The face that emerged from the grave was Robert's face, but wrong, so terribly wrong. The skin had pulled tight against the skull, gray and mottled, the lips drawn back in a permanent grimace that exposed yellowed teeth. One eye was sunken, milky white, while the other socket was empty, just a dark hollow that seemed to stare at her anyway.

And the hole. The perfect, round hole in his temple, just above where his left ear had been. She could see through it, could see the dark cavity of his skull, could see things moving inside that she didn't want to identify.

The corpse pulled itself fully from the grave, dirt cascading off its body as it rose unsteadily to its feet. For one terrible moment it stood there, swaying, that empty eye socket fixed on her—and then its legs gave out. The thing collapsed forward onto the ground with a wet, heavy sound, and immediately began to crawl.

Not slowly. Not like something weak or dying.

It moved with a grinding, relentless speed that defied everything she understood about the world. Its arms pulled it forward, fingers digging into the earth, dragging its ruined body across the cemetery floor. The sound it made—the scrape of fabric against dirt, the crack of joints, the wet rasp of its breathing—was worse than any scream.

Veronica ran.

 

She didn't think, didn't plan, just turned and bolted through the cemetery, her heels sinking into the soft earth with every step. Behind her, she could hear it following—that grinding, dragging sound, getting closer, always closer, moving faster than anything crawling should be able to move.

This isn't happening, she thought wildly, dodging between headstones. This is the bourbon. This is a nightmare. This is—

She glanced back and immediately wished she hadn't. The thing that had been Robert was pulling itself across the ground with inhuman determination, its body pressed low to the earth, moving like some terrible insect. Its arms reached out toward her with each lurch forward, those gray fingers grasping, and she could see her panties clutched in one hand, the black lace stark against the dead flesh.

She screamed again and pushed herself harder, her lungs burning, her legs aching. The cemetery stretched out before her, suddenly vast and maze-like. Where was the parking lot? Where was the gap in the fence? Everything looked the same in the darkness—headstones and shadows and dead grass.

Left, she thought desperately. The parking lot is to the left.

She veered right instead, panic overriding logic, and found herself running deeper into the cemetery, toward the older section where the stones were weathered and crumbling and the trees grew thick and close. The ground was uneven here, treacherous, and her heel caught on something—a root, a stone, she didn't know—and she went sprawling.

She hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs. For a moment she just lay there, gasping, tasting dirt and blood where she'd bitten her tongue. Then she heard it—that wet, dragging sound, getting closer. The scrape of dead hands pulling a dead body across the earth.

"No." She pushed herself up, ignoring the pain in her hands and knees, ignoring the way her dress had torn, exposing even more of her skin to the cold night air. "No, please, no."

She ran again, this time in the right direction. She could see the lights of the parking lot now, could see her car sitting alone under the single working streetlamp. So close. Just a little further.

The thing behind her moaned, a sound that was barely human, barely anything at all. But she heard words in it, or thought she did. Syllables that might have been her name.

"Ver...on...i...ca..."

"Shut up!" she screamed over her shoulder. "You're dead!"

She could see the gap in the fence now, could see freedom just beyond it. Her car keys were in her purse, which was—where was her purse? Had she brought it? She couldn't remember, couldn't think past the terror that had her in its grip.

Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

She was going to make it. She was going to—

She dropped to her knees at the fence gap, already pushing herself through, when the hand shot out from ground level and locked around her ankle.

Veronica shrieked as she was yanked backward, dragged out of the gap, her body slamming against the earth. She kicked out wildly, her free foot connecting with something that gave with a wet, sickening sound. But the grip on her ankle didn't loosen. If anything, it tightened, those dead fingers digging into her flesh with strength that shouldn't have been possible.

She was dragged backward across the ground, her nails scrabbling at the earth, leaving furrows in the dirt. She twisted, looking back, and found the thing that had been her husband pressed against the ground beside her, its body stretched out along the earth, pinning her.

That hole in its head wept something dark and viscous. The empty eye socket seemed to bore into her, and the remaining eye—that milky, dead eye—held something that might have been recognition. Might have been rage.

Its mouth opened, the jaw working with a sound like grinding bone, and it spoke. The voice was hoarse, ruined, like gravel being dragged across concrete, but the words were clear enough.

"Remember... the pool..." Its face was inches from hers now, and she could smell it—rot and earth and something chemical from the embalming. "How you... couldn't breathe... how I held you... under..."

"No!" Veronica kicked again, her heel connecting with its shoulder. The joint gave with a crack, but the thing didn't release her. It just adjusted its grip, pulling itself closer along the ground. "Let me go! You're dead!"

"I know... where you go..." The corpse's head tilted, considering, its body still pressed flat against the earth. Its remaining eye fixed on hers with terrible clarity. "Every coffee shop... every friend's house... I always... knew..."

It reached toward her with its free hand, those gray fingers trailing up her exposed leg, over her thigh, higher. The touch was cold, so cold it burned, and Veronica felt bile rise in her throat.

She wrenched her body sideways with everything she had left, her ankle twisting in that cold grip. For a moment—just a moment—the corpse's hold faltered as its body shifted on the uneven ground. She felt the fingers loosen.

That was all she needed.

Veronica tore herself free and scrambled backward, her bare feet scraping against the cold earth. She didn't look back. She ran—past the headstones, past the angel monument, toward the gates that suddenly seemed impossibly far away. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst in her chest.

She burst through the cemetery gates and into the parking lot, her keys already in her shaking hand. The car door slammed behind her, the lock clicked, and she fumbled the key into the ignition.

The engine roared to life. She peeled out of the lot, tires screaming against asphalt, and didn't stop until the cemetery was miles behind her.

But as she drove through the empty streets of the sleeping city, his words kept circling back, relentless as a predator. I know where you go. Every coffee shop. Every friend's house. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles white, and tried to convince herself it was just the bourbon talking, just her own fear echoing in her skull.

Except it wasn't. Because he was right. He'd always known. He'd always been there—in the background of her life, watching, tracking, controlling. And now, impossibly, he still was.

She pulled into her apartment complex and sat in the car for a long time, engine off, hands still shaking. The parking lot was empty. The building was dark. Everything was normal.

