Gotham Cathedral, July 26th, 1987
It was a testament to Gotham City that the only reason the cathedral was still in use was because up until recently, the municipal government had been too corrupt and incompetent to get around to declaring it condemned.
One of the oldest buildings in the city, the Gotham Cathedral had been part of it almost since it's founding, the towering church having reached completion in 1790, almost 200 years before. But time passed unmercifully, and even God's house was not exempt from the decay that plagued the poverty-stricken parts of the city. As once affluent neighborhoods became slums, so was the cathedral reduced to little more than a monument to past glories. The bells no longer rang, the tower was closed off, bright the stained-glass windows grew dim from grime and smog. Valuable icons and decorations were moved to more deserving churches, with wealthier patrons that could be trusted with the treasures of the Lord.
But faith doesn't rely on a few nice things to maintain itself, and even amongst this modern squalor, the faith of Gotham's poor remained. In the chapel at the center of the cathedral, lovingly cleaned and cared for with the little resources they had, it still thrived despite everything. That's why Father Richard Craemer took such joy in his position, a position he was fairly certain had been intended as some sort of punishment by his superiors. What better way to get rid of an argumentative and unruly priest than to dump him here, amongst the forgotten and downtrodden, where his outspoken nature wouldn't bother their rich supporters or raise uncomfortable questions amongst the public.
They thought they were punishing him, but Father Craemer knew the truth. The Lord had sent him where he was needed the most.
He was drawn out of his thoughts as he heard the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall, followed by the familiar noise of the door to the confession booth next to his own opening and closing. A shadow moved across the small window in the wall separating them, as whoever had just entered sat down, and Richard prepared hear them, wrapping his rosary around one hand, before sliding the confession window open.
"I'm here, my child. What is it you wish to confess?"
An unfamiliar male voice drifted in through the mesh panel covering the window "Ah, heh, this is awkward, but... I'm not catholic, and I'm not here to confess anything. I just needed to talk to a priest, and I noticed you were already inside this Forgiveness Booth thing you guys have, so it seemed faster than waiting for you to come out..."
Richard looked up, staring at the small window at the shape barely visible through the mesh "....I see..." This wasn't entirerly unprecedent, every now and then the church had visits from non-catholics, or even atheists, usually just lonely or desperate people who needed someone to talk to, but the man in the other booth didn't sound like either case, and had just said he wasn't there to confess anything. "...and just why do you have need for a priest, my son?"
"Well, it all started a bit over a week ago, and..." there was a pause "Man, there's no way to say this without it sounding ridiculous. I was there in person and I barely believe it! Screw it, might as well just rip the band-aid off. Father, I need to buy some holy water from you. And if you have a spare crucifix, that would probably be useful too!"
Richard blinked. That was a new one.
For a moment, he wondered if he was being pranked. Or if he was dealing with a drug addict of some kind. But the man didn't sound the least bit under the influence, his voice was clear and steady, aside from apparently not knowing how to word his request. But buying holy water? What in the Lords name was this all about? "My son, perhaps you'd like to continue this conversation face to face?"
"Yeah, that's probably a good idea, but I warn you, what I've got to tell you isn't going to sound less insane in person..."
Richard rose from his seat, placing the roasry back around his neck before opening the door and stepping back into the silence of the chapel. As he did, there was a shuffling noise in the other booth, and the door swung open. A man Richard had never seen before stepped out, his hair cut into a scraggly mohawk, with a wild beard covering the lower half of his face. He was dressed in jeans, and a denim jacket decorated with a bright, yellow smileyface button, and another button that Richard recognized as the Peace symbol.
"The name's Randall Flagg, father." The man said, holding out his hand in greeting "And I'm here because Gotham is about to have one hell of a pest problem..."
...
"...Vampires. You're telling me Gotham is about to be infested... by vampires?"
The priest, who I've now been told is named Richard Craemer, a name that sounds vaguely familiar to me, but isn't anyone I can directly place from the comics, takes on an understandably incredulous tone when I explain why I just tried to pay him for his faith's holy items. He's an older man, balding with a fringe of black hair on the back of his head, and a neatly cropped beard, dressed in the black robes and white collar of his office. We're sitting in the front row pews, right in front of the altar, with the statue of Jesus on the cross staring down at us from the wall above.
Ugh, never liked these statues. At least this one just has the guy look somber and depressed instead of twisted in agony.
"Okay, yes, I know how that sounds, trust me, I was trying to think of a better explanation the whole way over here, but in my defense, it's not my fault the truth is ridiculous." I shrug, glancing out through one of the grime-caked windows, which is barely letting in the afternoon sun through the filth. Man, this place has really seen better days. "Look, father, I know what it sounds like, but it's a very real threat, and I've already destroyed one of them, but I had backup that time, and these freaks can reproduce FAST. Frankly, we're lucky it's summer, that limits the hours they can get around in the open."
The priest sits in silence for a moment, hands pressed against his chin as he looks up at the statue looming over us "As you yourself said, it's quite an unbelivable tale. Especially since you have no way of proving it."
"Father, there's a guy flying around Metropolis with his underwear on the outside of his pants, I think the limits for what's belivable have gotten pretty vague in recent years. And who said I didn't have proof?" I reach inside my jacket, and pull out a small plastic bag, containing two familiar, tiny objects. Father Craemer's eyes widen as he looks down and realises what I'm holding.
"Are those... surely not...?"
