The Haunting by Drezzy/Ricky and Will/Darkspade
Days had passed since Darkspade had made his appearance. Days filled with the worry that followed Dustin Kelser's hospitalization, with a renewed focus for Ricky Tenet to prepare for what was to come.
He found himself at the same gym where he'd sparred several times over with Joshua Kaine, where his verdant behavior had drawn snide remarks from the older boxers and wrestlers that had called this sweatbox “home” for years on end. Now, though, they acknowledged him, some even have helped with pointers on better methods.
The gym had been full for the last three hours before the clock struck.
8:00 PM
One by one, the assorted fighters and powerlifters returned to the locker room, soon to pass through the front door and into the brisk autumn chill of the New York City streets.
“You're still going strong, huh?” asked the night manager.
Ricky didn't answer, his focus on pushing through another set of chest presses. His attention was on being prepared for Trey Willet, prepared for the former World Heavyweight champion that had served as a source of inspiration in his younger years. Ricky cracked ten presses and set the machine back to start and sweat poured from his face to the floor.
“Yeah,” Ricky answered, “got a lot to work on.”
“Well, I'll be in my office,” the night manager said, “just give me a shout when you're done?”
“Can do, sir,” Ricky replied.
The night manager began whistling as he checked his phone and walked away. His footsteps echoed throughout the emptied gym and Ricky's eyes trailed him as he walked away.
Ricky's brow furrowed as he watched him, the night manager, stop just before the doorway that led to his office. The night manager tilted his head as his arms went limp at his sides, studying the door that he'd opened and shut hundreds of times prior as if it were new.
“Hey, uhhh, Marshall,” Ricky shouted out before he wiped sweat from his eyes with the base of his plain gray tee emblazoned with the SHOOT Project logo.
No reply.
Ricky looked up, back to where the night manager had stopped in his tracks, to find nothing there. He shook his head and rose to his feet before he grabbed his towel and heard a chirp from behind the night manager's door.
“The hell was,” Ricky trailed off, his focus on wiping his sweat from the machine. “What time even is it?”
Ricky looked back up toward the clock and shook his head in disbelief.
11:15 PM.
“No way,” he rattled as he rummaged through his gym bag for his phone.
Fourteen missed calls.
Twenty text messages unanswered.
11:15 PM.
“How in the,” he muttered, stopped dead in his tracks by a clang from the machine behind him.
Ricky turned slowly and watched as the rowing machine slowly, desperately crept forward. He rubbed his eyes again and turned back around, coming face to face with the night manager.
“HOLY,” Ricky exclaimed as he jumped back, a fist clenched. “Marshall, is that right? 11 something? Have I been down here that long?”
The night manager stood still, silent. His arms slack at his sides. His eyes focused on Ricky. The night manager's mouth lowered as a gargle whispered forward, followed by a flood of a viscous purple and black, chunk-filled fluid.
"Marshall, what the hell?” Ricky ripped his bag from the floor.
A puddle had formed of the expelled substance vomited forth by the night manager, one that seemed to form to the night manager's legs rather than spread away. Splatters decorated the chest press machine and globs seemed to hover inches from Ricky's face.
The spewing halted as soon as it began and the night manager's blank stare turned into a calloused, wicked smile.
“Good evening,” came forth a voice alien to the night manager, distorted and ugly and bitter to the syllable, “BOY.”
Overwhelmed by the grotesque substance and the eerie expression, Ricky felt a wave of dread engulfing him, starting from the core of his being and spreading outwards, causing his hair to stand on end.
As if the sight of Marshall was enough for an unnerving moment, the atmosphere in the room dropped at least ten degrees cooler, allowing for Ricky’s very breath to produce a mist visually evident from the gasps of breath escaping his lungs.
The night manager’s body suddenly convulses and trembles, as if it's dancing to the rhythm of fear and panic emanating from Ricky. It's a disturbing display of synchronized fear.
“….OOGIE BOOGIE,” Marshall's form utters. Ricky, still frozen in fear, does a double take, his gaze fixed on Marshall's face. He can't believe what he's hearing from the manager’s cold, stale lips, now coated with spurts of viscous purple ooze….