Tomorrow she'd go to the coffee shop on Fifth Street. Her mother's house on Wednesday. The therapist's office on Thursday afternoon at two.

And he would know.

She'd killed him once. She'd buried him. She'd danced on his grave and poured bourbon on his headstone and reclaimed every piece of herself he'd tried to destroy.

But she would never escape him.

--

If you enjoyed that chilling bit of horror, you can find more from the same team of writers in Shadow Stories and Moonlit & Other Stories.

A Tale of the Ghost of Hong Kong -- By Steve Miller

Here's a new story of the Ghost of Hong Kong, one of the world's most lethal assassins. You can find other stories featuring here on the blog, or you can check out the 15-story anthology.

The Target

The first blow came without warning—a knife-hand strike that would have crushed Mae Ling Chen's larynx if she hadn't sensed the displacement of air and twisted away at the last microsecond. The edge of Harland Coates' hand caught her shoulder instead, sending a jolt of pain down her arm that she immediately compartmentalized and filed away for later consideration.

Former CIA, she reminded herself as she pivoted into a defensive stance. That means Langley's hand-to-hand program, probably supplemented with private training. Dangerous.

The hotel's back corridor was narrow, lined with industrial carpet that muffled their footfalls as they circled each other. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows that made reading Coates' body language more difficult. He was older than her by perhaps fifteen years, but he moved with the fluid economy of someone who'd spent decades refining violence into an art form.

"You don't want to do this," Coates said, his voice carrying the flat affect of someone stating facts rather than making threats. His hands remained loose at his sides, ready but not aggressive. "Whatever they're paying you, it's not enough."

Mae Ling didn't waste breath on a response. She'd been hired to eliminate Harland Coates, a former CIA operative who'd allegedly gone rogue and sold classified intelligence to the highest bidder. The dossier had been thorough—his training, his known associates, his last three confirmed locations. What it hadn't mentioned was the possibility that he might be innocent, and Mae Ling had learned long ago not to question the contracts that came through her handler.

She struck first, a testing combination—jab, cross, low kick—designed to gauge his defensive reflexes. Coates deflected the punches with minimal movement and checked the kick with his shin, the impact producing a dull crack that echoed in the confined space. He countered immediately, driving forward with a palm strike aimed at her sternum that she barely managed to redirect.

The exchange accelerated from there, both fighters abandoning caution for controlled aggression. Mae Ling's Muay Thai background emphasized powerful strikes and clinch work, while Coates demonstrated a hybrid style that blended Krav Maga's brutal efficiency with what looked like Jeet Kune Do's intercepting philosophy. They traded blows in rapid succession, each strike blocked or deflected, each counter met with a counter-counter.

Coates drove her backward down the corridor, his longer reach giving him a slight advantage in the confined space. Mae Ling felt the wall behind her and used it, planting her foot and launching herself forward with a flying knee that forced Coates to stumble back. She pressed the advantage, landing a solid elbow to his ribs that produced a satisfying grunt of pain.

But Coates was far from finished. He caught her next strike, twisted her arm, and sent her crashing through the swinging doors that led into the hotel's kitchen.

The kitchen was a maze of stainless steel surfaces and hanging pots, the air thick with the smell of garlic and searing meat. A sous chef looked up from his station, eyes widening in shock as Mae Ling rolled to her feet and Coates came through the doors behind her. The kitchen staff scattered, shouting in Cantonese as the two fighters resumed their deadly dance among the prep stations.

Mae Ling grabbed a chef's knife from a magnetic strip and hurled it at Coates' center mass. He twisted, the blade passing close enough to slice through his jacket, and countered by kicking a pot of boiling stock off a burner. Mae Ling dove aside as scalding liquid splashed across the floor where she'd been standing.

They crashed through the kitchen like a localized hurricane, upending equipment and sending dishes clattering to the tile floor. Coates used the environment ruthlessly, throwing obstacles in Mae Ling's path and using the narrow aisles between stations to limit her mobility. She adapted, vaulting over a prep table and catching him with a spinning back kick that sent him stumbling into a rack of hanging pans.

The noise was tremendous, a cacophony of metal on metal and breaking ceramics that surely had to be drawing attention. Mae Ling didn't care. She was committed now, her professional pride demanding that she complete the contract regardless of the complications.

Coates recovered faster than she'd anticipated, grabbing a heavy cast-iron pan and swinging it like a medieval mace. Mae Ling ducked under the first swing, felt the wind of its passage ruffle her hair, and drove her fist into his kidney. He grunted but didn't drop the pan, bringing it around for a backhand strike that she barely blocked with her forearm. The impact sent a spike of pain up to her shoulder, and she knew she'd have a bone-deep bruise tomorrow.

If there is a tomorrow, she thought grimly.

They grappled among the ovens, each trying to gain a dominant position. Coates was stronger, but Mae Ling was faster and more flexible. She slipped his attempted rear naked choke, drove her elbow into his solar plexus, and used his momentary breathlessness to break free. She grabbed a sauté pan and swung it at his head with all her strength.

Coates caught the pan, twisted it out of her grip, and threw it aside. "Listen to me," he said, breathing hard. "You've been set up. We both have."

"Save it," Mae Ling replied, launching a high kick at his temple.

He blocked it, but the force of the impact drove him backward through another set of swinging doors. They tumbled together into the restaurant's main dining area, a elegant space with white tablecloths and crystal chandeliers. Diners screamed and fled as the two fighters crashed through their midst, upending tables and sending wine glasses shattering to the floor.

Mae Ling used a chair as a weapon, swinging it at Coates' head. He ducked and drove his shoulder into her midsection, lifting her off her feet and driving her backward. She felt the window behind her, the glass radiating cold against her back, and realized his intention a split second too late.

They went through the window together in an explosion of shattered glass, tumbling through the air for one weightless moment before hitting the pavement of the alley below. Mae Ling managed to twist in mid-air, landing on top of Coates and using his body to absorb most of the impact. They rolled apart, both coming to their feet despite the punishment they'd taken.

Mae Ling tasted blood in her mouth and felt a dozen cuts from the broken glass, but nothing seemed broken. Coates looked equally battered, his jacket torn and his face sporting several lacerations. They faced each other in the alley, both breathing hard, both knowing that the next exchange might be the last.