I nod "Vampire fangs, straight from the source. You know the superhero Wildcat? The guy from the old Justice Society? I watched him punch these right out of a vampires skull a little over a week ago. If you want, I can get you in touch with him, he'll confirm everything I just told you..." I quickly stash the bag back into my pocket "So, there you have it, Father. Have I convinced you yet? Because otherwise I'll have to shop around some more..."
Father Craemer stands, before walking over to the baptismal font, which is currently empty. "You asked me to sell you holy water for this purpose, and that, I'm afraid I cannot do. To sell one of our holy sacraments for profit, that would be a sin of the highest order..."
Shit. Well, guess I'll have to keep looking. There's gotta be at least one priest in this hellhole of a city who's corrupt enough to sell me this stuff. Maybe one of those priests who keep absolving mobsters-
"...however!" Father Craemer continues, cutting off my line of thought "To donate the blessed waters for such a noble purpose... I believe the Holy Father would be amicable to that..."
Alright. Getting it for free works too, I guess.
....
Gotham Village, Gotham City, July 27th, 1987
Warren White paused right outside his garage to watch the skyline of the city light up, heralding the end of another long summers day as darkness crept across the evening sky. That was the drawback of his line of work, at least this early in his career, being the new guy at the office meant you got stuck with the long hours and the shittiest jobs, but you had to pay your dues if you wanted to move up in the world. He was learning a lot, forming connections that would serve him well in the future, and if that meant he had to spend his summer days at the office, well, soon enough he'd be able to dump most of his work on the next sucker to come along. Investment was a business for predators, people like him who could smell blood in the water, and boy, Gotham bled like a gutted pig.
Whistling merrily, twirling his house keys on one finger, Warren strolled up the garden path to the front door of his modest house. It wasn't much, just a simple two-bedder his aunt had left him when she died. God only knew why, he'd hated the bitch since he was a kid, and he hadn't been much of a liar back in those days, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. If the old bags senility made her confuse him for some other relative who gave a shit about her, hey, tough break. He didn't expect to be staying around here much longer anyway. Once he started making real money, he'd head up town to one of those swanky penthouses he could see on the horizons. No sir, Warren White wasn't going to stick around in some podunk suburb for the rest of his life, he was going places....
Unlocking the front door, Warren stepped inside, his whistling tapering off as he walked into the hallway. His good mood began to fade, replaced by a strange sense of unease. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, but there was something... different about the house tonight. It was dark, the lights were off, lit only by the streetlights coming on outside, leaving most of the building in a twilight gloom. But that wasn't anything new, he worked late all the time, he'd come home later than this, and he'd never felt like this before. The hair stood on the back of his neck, like in some cheap paperback horror story for crying out loud!
It's times like this he was grateful he'd bought a gun when he moved to Gotham.
It wasn't much, just a regular .22 caliber, but unless the person you shot at was wearing body armor, they'd still die from it. And it hid snugly in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
Pulling the weapon out, Warren slowly crept through his home, checking carefully as he went. The hallways was clear... the kitchen was clear... the bathroom was clear... the living room was-
!!!
There was someone there, sitting in his favorite chair, the silhouette of his head standing against the streetlights coming in through the back windows. In the shadows creeping around the room, Warren White could see little of the intruder, but what was there was enough to freeze him on the spot. Pale, bloodless hands, with fingers like claws, clutched at the armrests of the chair. And a white face hovered in the middle of the darkness, the black robe covering the body like a funeral wreath.
And the eyes... those cold, yellow eyes, glowing like twin moons in the middle of the shadows...
"Who...who..." Warren tried to stammer out, his tongue like a frozen slug in his mouth. He tried to raise the gun, but it was useless, his arm hanging like a wet noodle at his side, fingers locked around the weapon like a lump of iron. "Who are... You think you can just..." He swallowed "Do you know who I am?!"
And the white face grinned
"I know who you are, Mr. White. You're The Worst Man I've Ever Met. And that makes you useful to me..." The face spoke, with a voice like ashes. And Warren White felt himself grow cold, despite the warmth of the summer evening.
"What... what do you want from me...?"
"Servitude..." The ashen voice said, burning eyes locking into his "A pawn if you will, someone to go where I cannot, move during times when I'm at rest. And you, Warren White, is exactly that man. Serve me, and I promise you..." There was movement, and one of the bloodless hands suddenly extended towards him. Warren recoiled, instincts kicking in, until the hand opened, and a golden gleam caught his attention. In the palm of that hideous thing, rested a pile of weathered gold coins, glittering in the light from the window "...you will be rewarded beyond whatever paltry riches your mortal mind can comprehend..."
The horror seemed to drain from his body as Warren White found himself staring transfixed at the glimmering bounty held in that monstrous hand. The outrage at his home being invaded, the fear of this decaying thing sitting there like it didn't violate every sane law of reality, none of it mattered in the face of this offer. Still, he had to ask. "...who are you?"
A cold laugh "I've had many names, Warren White. The most recent... is Kurt Barlow. But all who have known me, know me by my card..."
There was a flourish, and something fluttered into Warren's field of vision, drawing him away from the tantalishing gleam of the gold. He fumbled as he tried to grasp the object, finally catching it with both hands, and saw that it was a playing card, one that seemed faintly familiar. It was a rather macabre image, showing a skeleton dressed in a knights armor, riding a white horse, holding a black flag with a strange symbol that Warren didn't recognize. The horse and it's ghoulish rider strode atop the bodies of the dead and dying, including a king, a priest, a child and a woman. No one was spared.
And at the bottom was written a single word, one that chilled Warren White to his soul.
DEATH