Describe What You do for a Living

Late nights at the law firm are never easy, but this night was different. The clock ticked past midnight, and I was still there, buried beneath mountains of case files and dusty law books. The law library was vast, echoing with the creaks and groans of an old building settling into its bones. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, but not me. The cases demanded more; they always did.

The fluorescent lights flickered, casting long, skeletal shadows across the stacks. The air was cold, too cold, and it seemed to press in around me, thick like a shroud. I was searching through ancient tomes, cases long forgotten, when I felt it—a presence. I looked up, my heart hammering in my chest, but the library was empty. Of course, it was empty.

Then, a book fell. I jumped, startled, and laughed at myself—a nervous, uneasy laugh that didn’t quite reach my lips. I walked over to the book, lying face-down on the floor, pages splayed out like a broken bird. I picked it up. It was an old case file, yellowed with age, its binding cracked and brittle. I’d never seen it before. The title read: "The Last Witness."

Suddenly, the door to the library slammed shut. I dropped the book, the sound echoing like a gunshot. I ran to the door, but it was locked. I pulled and yanked, but it wouldn’t budge. My breath quickened, a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. I felt eyes on me—someone was watching.

Then, a whisper—soft, barely audible, like a breath against my ear: "Leave… don’t make me get Gregory."

My heart stopped. Gregory. Who was Gregory? And why did the voice sound like it knew him so well?

I spun around, but no one was there. The room felt darker, smaller, the shadows creeping closer. I could hear my own heartbeat, a frantic drumbeat in the silence. I grabbed my phone, but there was no signal. Of course, there was no signal.

Then, I saw it—a figure in the far corner, cloaked in shadow, standing perfectly still. I blinked, and it was gone. But the feeling of dread remained, the certainty that I wasn’t alone. I backed away, my hands trembling, and I bumped into a bookshelf. The books tumbled down, and as they hit the ground, the whispers grew louder, like a chorus of voices rising from the dead.

I was trapped. Trapped with something I couldn’t see, something that wanted me to feel its fear. I turned back to the door, my last hope, and there was the figure again, closer this time. I could see its eyes now, glowing with an unnatural light, staring into mine, unblinking. A cold hand gripped my shoulder, and I screamed.

And then…nothing. Just silence. The lights were steady again, the room still. The door was open, swaying gently. I ran, leaving behind the whispers, the shadows, the feeling that I had barely escaped. But as I left, I saw it: my name, scrawled in blood-red ink across "The Last Witness" file.

And I knew—I’d be back.

 
In the shadows where time undos,
a Professor of arts, with eyes shining,
revealing secrets from a dark past
where brushes and paints hide the cold.
 
Frames whispering pain stories
of artists lost in an eternal torpor.
Colors that bleed, forms that scream
on each screen, souls that stir.
 
The room darkens, the silence is deadly.
The Professor mutters an infernal tale
of a painter who sold his soul to the devil
to create works of an ineffable terror.
 
Fates weave cruel destination wires
while the Furies dance in a carousel
of revenge and coldness, of hate and fear.
Bringing to life an old horror.
 
Students tremble, their hearts speed up,
while ghosts of old masters expect
in the shadows and figures begin to move.
The Professor smiles, ready to teach and terrify.

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I work in a probation hostel and as that word implies it's residential.          
(I live out)                                                  
Some of the residents are remanded here, pretrial, by the courts               
some, who've finished their sentences, are waiting to be rehoused.            
In other words it is a half-way house.                            
                           
I cook the meals.                            
                           
It's an easy job and extremely well payed and I've any amount of willing      
labourers in my two kitchens. Two because vegetarian meals have to     
be kept away, by law, from meat-meals. If not the residents will throw a wobbly. They throw wobblies at the drop of a hat. But that's many other stories.                          
                           
Because I'm just an ancillary worker to the judiciary I don't officially know  what anyone has done or is accused of doing but, walls have ears.                                                  
It's mixed gender staffed but only those identifying as male are sent here by the courts or accepted by the probation service. It simplifies stuff.                          
                           
In my dining room I've fed murderers, arsonists, sex-offenders and all         crimes in-between. Liver and onions is a favorite in the meat side and       I've had many repeat offenders, passing back into some desperate life       or back to prison, helping me in my kitchens. Peeling onions!                            
                           
By the way the Wardens don't allow any violent offenders near me. I'm       a protected species. If anything happens to me they'd have to do my job   as best they can and that often leads to reeeal baaad, complications...                          
                           
I can generally leave the vegetarian side of my job to my repeat offenders ( unofficially)                            
                           
I had one in there recently, said he was a vegetarian and had years of         experience cooking vegetarian meals in prison and other institutions         and his speciality was veg pie. He said " I've an aversion to the smell       of meat cooking " and if I didn't mind he'd keep away from that side         of things. All very polite and respectful. But a bit dull as if life              
had beaten him down. A big change to most of my unruly and boisterous residents.                
                   
I'd just arrived and wasn't completely changed for work I was                    
still wearing my rings and stuff, all unhygienic in a kitchen. I've a pearl       wrist band like a scrunchie and as we chatted I slipped it off and put it with my stuff into my pocket. He perked up a bit as I pocketed my gear I guess he recognized the hygiene aspect of it, him being employed in kitchens an all.              
                 
Anyhow he said his name was Todd but said folk who knew him called him Barber.  He got Barber, he said, cos he had a pair of hair-clippers he'd somehow hung on to and he'd cut people's hair down to the bone. Very useful, in cramped surroundings, I thought, like jails where head lice could become a real nuisance.                          
                           
He's one of the older residents and really needs to be in something like      an old-folks home and, I guess, I must've missed lots of clues regarding    his past like " other institutions " and that the probation service was having great difficulty in rehousing him. Buthe wasn't with us long his P.O. got him placed in a serviced flat for old folks. Well, he was just an old dodderer. Perhaps he'd carve a small job for himself among the other old folk.          
         
We had a change of government and they decided to make room in the prisons for more unfortunates.         
                           
Later I read newspaper reports regarding early release of some prisoners  and how, lots of those released, would soon be back inside. That article,   repeated in lots of provincials, was fleshed out here and there with some lurid banner headlines like  " Killers Slip Out With The Petty Thieves " and   " With this gov't Even the Nutters get Out! " They, of course, named         names.                          
                           
Here is just one of those names, George Arthur Reginald Todd.                 aka Barber aka Sweeney was being released to HMP Frankland,                 Durham, then to the Probation Service for release, under license,                 by the Parole Board. This after spending 38 years in Broadmoor for             theft and murder ( he'd cut the throat of the cook for her string of pearls)   in their employer's works-canteen then, he cooked and ate his victim's liver...That got him locked up in Broadmoor. Still, he can slice a neat onion.