1 I Write Incidents Not Tragedies (pt. 1)

Humid office surrounded by a busy traffic, a cage for the man simply called Dewey. With the fan broke two days ago and he was given no other option than to deal with the heat. Hot, scorching, one might say, was the norm of the season. He knew that very well, in fact, he just wrote an article about people collapsing from a heatstroke the other day.

"Ms. Joanne, would you look at this? I think I broke the computer." Dewey sighed. Ms. Joanne came to see the issue, she seemed pissed.

"You didn't." She clicked and clacked the keyboard and everything was fixed. "Really, maybe I should just let you sit behind a typewriter."

He smiled awkwardly. "My bad." A boring routine consisting of interviews and writing articles, that was all his life about, at least until few weeks ago. He was off to observe a scene taking place in a private gallery owned by someone named Alexander Lange, an incident taking place during an exhibition which caused people to collapse for no explainable reason.

When he asked the exhibition visitors, all they said was nothing but myths related to demons or something along that line. He could not write anything out of it, granted he never firmly believed in anything supernatural.

However, that day he heard a whisper echoing inside his ear, and it was not the voice of a person. It was too elaborate of a joke, he thought. Today as well, he was still thinking about the whisper he heard.

"Dewey! I just got a call, there's an incident at the corner of Vaysha park. Save your draft for later, we're going." His supervisor said.

Four people got in to the van, the engine sprinted down the busy road to reach the location as fast as it could. When the crew arrived, there was a fire truck parked in front of a bookstore by the corner of Vaysha park. "Dewey you go first, we'll get a shot or two over here." His coworker said.

"Got it." Dewey ran to the scene, he was stopped by a fireman. "Excuse me, I'm a journalist for Macromax, I'd like to,"

"Stay back! The building might collapse at any moment." The fireman pointed at the charred wall and ceiling of a building, fire broke out and burned part of the building down. A number of firemen ran to evacuate the trapped victims, some kept the crowd away from the building, just like the one currently standing there.

Dewey got away from the crowd, ran down the alleyway to get closer to the building. He made sure to not get spotted by anyone. He did a good job at getting away, however, he was met with a victim, seemingly in terrible condition. His body was covered in flesh and burn wounds he could not even walk properly. "Hold on!" Dewey rushed and caught him when he was about to collapse. The wounds were worse upon looking at them closer.

"Here… take it…" The man whispered, followed by a series of coughs. He handed a tube-shaped container to Dewey. "Get away… from here. There are…" The man was in critical condition, combined with smoke poisoning, he needed an immediate treatment. Dewey shouted for help, and a fireman came running towards them. "Listen!" He shrieked with all his might. Dewey looked at him, trembling. "Don't tell anyone… that you have it." He gripped Dewey's hand.

Dewey nodded. "Understood."

The fireman brought the man with Dewey's help, his life however, was ultimately could not be saved. The day ended with a mourn, while Dewey had written dozens of articles related to incidents, this was his first time to witness a death in one right before his eyes.

The sun began to set, marking the end of working hours. He smoked by the office building, his eyes were blank, he simply let the cigarette burn like an incense while standing there.

"That's just how it is in this field." A coworker squatted beside him.

"Oh, Danny." He snapped Dewey out of it. "You've ever held a dying person before?" He asked.

Danny smiled. "Never." He stood up. "Take a day off, we've got ourselves some interns anyway. Gotta teach them some real works, ya know?" He patted Dewey's shoulder.

"Sounds like a bad omen to me." He laughed in sarcastic manner.

He went back to his apartment, took of his clothes and got a shower. He sat on the floor, examining the container he got from the dying man. Upon a closer look, it has a cap. He opened it, revealing tiny pieces of rock in a small flask.

"Gemstones? Or drugs?" He shook the flask, nothing happened. The stones might be a piece of a bigger dirty job, he thought. He put it back to the container and put it on the table. "No wonder he told me to stay quiet about it." He laid his body down.

"That intention of his was a correct response on him dying." He heard a voice. His eyes were wide open but he could not identify the owner of that voice he heard.

Aside from his ex-girlfriend, he could not think of anyone who could have entered the room. Not even his parents whom he left in his hometown have a spare key to open the door. None of them had the same voice as the one he just heard. Shivers climbed up his spine, sweat ran down his face.

"I might be hallucinating." Dewey shook his head. He insisted himself to believe that the flask contained some sort of hallucinogen and he was under its effect, after all, different kinds of drugs were developed around the time.

"You are not, mortal." The container rolled and fell to his feet. "Pick me up." Dewey stared in terror, he jumped back against the wall. "Be not afraid."

"And how am I supposed to do that!? Am I going insane?" Dewey kicked the container across the room. "Right, right, I must be dreaming." He panted. "Ha, haha, am I high? Did the heat this afternoon mess my head up?" He pulled his own ear. He laughed while wheezing, sweat ran down his temple to his chin.

For a supernatural nonbeliever like him, encountering such illogical thing was a nightmare beyond nightmare. Not only his mind could not keep up with the situation, but also his principle to not believe in such thing suffered a major damage.

"Right, it must be that small speaker thingy." He told himself to stay calm over and over again.

"I am not," The container rolled towards him again. "I am a demon by the name of Gaap, tell me, are you my next host?"