“Wh.. wha.. what did you just say?” Ricky spat out as he stepped back, narrowly avoiding collision with the equipment around him.
The night manager cracked his limbs in different directions as the slop that gathered at his feet crawled to his neck. He froze and slowly closed his eyes, a chattering coming from inside his throat as Ricky turned for the locker room door.
Once his back was to the night manager, the face of the clock caught his attention.
8:05 PM.
He turned back around to find the night manager gone, in his place the now empty chest press machine that Ricky had used. The front door opened and another regular walked in, a fortysomething man that had once modeled for Men's Health named Orlando.
“What's going on, Ricky?” Orlando asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”
Ricky did not answer Orlando's question; instead, he gazed down at his trembling hands, his heart pounding with sudden fear. "I know this may sound weird, but is it still Wednesday?" Orlando's left eyebrow raised a little before saying, "Yep. Sure is, bro, or at least in the couple of hours left in the day. So, um, are you alright?" Ricky felt a slight sense of relief, albeit small as it was. "Uh. Yeah. Sure, I feel standard. So uh, I'd better get going then." Orlando motions his head in understanding. "Sure, boy. Enjoy the rest of your evening, don't let the boogie man GET YA!"
Ricky did not take notice of what Orlando said, per se —he walked a few steps, grabbed his duffel bag, and thought more about what Orlando said. Thinking to himself, Ricky thought, "Nawh… no that cannot be right." Still with a burning sensation in his stomach, he lowered the duffel bag to the floor and turned around to enter the locker room. Orlando was not there. Ricky dashed out and entered the weight room- again, no Orlando. Ricky looked back at the clock.
8:25 PM
Under his breath, Ricky said, "Oh, at least THAT makes sense… I am just overthinking things. I am out of here."
As Ricky stepped out of the weight room, a sudden chill enveloped him, and the air felt eerily still, as if time itself had frozen.
He shook and shivered. His teeth chattered at a sudden rapid pace. Ricky clenched his fists and closed his eyes, tilting his head up to face the ceiling.
“I know you're here,” he whispered.
Each door swung wide open, from the locker room to the manager's office to the front entrance. A gust of wind forced itself in, blowing Ricky's hair back as he opened his eyes. Dust swirled around him, blocking him from the fluorescent lights above, and he swallowed the dryness in his throat.
“Show yourself,” he said, with a calm and poise to his voice that was not present just a minute earlier. “SHOW YOURSELF, YOU BASTARD!!”
“BOYYYYYY…”
Ricky shook his head and stared at the towering figure before him. Heat radiated from him, followed by a deathly chill, drawing sweat and goosebumps alike. 
Darkspade had arrived. 
As if a light bulb switched to the on position- Ricky’s entire body was drenched in adrenaline, the likes he never experienced before, an urge to tackle Darkspade to the floor and beat the living b-gebus out of him!! And yet, Ricky was cautious about what he was witnessing— is this the true Unholy One? Or another sick display of deceit?
That answer came.
The Darkspade, draped in a long black ceremonial robe with an odd insignia—a black wire woven into the right and left of his shoulder guards bearing the letters "UM" —slowly and methodically made his approach… and with each passing step, the cold, dead aura intensified. Even now, Darkspade's slow approach was quite literally a slap in the face to Ricky… and then Darkspade kept on saying, "Boy…. Boy…. Boy…. BOY!! OOGIE boogie…. Heh heh heheh…." – and all the while, Darkspade had his arms outstretched and clawing at the sides of the walls with his dark steel gauntlets like something you see out of a horror movie.
Ricky's right hand clenched, his breath still, his eyes seemingly glistening with his heart pounding— shockingly— HE LUNGES FORWARD ALONG WITH THROWING HIS DUFFEL BAG AT SPADE— and tackles him to the ground. A series of hard downward thrusts with his fist met Spade's head—
***WAM!!!***
Ricky continues to punch and punch until finally Orlando pries Ricky off of the clothes on the ground and restrains him…..
"Bro!!! BRO!! What the heck are you doing? You're punching your own duffel bag."
And there, on the floor, was his duffel bag —wide open, with his clothes scattered everywhere.