But before either could move, the alley flooded with light and the sharp commands of police officers filled the air. Mae Ling counted at least six officers, all with weapons drawn and pointed at them. She raised her hands slowly, watching Coates do the same from the corner of her eye.

"On the ground! Now!" The lead officer's voice carried the authority of someone used to being obeyed.

Mae Ling complied, lowering herself to the pavement with deliberate slowness. Rough hands grabbed her arms, wrenching them behind her back as handcuffs clicked into place. She didn't resist. There was no point—not with this many officers and not when she was already exhausted from the fight.

As they hauled her to her feet, she caught Coates' eye. He looked at her with an expression she couldn't quite read—not anger, not fear, but something closer to resignation mixed with grim determination.

This isn't over, his look seemed to say.

Mae Ling turned away, allowing the officers to guide her toward the waiting police vehicles. Whatever Coates thought he knew, whatever game he believed they were playing, it didn't matter. She'd failed to complete her contract, which meant she'd need to try again once she'd dealt with this inconvenience.

--

The police station was a typical mid-sized precinct, all fluorescent lights and institutional green paint that seemed designed to drain hope from anyone who entered. Mae Ling sat in the holding cell, watching the officers process paperwork and make phone calls. They'd separated her from Coates immediately, placing him in the adjacent cell where she could see him through the bars but not speak to him without being overheard.

She'd been through this before, in half a dozen countries. The key was patience and the right connections. Her handler would be notified of her arrest within the hour, and arrangements would be made. She'd be released on some technicality or transferred to a facility where escape would be easier. It was simply a matter of waiting.

Coates, however, seemed less patient. He paced his cell like a caged animal, his eyes constantly scanning the precinct's layout, cataloging exits and counting officers. Mae Ling recognized the behavior—he was planning something, which meant he either had resources she didn't know about or he was desperate enough to try something foolish.

After perhaps half an hour, Coates moved to the bars separating their cells and spoke in a low voice that barely carried to her ears. "You've made a mistake."

Mae Ling didn't respond, keeping her gaze fixed on the far wall.

"They're coming," Coates said. "The people who hired you. They used you to flush me out, and now we're both in their crosshairs."

Mae Ling turned to look at him. His face was drawn, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool air. Not the expression of a man running a con.

"The contract came through channels you trust," he continued, his words coming faster now. "Intelligence too good to question. They knew exactly how to make you bite."

She kept her face blank, but her mind began to race. The handler's insistence. The perfect intel. The urgency that had felt like opportunity but now tasted like a setup.

"They want us both in one place, locked down, limited security." Coates gripped the bars between them. "We're not prisoners here. We're bait that's already been swallowed."

Mae Ling felt fury rising hot in her chest. She'd been played. Used like a damned amateur.

Before Mae Ling could respond, the lights went out.

The precinct plunged into darkness, the sudden absence of fluorescent humming replaced by startled exclamations from the officers. Emergency lighting kicked in after a few seconds, bathing everything in a dim red glow that turned the familiar space into something alien and threatening.

Then the gunfire started.

The sound was unmistakable—the rapid staccato of automatic weapons, multiple shooters, coming from the front of the precinct. Officers shouted, drawing their weapons and taking cover behind desks. Return fire echoed through the building, punctuated by screams and the crash of breaking glass.

Mae Ling was on her feet instantly. Coates had been right, she decided. The realization brought no satisfaction, only a cold fury at having been manipulated.

The firefight intensified, moving deeper into the precinct. Mae Ling counted at least four distinct weapon signatures—the distinctive hollow cough of suppressed submachine guns, military-spec hardware. The police were outgunned and unprepared for a military-style assault. This wasn't a rescue operation; it was an execution squad.

One of the officers who'd arrested them—a young man with a fresh face and frightened eyes—appeared in the detention area, his service weapon drawn but his hands shaking. He looked at Mae Ling and Coates with wild eyes, his finger tight on the trigger.

"Call them off!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear and adrenaline. "Call off your friends or I swear to God I'll shoot you both right now!"

"They're not our friends," Coates said, his voice calm despite the chaos erupting around them. "We're targets, just like you. Just like everyone in this building."

"Bullshit!" The officer's gun wavered between them. "You're with them! You have to be!"

Mae Ling stepped forward, ignoring the weapon pointed at her chest. "Listen to me. Those shooters out there are professionals. Military contractors, probably. They're here to kill us, and they'll kill anyone who gets in their way. That includes you and every other officer in this precinct."

"She's right," Coates added. "You can shoot us and die when they get here, or you can let us out and maybe we all survive this. Your choice, but you need to make it now."

The officer looked between them, his face pale in the emergency lighting. Another burst of gunfire echoed through the building, closer now. Someone screamed, the sound cutting off abruptly.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" the officer asked, but his voice had lost its aggressive edge. He was scared, and he knew he was out of his depth.

"You don't," Mae Ling said. "But in about thirty seconds, those shooters are going to reach this detention area. If we're still locked up, they'll kill all three of us. If you let us out, we might have a chance."

The officer's hand trembled as he reached for his keys. He unlocked Coates' cell first, then Mae Ling's. "If you're lying—"

"We're not," Coates said. "Now get down and stay down. This is about to get ugly."

Mae Ling and Coates moved into the precinct's bullpen with the practiced silence of predators. The emergency lighting cast everything in shades of red and black, turning the familiar office space into a maze of shadows and blind corners. Bodies lay scattered among the desks—officers who'd been caught in the initial assault, their weapons still holstered or clutched uselessly in dead hands.

Mae Ling knelt beside the nearest corpse, a female officer who'd taken three rounds to the chest. She retrieved the woman's Glock 17, checked the magazine, and chambered a round. Her hands moved on autopilot while her mind churned with cold fury.

Coates did the same with another fallen officer's weapon, his movements efficient and practiced.

They heard the shooters before they saw them—two men moving in tactical formation, their suppressed weapons sweeping the bullpen methodically. Mae Ling caught Coates' eye and gestured, a simple hand signal that he understood immediately. They split up, using the desks for cover as they flanked the approaching assassins.

