The Spectral Agent - Chapter 1 - Text
Detective Viktor Levitsky is startled by a scream from his neighbor’s apartment
The Spectral Agent is published as an audiobook (and text), chapter by chapter, as a SubStack Podcast.
The harsh glow of the city lights stung my eyes as I listened to the lazy sounds of the rain pattering against the window. I sat on the couch in my apartment. It was late—past midnight—and I should’ve been asleep. Instead, I was absently flipping through the pages of a psychology textbook. Something to quiet my mind, though it never really worked. Suddenly, a scream shattered the stillness.
I froze. The sound was blood-curdling and raw, tearing through the thin walls of my building. It wasn’t distant—no, this came from next door. It sounded like it came from my neighbor’s apartment.
For a split second, I didn’t move, hoping it was just a trick of my overworked mind. Then a gunshot followed, loud and unmistakable.
I was on my feet in an instant, pulling on my boots without bothering to tie them. My jacket was still slung over a chair, but I didn’t stop to grab it. I darted into the hall, my pulse thundering in my ears as I reached the door.
“Olivia—It’s Viktor!”
I pounded on the wood, my voice echoing in the otherwise silent corridor. There was no response. I had already tried turning the handle, but it was locked. My hand tightened into a fist, pounding harder.
"Olivia!"
Instinct kicked in. I stepped back and kicked beside the cheap knob; it opened with a sharp crack. I stumbled inside and was hit with the scent of gunpowder. The second thing I noticed was the coppery tang of blood.
“Olivia?” I called again, softer this time. The word felt heavy in my throat. The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering of a muted television. My eyes adjusted slowly, picking out shapes in the darkness. I didn’t notice anything odd, yet.
I stepped into the bedroom. That’s when I saw her. She was on the bed, lying in a pool of blood. Dark hair fanned out around her pale face, and blood seeped from her temple. A handgun lay just out of her hand’s reach.
I crouched next to her. I wanted to say something—to speak, but nothing came out. Nothing could wake her from this now. I already knew the worst had come, but I still needed to check her pulse. I reached out hesitantly, my fingers brushing against her neck.
In that exact moment of contact, her eyes opened—wide and expressive. Her irises were red. A deep, vivid red. They stared through me—with an unnatural intensity I couldn’t unsee.
“They went... over there...”
I heard Olivia’s voice, but did not see her mouth open. It was barely audible and entirely strained. Her eyes darted to the corner of the room and then closed just as soon as they opened.
I knew better than to believe in tricks of the mind, but something in her voice—the way she looked—struck a chord within me that I couldn’t ignore. I turned to face where she had looked.
A thin trail of blood stretched across the floor, leading toward the window. It was not there when I first entered the room. My breath hitched as I rose to my feet. I approached the open window and looked out.
Outside, faint footprints marred the damp pavement, as though someone had fled in a hurry. I blinked, and when my eyes opened again, the footprints were gone. The rain must have washed them away.
I glanced back at my neighbor. Her body was completely limp, still as death. My training kicked in just then. I needed to call the department. I reached for my pocket but soon realized that my phone wasn’t there. I must have left it at my apartment.
I scanned the room to see if there was any device I could call on. I spotted a cell phone, most likely Olivia’s. Her phone was locked, but I could still call 911.
“This is Detective Viktor Levitsky,” I said when the operator answered. “I’m off duty, but someone's been shot. Send CSI and a coroner immediately.” The operator asked for the address, I gave it, and we wrapped up the call.
While I waited for the forensic team, I looked around Olivia's apartment for more clues. Like mine, it was tiny—one bedroom, one bath—so there wasn't much to see. The window was open, but that's not out of the ordinary when you don't have A/C. Nothing else looked out of place in her bedroom other than, of course, her body lying on the bed.
I didn't want to disturb the scene any more than I had already, so I used my elbow to push open the bathroom door—nothing. The combined living room and kitchenette were the same—nothing unusual. By all accounts, this looked like a suicide. I didn't know Olivia well, but she didn't seem troubled. You can never really know someone, but this didn't add up. And her eyes, what was that?
A knock startled me. The forensic team was in the open doorway. It had only been half an hour, but it felt like an eternity. I moved out of the way into the corner and stood, arms crossed, watching as they processed the scene. At first, I spoke only when asked questions. Steve arrived first, glancing at me with a look of mixed concern and professional detachment.
“Appreciate the call-in, Levitsky,” he said, flipping through a small notepad.
“You sure you didn’t hear anything before the scream?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. It was quiet.”
He frowned, his gaze shifting toward the body.
“Looks like a suicide. Gun’s right there, no sign of forced entry—other than you breaking in, of course.”
He stared at me with a lifted, accusatory eyebrow. I stared back, ignoring the bait. I knew these cop games, and I wasn't going to play them.
“It doesn’t feel right,” I said, almost automatically. “She screamed before killing herself?”
Steve shrugged.
“People do weird things when they’re panicked. You know that. It’s probably nothing, but we’ll know more after forensics does their thing.”
Probably nothing. The words circled in my head. Something about the scene tugged at the edges of my perception—an itch I couldn’t scratch. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a botched robbery or a panicked act of despair.
Dawn was breaking over the city by the time the team cleared out. I gave my statement and retreated to my apartment, but sleep was impossible. The image of Olivia’s flashing eyes stayed with me—a nagging sense of unfinished business keeping me restless. So, I headed out for a cup of coffee.
I walked towards my precinct's office with a second cup of coffee in one hand. With my other hand, I held my black coat tight against the cold. The sidewalks were slick from last night’s rain, glinting under the morning sun.
Food carts fired up on corners, already drawing crowds. Horns blared as a man cursed at a taxi. Life moved on. But I didn’t. Not really. My mind kept replaying Olivia’s last words.
"They went over there." Who was she talking about—did she really speak at all?
By late morning, I sat in the chief’s office, the events of the night still playing on a loop in my mind. The chief had tired eyes and a gruff demeanor. He listened as I recounted what happened. I couldn’t lie to him about what I had seen last night, so I explained every detail. Including the red flashing eyes, whispering, and footprints.
When I finished, he leaned back in his chair.
“Levitsky, you’ve been through a lot lately. Maybe you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”
“I know what I saw!” I said, voice stronger than I had anticipated.
“The footprints— and th-the voice—”
I stopped myself. I know all too well about how one can spiral into the realm of delusion if left unchecked. But nothing can change what I saw—what I felt. The unshakable feeling that an innocent life was taken—taken by someone else.
The chief sighed, rubbing his temples.
“Look, Viktor, you’re one of my best detectives, but you’ve been running yourself into the ground. It’s starting to show.”
“I don’t need time off,” I said, already predicting what he had to say.
“This isn’t a suggestion, Levitsky. It’s an order. Take four weeks. Medical leave. Effective immediately.”
I reluctantly nodded, “Understood. But please—just don’t let this get buried as a suicide.” He tipped his head back, though his expression told me he wasn’t convinced.
I stepped into the hallway, the door closing behind me. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the conversation settle in my chest. Just as I started to walk away, a faint sound stopped me in my tracks.
Through the office door, I heard the chief pick up the phone. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but his words were unmistakable.
“—it’s done.”
I stared at the door for a long moment, unease creeping up my spine. I didn’t dare open it. What's done?
After a minute, I turned, left the building, and walked home. By the time I reached my apartment, exhaustion had taken hold of me. I collapsed onto the couch, staring blankly at the cracks in the ceiling.
I’d been through a lot in my career, but something about this case felt different.
It felt wrong—very wrong.
Continue to Chapter 2.