The Blurred Man: Gestalt
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The man was already dead. He just didn’t know it yet.
He stepped out of the Beer Goggles bar, staggering only slightly. His steps were careful, his stride focused as he strode along the wet sidewalk. Other pedestrians passed by, their steps quick as they tried to duck into waiting cars or adjacent night clubs and restaurants. The rain was light but steady, sparkling in the headlights of passing cars.
The man turned the collar of his coat up and adjusted his wool felt cap. He had walked the same route many times, could do it in his sleep, much less only half inebriated. His manner was confident, carefree. Oblivious to the nocturnal dangers, the malice that trailed him like a coalescing shadow.
Just like the others.
Steve Dupree’s view was awash in red, filmed over with static, accelerated like a film on fast-forward. He glimpsed his reflection in the window of a dead clothing store: slight height and build, dark clothes, hoodie pulled over his head. He saw no face in the depths of the hood, only shadow. It was as if there was no face at all, just a yawning mouth of darkness.