The first shooter never knew what hit him. Mae Ling rose from behind a filing cabinet and put two rounds through his head before he could react. The anger made her faster, sharper—every movement channeling the humiliation of being played. The second shooter spun toward her, his weapon coming up, but Coates was already there. Three shots, center mass, and the man went down.

Mae Ling moved to the bodies, retrieving their weapons—Heckler & Koch MP5s with suppressors and extended magazines. Top-tier hardware. European procurement. The kind of arsenal that spoke of deep pockets and deeper connections. Someone had invested serious capital in this operation, and she'd been stupid enough to be their opening move. She tossed one to Coates and kept the other, the familiar weight of the submachine gun a comfort in her hands.

"How many more?" she asked quietly.

"At least four," Coates replied, his eyes scanning the bullpen. "Maybe six. They'll be moving in teams, clearing rooms systematically."

More gunfire erupted from the front of the precinct, followed by the distinctive crack of a flashbang grenade. The assault team was being thorough, which meant they had time and resources. This wasn't a quick hit—it was a complete sanitization operation.

Mae Ling and Coates moved deeper into the precinct, using the chaos to their advantage. They encountered another pair of shooters near the evidence room, and this time the fight was harder. The assassins moved with practiced efficiency, coordinated and lethal, using suppressing fire and tactical movement to try to pin them down.

But Mae Ling and Coates had something the shooters didn't—desperation and the intimate knowledge that comes from years of operating in hostile environments. They worked together with an instinctive coordination that surprised Mae Ling, each covering the other's blind spots, each anticipating the other's movements. The irony wasn't lost on her. She was fighting alongside the man she'd been sent to kill, protecting him from the people who'd hired her.

Coates laid down suppressing fire while Mae Ling flanked left, using a overturned desk for cover. She moved with controlled aggression, each tactical decision fueled by the cold burn of her rage. She caught one shooter reloading and put a three-round burst through his chest. Not for survival. For the insult of being manipulated like an amateur. The second shooter tried to retreat, but Coates was already moving, cutting off his escape route and dropping him with a controlled pair of shots.

They paused to catch their breath, both breathing hard from the adrenaline and exertion. Mae Ling's earlier injuries from their fight were making themselves known now, a dull ache in her ribs and a sharp pain in her shoulder every time she raised the MP5. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the fury coiling in her chest. Someone had looked at Mae Ling and seen a puppet. A useful idiot to point at a target. That mistake was going to cost them everything.

"You're hurt," Coates observed.

"I'll live," Mae Ling replied. "How many left?"

"Two, maybe three." Coates ejected his magazine, checked the remaining rounds, and slapped it back into place. "They'll know we're armed now. They'll be more careful."

As if to punctuate his words, a voice called out from somewhere in the precinct's maze of corridors. "Coates! We know you're here! Come out and we'll make it quick!"

Neither Mae Ling nor Coates responded. Talking would only give away their position.

They moved toward the voice, using the building's layout to their advantage. Mae Ling had memorized the precinct's floor plan during her initial processing, a habit that was now paying dividends. She led them through a series of offices and conference rooms, circling around to flank the remaining shooters.

They found them near the precinct's rear exit—two men in tactical gear, their weapons trained on the corridor they expected Coates and Mae Ling to emerge from. It was a good ambush position, but they'd made the mistake of assuming their targets would take the direct route.

Mae Ling and Coates emerged from a side office, catching the shooters in a crossfire. The fight was brief and brutal. One shooter went down immediately, Mae Ling's burst catching him in the side where his body armor didn't cover. The second shooter was faster, diving for cover and returning fire.

A round caught Coates in the shoulder, spinning him around. He went down hard, his weapon clattering across the floor. The shooter rose from cover, his weapon trained on Coates' prone form, finger tightening on the trigger.

Mae Ling didn't think. She moved on pure instinct, her MP5 coming up as she squeezed the trigger. The burst caught the shooter in the throat, above his body armor, and he went down choking on his own blood.

She rushed to Coates, helping him to his feet. Blood soaked his shoulder, but the wound looked clean—through and through, missing the bone. "Can you move?"

"Yeah," Coates grunted, retrieving his weapon with his good hand. "Thanks."

Before Mae Ling could respond, a voice called out from the darkness. "This isn't over!" The accent was Eastern European, the tone filled with cold certainty. "ORACLE won't stop until you're dead, Coates! And you, Ghost, you picked your side! You'll pay for your choice!"

Mae Ling heard footsteps retreating, running toward the rear exit. She started to pursue, but Coates grabbed her arm with his good hand.

"Let them go," he said. "We need to get out of here before backup arrives—theirs or the police's."

Mae Ling hesitated, every instinct screaming at her to pursue and eliminate the threat. But Coates was right. They were in no condition for a prolonged engagement, and staying here would only lead to more complications.

They made their way to the rear exit, moving through the carnage they'd created. The precinct was a slaughterhouse, bodies of officers and assassins scattered throughout. Mae Ling felt a pang of guilt for the dead police—collateral damage in a war they hadn't known they were fighting.

The night air hit them like a physical force as they emerged into the alley behind the precinct. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. They had minutes at most before the area was flooded with reinforcements.

Coates leaned against the wall, his face pale from blood loss. Mae Ling tore a strip from her shirt and fashioned a crude pressure bandage for his shoulder. It wouldn't hold for long, but it would keep him mobile for now.

"We need to move," she said.

"Agreed." Coates pushed himself off the wall, swaying slightly. "There's a safe house about three miles from here. We can—"

"No," Mae Ling interrupted. "We're not going anywhere together until you tell me what the hell is going on. Who is ORACLE? Why do they want us both dead? And why did they use me to flush you out?"

Coates looked at her for a long moment, his eyes searching her face. "It's a long story."

"Then you'd better start talking," Mae Ling said, "because we're going to meet again, Coates. Soon. And when we do, you're going to explain everything. Every detail, every connection, every reason why I was manipulated into hunting you."

"Fair enough," Coates said. He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. It was blank except for a phone number written in pencil. "Call this number in forty-eight hours. I'll tell you everything I know about ORACLE, about why they want us dead, and about the people who've been pulling your strings."

Mae Ling took the card, memorizing the number before tucking it into her pocket. "Forty-eight hours. If you're not there, I'll find you anyway."

