Agent L - A Short Story

It was December 24th, and I was huddled in my thin overjacket, much too light for this weather. The snow has stopped, but the aftertaste of frost hung in the air like chemically sweet perfume. In downtown Chicago, at this time of night, this time of year, it's both dead and busy. Darkness enveloped every turn and niche, but just as there was darkness, there was always light.
The name's Agent L. Don't ask me what the L stands for. Even I don't know. What am I an agent of? Also confidential. The only thing I can tell you is that I need to find the files before the Others do. Who are the Others? Damn, you ask a lot of questions.
I continued walking briskly past the illuminated neon shop signs, taking brief notice of my complexion in the reflections. What I saw did not surprise me, as I have gone days without sleep. My hair was disheveled and sticking together with sweat, and even my clothes matched the dirty, careless look I had apparently been going for. Those dark, gaunt eyes stared back at me like a ghost waiting for the opportune moment to appear and finally put an end to me. I looked away.
Finally, I arrived at my destination. Past a maze of alleyways and shortcuts, the tall looming Victorian style house of Dr. Ortega stood before me. Poison ivy and various shriveled shrubs had taken over the small plot of soil in front of the house. Even in this dim moonlight mixed with various synthetic city lights, the disrepair of this house was evident. The windows were cloudy and cracked, though still intact, and the deep henna bricks that once would have been a beautifully patterned around the house now was missing so many pieces that it reminded me of my grandfather's teeth, bless his soul. Taking a few cautious steps, I inched my way past the winter-sharpened vegetation  to the grand oak door. Surely, Dr. Ortega couldn't be so careless as to leave his front door open? But with just a simple turn of the knob, the heavy slab of oak opened itself up with an eerily high screech.
I guess he left in more of a hurry than I assumed, I thought.
Taking out my flashlight, I scanned the room beyond the door. It looked normal enough, except for the fact that the musty smell of disuse proved how long ago Dr. Ortega had abandoned his work. With almost silent steps, I made my way further into the old house, glad that I was at least out of the cold for now. Knowing the inside of this building all too well, I started walking upstairs in the dark, aided by only my memory. There should be a turn, a squeaky step, followed by a sharp-cornered little coffee table. How did I remember these things? It was so long ago that... My thoughts were interrupted by the high-pitched laughter of a child.
"Aren't you supposed to be all cozy under your blankets? Santa's coming you know."
Not easily startled, I pulled out my pistol from my belt, aiming at the general direction of the voice. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and with the softest glow of light coming from the window, I could see the silhoulette of a little boy. I have learned long ago never to underestimate children, so my pistol remained firm in my grip.
"Who are you?" I asked.
The child did not respond, but instead, backed up farther into the room I had intended to search through.
"Hey! Get back out here! Don't think I'm afraid to shoot a kid 'cause buddy, I'm not," I said grimly.
After a few silent moments, the little boy came back out with something in his hands. It was a pile of papers, hurriedly stuffed into a paper file folder. And as luck would have it, that's just the pile of papers I was looking for.
"Look at you! All helpful and whatnot. Here, hand it over..." I said with a big smile on my face.
But as luck would have it, he had a gun in his other hand. Before I could process that information, an immense pain exploded in my knee. As I keeled over in agony, I tried to take a shot back at him. It was too late, he had disappeared from my view. Suddenly, something cold touched the back of my head. It was my own pistol, but I was not the one holding it. The voice I heard was the last one I could possibly expect.
"I told you never to come back," said the deep, cold voice.
Impossible.
"You should've been with the rest of 'em. What the hell are you doing back?"
That can't be.
"Have you lost the ability to talk? Speak, Goddammit!"
I couldn't bear it anymore. Slowly, I turned around with my hands raised, only to be met by the face of... Dr. Ortega?
"But... That's impossible," I said. "You're supposed to be dead. I saw you die! I... I killed you!"
My world was spinning. Nothing was making sense. The day Dr. Ortega left this house... No. He never left this house. He died here. I was the one that left in a hurry. My brothers and sisters...
"After all this time, you still have the nerve you show your face here! The things you did to this family... I oughta blow your head up right now."
I remember now. It's too late though. I can't change what I've done. I'm so sorry.
BANG!
Crimson washed over my vision. The corner of a brochure stained.

***

My name is Lucas Ortega, and I live here in this big house with my brothers and sisters. My daddy is a doctor, and he adopted all of us into one big happy family. Sometimes, he does these weird spearmints on us, and they hurt, but I still love him. I wish I could control my anger, but daddy says being angry is good. He says I'm going to be big and strong and be his bodyguard one day. I really hope I can get strong faster, I really want to keep daddy and my sisters and brothers safe.

***

I shouldn't have taken those extra pills. Daddy said not to. I was so angry. I don't even know why I was so angry. There's so much red stuff everywhere. Why isn't anyone moving? Lazy butts. We were supposed to go camping today.

***

"Not your typical suicide, huh?"
Flashes of cameras and the rustling of plastic filled the cramped house of Dr. Ortega.
"Looks like this case had finally been put to an end. Tragic it had to end this way... Everybody got such a terrible fate in the end."
"After all these years, why did he escape from the asylum and shoot himself in the head? It just doesn't make sense."
"Who knows what kind of mush that kid's brain has turned into? That Ortega was a demon, doing all those experiments on children."
Sounds of scrubbing the floorboards.
The corner of a Whitelake camping brochure stained.
The zip of a body-sized bag.