Ricky's frustration grew to a new height… he screamed "Darkspade!! You COWARD!! What the hell do you want from me? Huh? Dude, I can keep going if you want…"
Orlando smiles, but it wasn't Orlando- no. It was Darkspade again. Ricky realizes the switch —and goes for another swing — but suddenly Darkspade ducks, then grabs Ricky by the neck, squeezing him tightly…
"What do I want? Heh. You have been feeding me this entire time, Boy. YOUR FEAR…. I crave it like a delicious desire—and just so you know —I will move on to devouring Corey Lazarus as well… accept it, you made me, Boy. This is your own damn fault. YOU……. MADE…………..ME!!!"
Ricky struggled against the monster as Darkspade lifted him off his feet, his feet inches off the floor as breath became harder and harder to come by.
“You…y-you…” Ricky spat out, his face flushed red. He could feel his eyes bulge from the pressure built in his head. The lights began to dim…
…and, in a moment, Orlando and the night manager were over him.
“Ricky,” said Orlando, “hey man, are you okay?”
Ricky sat up and took in the deepest breath he could.
“What the,” he choked out, “what the fu…did you see him?”
“See who, kid?” asked the night manager. “It's just us in here.”
“W-what,” Ricky sucked in all the wind he could handle, “what the hell do you mean?”
“Yeah, bro,” added Orlando, “you just started punching your clothes and then coughing.”
Ricky slammed his eyes shut and nodded. He swallowed, a pained action, and nodded more.
“I have to go,” Ricky whispered, “I can't be here.”
“Hey man, we can call someone to get you,” the night manager pleaded, but it was to no avail.
With great haste, Ricky threw his clothes back into his duffel bag and rushed to the New York streets. He ran to his motorcycle and checked his phone.
8:34 PM.
In a moment, the engine was kicked into gear, and down the road Ricky sped. He weaved in and out of lanes, ignoring the cacophony of honks and curses thrown his way.
The perspective then shifts to Ricky speeding down the dark highway, his mind preoccupied with the events of the night. He's zooming past a sea of cars, each one a blur, as he replays the events over and over. His predominant feeling is anger —an intense, seething rage directed at the despised Darkspade and his claim that HE made HIM. The scene then shifts to a side view, as if we are watching from an accompanying motorist. Ricky, his hand gripping the accelerator handle, is lost in his thoughts, the repetition of the events a constant in his mind.
9:06 PM.
Ricky sees his exit —and zips past a car honking to take it... headed home. Ricky is seen at multiple angles speeding down empty streets, then stopping at a red light. No one was there. Ricky contemplates if he should just run a red light when he then gazes at a decapitated building to his right... It looked oddly familiar. The green light comes, and he decides to make a turn and park in front of the eerie, familiar building, which was clearly set ablaze in the distant past... but again... something was off.... He couldn't believe his eyes, the building was a mere shadow of its former self.
Ricky takes off his helmet, places it on the seat, and then slowly slides off the motorcycle... Ricky walked up to the front of the building, and then his left foot struck a sign on the bottom.... a sign burnt except for the word.... GYM.
The sudden feeling of dread overtook his entire being-- clenching his fist-- he ventured forward and entered through what was the hallway, and on the wall was a condemned sign.... it stated:
WARNING BUILDING CONDEMNED on October 31st, 2021, at 8:34pm,
The building was set on fire by a possible arsonist, resulting in casualties:
Orlando, a gym member, and Marshall, the night manager.
Site set to be removed in early 2026.
The sight of the sign sent shivers down Ricky's spine, as if the past was reaching out to him.
Ricky backed off from the sign- he had remembered the time he left the gym where he sparred with Joshua Kaine numerous times-- "What the actual fuck... this cannot be the same gym... no no no"
A voice, a whisper to his left ear, "Boy"
Ricky turns around to see nothing- and then, Ricky's phone lit up with a message, it said, "Hey Ricky, waiting at the gym for ya, but you never showed up! Hope everything is ok. See you tomorrow, yeah?" The message only added to Ricky's confusion, as he was sure he had just left the gym.
Falling to his knees, Ricky sank his head into his knees and screamed until, suddenly, he was back on his motorcycle at his residence. The transition was so abrupt, it felt like a dream, or a nightmare.
***FADE***