"I don't doubt it," Coates said with a ghost of a smile. "You're good, Chen. Better than I expected. That's probably why they wanted you for this."

They heard voices from inside the precinct—more police arriving, securing the scene. Mae Ling and Coates moved in opposite directions without another word, disappearing into the Hong Kong night like shadows fleeing the dawn.

As Mae Ling ran through the back alleys, her mind raced with questions. ORACLE. The name meant nothing to her, but the implications were clear. Someone with significant resources had manipulated her into hunting Coates, had used her as a tool to flush him out of hiding. And now that same organization wanted her dead for the crime of surviving their trap.

She'd been played, used like a amateur. The realization burned in her gut, a cold fury that demanded satisfaction. Someone would pay for this manipulation, for turning her into an unwitting pawn in their game.

But first, she needed answers. And in forty-eight hours, Harland Coates would provide them.

The game was far from over. It had only just begun.

--

If you liked this story, you should check out The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology!

A Ghost of Hong Kong Story -- By Steve Miller

It was a rainy night when she appeared at my office door--a slender Chinese woman with her dark hair pulled back into a pony tail. She was wearing a long, black raincoat and carrying an e-reader. I recognized her immediately.

"Mae Ling," I said, fear forming in the pit of my stomach. "What brings you here?"

"Relax, Miller," she replied in English with an accent that was vaguely British but mostly the result of having been in many places and among speakers of many English dialects. "I've been reading the stories you've written about me. You make me look good."

"Thank you," I said.

"I'm here to give you a new story. You'll write it, I'll read it, and give you immediate feedback."

She then told me of a recent contract. 

I saved the piece I had been working on, opened a fresh document, and began typing...

FALSE MERCIES -- A GHOST OF HONG KONG TALE

The incense smoke rose like prayers made visible, curling and twisting in the amber light that filtered through the temple's latticed windows. Outside, the sea whispered its eternal secrets to the rocks of Shek O Village, and the wind carried the salt-taste of distant storms.

The woman who knelt before the altar wore grief like a second skin. Her hands trembled as they clutched the red envelope containing two hundred Hong Kong dollars. Her hair hung in dark curtains around her face, and when she looked up at the rotund priest who sat cross-legged before the statue of Tin Hau, her eyes were wells of desperate hope.

"Please," she whispered, and the word seemed to echo in the temple's hollow spaces, bouncing off the golden dragons that coiled around the pillars, sliding past the paper lanterns that swayed like captured moons. "Please, Tin Hau, tell me what has become of my husband. The sea took him three weeks ago, and I have heard nothing. Nothing but the sound of waves in my dreams."

The priest—his name was Wu, though he preferred to be called Master Wu—regarded her with the practiced sympathy of a man who had seen a thousand desperate souls kneel where she now knelt. His robes were silk, expensive silk, and his fingers were heavy with jade rings that caught the light like captured fireflies. He was a man who understood that faith and fear were currencies more valuable than gold, and he had grown wealthy in their exchange.

"The goddess hears all prayers," he intoned, his voice deep and resonant as a temple bell. "But the veil between this world and the next is thick, and sometimes... sometimes it requires great effort to pierce it."

He reached for the incense sticks that stood in their brass holder like a forest of fragrant trees. With deliberate slowness, he lit three of them, and the smoke began its serpentine dance toward the ceiling, where it would dissipate into nothing, into everything, into the spaces between breath and belief.

Master Wu closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, deepened, became the rhythm of waves upon shore. The woman watched him with the intensity of the drowning watching a distant boat, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles had gone white as bone.

Minutes passed. The incense burned. The smoke rose. The sea outside continued its ancient conversation with the land.

Then Master Wu's eyes opened, and in them was a light that might have been divine inspiration or might have been something far more calculated.

"I see," he breathed, and his voice had taken on a tremulous quality, as if he stood at the edge of some great precipice. "The goddess Tin Hau... she shows me an island. Small, rocky, surrounded by waters that foam white against black stone. And there... there is a man."

The woman leaned forward, her breath catching in her throat like a bird in a cage.

"He stands at the water's edge," Master Wu continued, his eyes now focused on some middle distance that existed only in his mind—or in his performance. "He is thin, weathered by sun and salt. And he is shouting. Shouting a name. Your name, I think. Yes, your name, carried away by the wind, lost in the cry of gulls."

A sound escaped the woman's lips, something between a sob and a gasp, and Master Wu allowed himself the smallest of smiles, hidden in the shadows of his jowls.

"But wait," he said, and his expression darkened like clouds crossing the sun. "The vision... it fragments. It breaks apart like a reflection in disturbed water. The goddess... she struggles to show me more. Something interferes. Something dark and malevolent."

"What?" the woman whispered. "What interferes?"

Master Wu's hands moved in complex patterns through the smoke, as if he were trying to grasp something that continually slipped through his fingers. "Her brothers," he said, and now his voice carried a note of genuine-seeming distress. "The demonic brothers of Tin Hau. They dwell in the underworld, in the spaces beneath the sea where drowned men's souls wander lost and cold. They feed on suffering, on separation, on the tears of widows and the cries of orphans. And they are here now, blocking the goddess's sight, preventing her from revealing the full truth of your husband's fate."

The woman's face had gone pale as paper, pale as the moon reflected in still water.

"But there is hope," Master Wu said quickly, leaning forward with an urgency that seemed almost genuine. "A show of devotion—a true show of devotion—can give the goddess the power she needs to drive her brothers back to the underworld where they belong. The demons are strong, but faith is stronger. Devotion is stronger. And with the proper... offerings... the goddess can prevail."

The woman's hands moved to the red envelope she had brought, the envelope containing her last two hundred dollars. She held it out with shaking fingers, and Master Wu took it with the reverence of a man accepting a sacred relic.

He opened it, counted the bills with practiced speed, and nodded slowly. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I believe this will be sufficient. The goddess is merciful. She understands the poverty of the faithful. Let me pray again, let me—"

He closed his eyes once more, his hands pressed together before his face. His lips moved in silent supplication, or what appeared to be supplication. The incense smoke continued its endless rise, and the temple seemed to hold its breath.

Then Master Wu jerked as if struck by an invisible hand. His eyes flew open, wide with what might have been fear or might have been theatrical surprise. He gasped, clutched at his chest, and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.

"The demons," he wheezed. "They are stronger than I anticipated. Much stronger. They feed off your distress, your desperation. They grow fat on your tears. The goddess... she needs more. More devotion. More faith. More—"

He didn't say the word "money," but it hung in the air between them like the incense smoke, visible and invisible at once.

The woman stood slowly, her movements careful, controlled. "I'll go to the bank," she said, her voice steady now, all the trembling gone from it like morning mist burned away by sun. "I can get more. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Master Wu nodded, relief washing over his features like water over stone. "Yes," he said. "Yes, hurry. The goddess's power wanes with each passing moment. The demons grow stronger. Your husband's soul hangs in the balance, suspended between this world and the next, and only your devotion can—"

The woman had turned to leave, her footsteps echoing on the temple's stone floor. But then she stopped. Turned back. And when she looked at Master Wu now, her eyes were different. They were no longer wells of desperate hope. They were something else entirely. Something cold and clear and utterly without mercy.

"You had a nice scam going here," she said, and her voice was conversational, almost friendly. "Really, quite elegant in its simplicity. Prey on the desperate, the grieving, the ones who have nowhere else to turn. Tell them just enough to give them hope, then squeeze them for everything they have. I've seen it before, in a dozen cities, in a hundred temples. It's an old game, Master Wu. Old as faith itself."

Master Wu's face had gone from relieved to confused to outraged in the space of three heartbeats. "How dare you," he sputtered, rising to his feet with surprising speed for a man of his bulk. "How dare you come into this sacred place and—"

"If only you hadn't gotten greedy with the wrong mark," the woman continued, as if he hadn't spoken at all. Her hand moved to her purse, and there was something in the casual way she did it that made Master Wu's words die in his throat like flowers touched by frost.

"What... what do you mean?" he asked, and now the fear in his voice was real, no longer performance, no longer theater.

"Leilie Hong," the woman said, and the name fell into the temple's silence like a stone into still water, sending ripples of implication in all directions. "Three weeks ago, she came to you. An old woman, desperate to know the fate of her son, who had gone missing. You told her the same story, didn't you? The same vision, the same demonic interference, the same need for greater and greater devotion. You took everything she had. Every last dollar. And when she had nothing left to give, you told her that her son was lost, that the demons had won, that her lack of faith had doomed him."

Master Wu's face had gone the color of old wax. His jade rings suddenly seemed too heavy, weighing down his hands like shackles.

"She went home that night," the woman continued, her voice still conversational, still almost friendly, which somehow made it more terrible than if she had been shouting. "She went home and she hanged herself from a beam in her kitchen. Because you had taken her money and her hope and left her with nothing but despair."

"I... I didn't know," Master Wu whispered. "I couldn't have known that she would—"

"Her son found her," the woman said. "Charlie Hong. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

The name hit Master Wu like a physical blow. Charlie Hong. Everyone in Hong Kong's underworld knew that name. Charlie Hong, who ran the illegal fight clubs in Kowloon, who had connections that reached from the Triads to the police to the very highest levels of the city's shadow government. Charlie Hong, who was known for his loyalty to his family, his ruthlessness toward his enemies, and his absolute unwillingness to forgive those who wronged the people he loved.

"Oh god," Master Wu breathed, and he stumbled backward, his bulk suddenly seeming less imposing, more vulnerable, like a balloon slowly deflating. "Oh god, I didn't... I never meant..."

The woman's hand emerged from her purse, and in it was a pistol. Small, black, with a suppressor attached to the barrel that made it look like some kind of mechanical insect, all angles and purpose. She held it with the casual competence of someone who had held such things many times before, who knew their weight and their function and their terrible finality.

"Please," Master Wu said, and now he was the one who sounded desperate, the one whose voice trembled with fear. "Please, I'll give the money back. I'll leave Hong Kong. I'll—"

"Charlie Hong called upon a ghost of vengeance," the woman said, and her voice was soft now, soft as the incense smoke, soft as the whisper of the sea outside. "He called upon someone who could walk into temples and speak the language of grief, who could play the role of the desperate widow, who could get close enough to deliver justice to those who prey upon the suffering of others."

She raised the pistol, and the movement was smooth, practiced, inevitable as the rising of the sun.

"And vengeance," she said, "will be delivered."

The shot was barely louder than a cough, muffled by the suppressor and swallowed by the temple's thick walls. Master Wu fell backward, his silk robes billowing around him like the wings of some great, dying bird. He hit the floor with a sound like a sack of rice dropping, and the jade rings on his fingers clattered against the stone.

The woman stood over him for a moment, watching as the light faded from his eyes, as the blood spread in a dark pool beneath his body, mixing with the ash from the incense that had fallen when he fell. Then she tucked the pistol back into her purse, straightened her hair, and walked toward the temple's entrance with the same careful, controlled movements she had used when she arrived.

But she paused at the altar, her hand reaching for the bundle of incense sticks that Master Wu would never light again. She took three—the proper number—and held them to the flame of a red candle, her hands steady as stone despite the body cooling behind her. The tips caught and glowed, and she watched the smoke begin its ascent, thin threads of gray rising toward the temple's dark rafters.

She bowed once, deeply, holding the incense before her face. The smoke curled between her fingers, and she breathed in its sandalwood sweetness mixed with the copper-salt smell of fresh blood.

"Forgive me, Tin Hau," she whispered, and her voice was different now—not the desperate widow's plea, not the cold pronouncement of vengeance, but something more honest. "I have stained your temple with blood. But you are the protector of the suffering, and he made his fortune from their pain."

She placed the incense in the brass holder before the goddess's statue, the three sticks standing straight and true. The painted eyes gazed down at her, and for a moment—just a moment—she thought she saw something in that ancient, unchanging face. Not forgiveness, perhaps. But understanding. The goddess had sailed through storms and witnessed drownings, had seen the sea take the innocent and spare the guilty, had learned that justice and mercy were not always the same thing. The woman bowed once more, then turned and walked toward the entrance, leaving the incense to burn, leaving her prayer to rise, leaving the goddess to judge whether vengeance could ever be holy.

The woman walked down the temple steps and disappeared into the narrow streets of Shek O Village, just another figure in the afternoon crowd, anonymous and unremarkable. Behind her, in the Temple of Tin Hau, Master Wu's blood spread dark across the stone floor while incense smoke rose in serpentine spirals toward the rafters. 

--

After I finished the story, I stood up and gestured at the chair for Mae Ling to have a seat. She did so with a nod and began to read. I watched her nervously--I wasn't used to advanced readers or critics who could kill you in who-knows-how-many different ways if they didn't like what they read.

I was bathed in a cold sweat by the time Mae Ling reached the end of "False Mercies". She turned to look up at me, her expression unreadable.

"It's just the first draft," I said, the terror building in my chest. "I'll fix whatever you--"

"Don't change a thing," Mae Ling said, rising to her feet, smiling. "I love it. And I really loved the whole prayer bit at the end. You're going to put it in the next Ghost of Hong Kong collection, right?"

"If I do one, of course I will."

"Excellent." With that, she turned and walked toward the door and out of my office. I heard her chuckling softly before saying, "Forgive me Tin Hau... priceless!"

Seconds later, I heard the front door open and close. The Ghost had melted back into the shadows where her next assignment waited.

A Ghost of Hong Kong story by Steve Miller

 Join the Ghost for a (relatively) quiet evening...

The Ghost Observes

The restaurant Le Jardin occupied the forty-second floor of the International Finance Centre, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Victoria Harbour that justified the astronomical prices on its menu.

Mae Ling sat at a corner table, positioned with her back to the wall and clear sightlines to both entrances—habits ingrained so deeply they no longer registered as conscious choices. The Dover sole she'd ordered was perfectly prepared, delicate flesh yielding to her fork with minimal resistance, accompanied by a Chablis that complemented rather than overwhelmed the subtle flavors.

She ate slowly, savoring each bite while her peripheral awareness catalogued the restaurant's other patrons. A business dinner at table seven, three men in expensive suits discussing merger terms in Mandarin. An anniversary celebration at table twelve, the couple's body language suggesting genuine affection rather than performance. Detective Inspector Chan at the bar, nursing what appeared to be sparkling water and pretending to check his phone while maintaining his usual surveillance. And at table nine, approximately fifteen feet to her left, a couple whose tension had been escalating throughout their meal.

The woman was in her late thirties, elegant in a navy-blue dress that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Her companion was older, mid-fifties, with the soft hands and expensive watch of someone who'd never done manual labor. Their voices had been rising steadily for the past ten minutes, though Mae Ling had paid them only cursory attention. Domestic disputes held little interest for her professionally, and she'd learned long ago that the most dangerous moments came when you were distracted by irrelevant drama.

"You promised me," the woman hissed, her voice carrying despite her obvious attempt at discretion. "You said this would be different."

"Keep your voice down," the man replied, his tone sharp with embarrassment. "We'll discuss this at home."

"We never discuss anything. You just make decisions and expect me to accept them."

The argument continued, building toward its inevitable crescendo. Mae Ling took another sip of wine, her attention drifting to the couple at table four—a woman in her forties dining with a man who appeared to be her husband, based on the comfortable silence between them and the matching wedding bands. The woman had glanced toward the arguing couple twice in the past minute, her expression difficult to read from this distance.

The man at table nine stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the polished floor. "I'm leaving. You can stay and make a scene if you want, but I'm done with this conversation."

The woman stood as well, her face flushed with anger or wine or both. "Fine. Run away. That's what you always do."

They moved toward the exit together, their body language radiating hostility. The man paused at the maître d's station long enough to throw several bills on the counter, not bothering to wait for change or acknowledgment. The woman followed him out, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

The restaurant's ambient noise resumed its normal level, the brief disruption already fading from collective memory. Mae Ling returned her attention to her meal, cutting another piece of sole with surgical precision. The fish was excellent, the wine better, and the view spectacular. A perfect evening, really, marred only by—

A scream shattered the restored calm.

Mae Ling's hand moved instinctively toward the knife at her side before her conscious mind registered that the sound came from table four. The woman who'd been watching the argument was on her feet, her chair toppled backward, her hands pressed to her mouth in horror. Her husband—or the man Mae Ling had assumed was her husband—had collapsed forward onto the table, his body convulsing violently.

The restaurant erupted into controlled chaos. A waiter rushed forward. The maître d' was already on his phone, presumably calling for emergency services. Other diners stood, some moving closer to help, others backing away from the disturbing scene. Mae Ling remained seated, her expression neutral, her mind cataloguing details with the automatic precision of long practice.

The convulsions lasted perhaps twenty seconds before the man went still. Too still. The waiter who'd reached him first checked for a pulse, his face going pale. He looked up at the maître d' and shook his head slowly.

Mae Ling set down her fork and reached for her wine glass, taking a measured sip while her mind replayed the past fifteen minutes. She'd been half-paying attention, her focus primarily on her meal and the view, but her training ensured that certain details had registered even when she hadn't been paying close attention. The arguing couple. The woman at table four glancing toward them. The timing of—

A hand settled on her shoulder.

Mae Ling didn't flinch, though few people would have dared such familiarity. She turned her head slightly, already knowing who she'd see. Detective Inspector James Chan of the Hong Kong Police Force's Financial Crimes Unit had been following her for three months now, convinced that her legitimate business consulting work was a cover for something more sinister. He wasn't wrong, but he'd never be able to prove it.

"Detective," she said calmly, her Cantonese carrying the neutral accent of someone who'd lived in many places. "I hope you enjoyed the show. As you can clearly see, I've been sitting here the entire evening, nowhere near that unfortunate gentleman."

Chan was in his early forties, with the tired eyes of someone who'd seen too much corruption and the stubborn jaw of someone who refused to accept it. He wore an off-the-rack suit that had seen better days and a wedding ring that suggested he had something to go home to besides case files. His hand remained on her shoulder for another moment before he withdrew it, moving around to stand where she could see him without turning.

"I'm not suggesting you had anything to do with this," he said, his voice low enough that nearby diners wouldn't overhear. "But I think you know who did. And how."

Mae Ling raised an eyebrow, her expression one of polite curiosity. "That's quite an assumption, Detective. What makes you think I know anything about a random medical emergency?"

"Because you're the Ghost of Hong Kong," Chan said quietly. "And ghosts see things other people miss."

She studied him for a long moment, weighing her options. Chan was persistent, intelligent, and dangerously close to understanding the nature of her work. But he was also, in his own way, trying to do the right thing. The world needed people like him, even if they occasionally made her life more complicated.

"Hypothetically," Mae Ling said, setting down her wine glass, "if I had been paying attention to my surroundings—which any sensible person would do in a public space—what might I have noticed?"

Chan pulled out the chair across from her and sat without invitation. "You tell me."

Mae Ling's mind assembled the pieces with the efficiency of a computer processing data. "The couple that was arguing. They left approximately three minutes before the man collapsed. The woman at table four—the one who's currently hysterical—she watched them leave. She glanced at them twice during their argument, but not with the casual curiosity of someone observing a scene. She was tracking them. Waiting for something."

"Go on," Chan said, leaning forward slightly.

"The timing is interesting. The argument provided a distraction, drew attention away from the other tables. In that moment, when everyone's focus was on the drama, someone could have moved quickly. A hand reaching across a table. Something dropped into a drink. It would take seconds, and no one would notice because they were all watching the show."

"You think the wife poisoned him?"

"I think the wife knew the couple that was arguing," Mae Ling corrected. "I think they staged a distraction so she could introduce something into her husband's beverage. The convulsions suggest a fast-acting neurotoxin, probably something that mimics a seizure or heart attack. Elegant, really. In a restaurant full of witnesses, she commits murder in plain sight."

Chan's expression darkened. "That's a serious accusation."

"You asked what I might have noticed," Mae Ling said with a slight shrug. "I'm simply following the logic of a possible scenario."

The widow's hysterical voice cut through their conversation. She was being comforted by the maître d' and several other diners, her body shaking with sobs that seemed genuine enough. "I don't understand," she wailed. "He was fine. We were just having dinner."

Mae Ling watched carefully, trying to read the truth beneath the obvious distress. The woman's grief appeared authentic—trembling hands, flushed face, the kind of full-body shock that was difficult to fake. But there was something about the way she'd positioned herself, angled slightly toward the restaurant's entrance rather than leaning into the comfort being offered—it was as if she subconsciously wanted to escape if need be. And those two glances during the argument—had they been nervous awareness of a brewing confrontation, or something more deliberate?

Mae Ling had seen enough death to know that genuine shock and calculated theater could look remarkably similar. The widow might be an innocent woman watching her husband die unexpectedly. Or she might be exactly what Mae Ling suspected. The truth would reveal itself eventually, but for now, it remained frustratingly unclear.

"I don't know her motive," Mae Ling admitted quietly. "But I suspect you'll find the answer once you locate that couple. They're the key to understanding why this happened."

Chan stood, his expression thoughtful. "The security cameras will show if you're right about the timing."

"They will," Mae Ling agreed. "Though I imagine the footage will be ambiguous. These things usually are."

"Thank you for your help," Chan said, his tone formal but not unfriendly. "But don't think this changes anything between us. I'll still be watching you."

Mae Ling picked up her wine glass again, swirling the pale liquid gently. "I apologize in advance for how bored you're going to be. My life is remarkably mundane."

"Somehow I doubt that," Chan replied. He started to turn away, then paused. "The Ghost of Hong Kong. Do you know why they call you that?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know they called me that."

"Because you don't leave traces," Chan said. "You're there, and then you're not. No evidence, no witnesses who can quite remember your face." He paused. "But also because ghosts are supposed to right wrongs. To settle unfinished business. To bring justice when the living can't or won't." He met her eyes directly. "Some people think Hong Kong needs a ghost."

"And what do you think, Detective?"

Chan was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I think the law should be enough. But I also think the world is more complicated than I'd like it to be." He nodded once, a gesture that might have been respect or acknowledgment or both. "Enjoy the rest of your meal, Ms. Ling."

He walked away, moving toward the widow and the gathering crowd of police and emergency personnel. Mae Ling watched him go, then returned her attention to her Dover sole. It had gone slightly cold during the interruption, but the quality was still evident. She ate slowly, methodically, while her mind continued processing the evening's events.

The arguing couple had been professionals, their performance calibrated to draw attention without seeming rehearsed. The widow's reaction was equally skilled, though perhaps a touch overdone. And the victim—Mae Ling hadn't paid him much attention while he was alive, but now she found herself curious about what he'd done to warrant such an elaborate execution.

Because it had been an execution, regardless of how it appeared. The planning required, the coordination, the risk of performing the act in such a public space—these weren't the actions of a desperate spouse. This was something else. Something that suggested the victim had made enemies who wanted him dead but also wanted to send a message.

Not my concern, Mae Ling reminded herself. She had her own work, her own targets. Getting involved in someone else's operation would be foolish, potentially dangerous, and completely unnecessary.

Still, she found herself memorizing the widow's face, the cut of her dress, the way she moved even in apparent distress. Professional curiosity, nothing more. If their paths crossed again, it would be useful to recognize her.

Mae Ling finished her meal, paid her bill with cash, and left a generous tip for the waiter who'd tried to help the dying man. The restaurant was still in chaos as she departed, police officers taking statements and examining the scene. Chan was speaking with one of the emergency responders, his notebook out.

He glanced up as Mae Ling passed, their eyes meeting briefly. She inclined her head slightly—acknowledgment, not quite respect, but something close to it. He returned the gesture, then went back to his interview.

The elevator ride down forty-two floors gave Mae Ling time to consider the evening's implications. Chan was getting closer, which meant she'd need to be more careful. The night air hit her as she exited the building, carrying the familiar scents of Hong Kong—salt water and exhaust fumes, street food and expensive perfume, the eternal mixture of old and new that defined the city. Her phone buzzed. An encrypted message: new assignment, details to follow. Someone, somewhere, had committed transgressions serious enough to warrant her attention.

Mae Ling deleted the message and continued walking, her path taking her through crowds that parted around her. The widow would face justice eventually, assuming the evidence held and she didn't flee to parts unknown.

But that was someone else's problem.

The Ghost of Hong Kong turned down a side street and disappeared into the darkness.

--

If you enjoyed this tale, you can read more about the Ghost of Hong Kong in a collection of 15 short stories, which is available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.