Masked Remnants
- Trickie
- Oct 26
- 18 min read
Updated: Oct 27
© Copyright by Trickster Ozaki (Bryam R. Rios), 2025
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The stories, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products are intended or should be inferred.
The Crow in the Alley
Things just haven’t been the same in Manhattan. The city’s feels hollow. The NYPD’s cruisers had spent the day combing the streets, loudspeakers became blaring pleas for information about the recent disappearances. But at night, the city is just another victim of the killer’s rampage.
I shouldn’t be out here. Anyone with sense would be home behind locked doors, but I’ve long stopped pretending to care. There’s no one waiting for me anymore — not since my wife left. She used to call me a burden. A waste of space. Maybe she was right.
Tonight, though, I felt something different. Something close to peace.
The air was cold and clean, and for once, I could breathe. I closed my eyes and tilted my head toward the moonlight spilling between the high-rises. The city was in a hush around me with distant horns, dripping gutters, and the faint scurry of rats. Yet, beneath it all, another sound—or maybe the lack of one.
Someone was watching me.
I opened my eyes, and there he was.
Across the narrow alley stood a tall figure. A mask, pale and cracked, covered his face. The beak of a crow jutted forward, and from within the hollow sockets glowed a pair of green eyes that shimmered like ghost fire.
For a moment, I thought I was imagining it. Then a car rolled past on the street behind him, its headlights sweeping across the alley. The light caught him fully this time. They wore a tattered hoodie, blood-smeared clothes, and a blade strapped to his thigh. He looked like he’d crawled straight out of one of the NYPD’s missing-persons reports.
I should’ve run.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I stepped closer.
Each footfall was like my breath — shallow and uneven. The closer I got, the sharper his grin became. It’s cruel, knowing, almost… inviting. He drew a hunting knife from his belt with a slow, deliberate motion. Moonlight slid down the blade’s edge like liquid silver.
And I smiled back.
Not out of bravery, but because, deep down, I knew what this was. The end I’d been waiting for. The relief I’d been craving.
The thumping in my chest grew louder — a rhythm of fear and ecstasy. He raised the knife. I spread my arms, closing my eyes to the sound of my own heartbeat, letting the cold night swallow me whole.
For the first time in years, I felt free.
Engulfed by Darkness, His Light Prevails
The blackout in Manhattan is doing what blackouts do best: making everything that’s already broken look bigger.
The drip pan hisses like some tiny, angry animal. One candle flickers on my nightstand, a sad little thing, more relic than light. Next to it, a photo of Nate. That stupid grin. The one that could ruin your heart and fix it in the same second. I flip it over. Guilt is an accessory I can’t afford right now.
Footsteps crawl down the hallway, slow, like they know exactly where the weak spots in my life are. The bedroom door groans. Then the scratching starts. Nails tapping, scraping, a rhythm I can feel in my bones. And the things in the dark start to sing.
“Mason,” they whisper. Silk and poison. “We know. We know what you feel. We don’t want to hurt you. Just put. It. Out.”
I’m tired. Not just the normal tired, the everyday kind. I’m tired down to the marrow. “Leave,” I say. My voice is thin, almost a whisper. “Go. Or I’ll—” The words die in my throat. Threats sound ridiculous when your hands shake like they’ve got a mind of their own.
They keep talking. “We can taste it. The grief gnawing at your ribs, the envy, the rage. She struts through life adored for nothing. He feasts on what he never earned. Your so-called friend stole the thing you wanted most. You choke on their laughter every day, and you still smile. Pathetic. Let us fix what you’re too weak to claim.”
Fix. That word digs in. Deep. They only repeat what I already know. I’ve bent. I’ve broken. I’ve survived. Somehow, I’m still here.
Tears track down my cheeks, hot and sticky, tasting like wax. I cup the candle, ridiculous, panicked. “Please,” I whisper. “I need this.”
“You don’t,” they hiss. “Remember their smiles? Carefree, laughing, as the world bent for them? And you—” a rasping chorus, broken and layered, “you reek of envy. Sweet, thick, intoxicating. Let it spill. Put your hands down, Mason.”
For a second, I almost do. My fingers twitch. The candle wavers, pleading. Then I see him. That ridiculous grin. His hand, warm against my jaw.
Your smile lights the world, he’d said. Promise me you’ll keep smiling.
I grab the photo and press it to my lips. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I love you.”
The monsters flinch. I barely notice. Something cracks open inside me. The light isn’t just the candle anymore. It’s me. It rushes out, brighter than anything I’ve ever known. Every memory floods back: every laugh, every stupid little dance in the kitchen, every quiet night where love filled the silence. It’s him. It’s us. It’s me.
The flame surges. Shadows scatter like startled animals. They scream as the brilliance burns through them. The blackout breaks. Lights hum back to life. The drip pan is quiet. The photo warm against my chest.
I sit there, hands sticky with wax, tears streaking my face. For the first time in forever, I know: I’m still here. I am light. Not because the world gave me anything, but because love lit something in me that the dark can’t touch.
The shadows will come back. Probably. But tonight? Tonight they lost. Tonight my light… my light shines. And it’s enough.
Masked Remnants
Fifteen years since that night at the arcade, and Charlatan still smelled like smoke.I’d sworn the fires died with him, but I was wrong. Every time another building burned, I saw his face in the flames — the boy I couldn’t save, the one I couldn’t stop loving. So when the latest blaze broke out at Hallowspire Square, I knew I’d come full circle.
I reached my safehouse outside the city. The trunk was cold, rain pooling in the grooves of the metal. I opened the trunk to unload my belongings. My heart skipped. A small, weathered box sat at the bottom — the same box that had haunted me since my time at the academy.
This stupid piece of cardboard is the calling card of the arsonist who burned the city down to a crisp. Those who saw the box were said to be his next target. Most were never seen or heard from again; others were traumatized by what they witnessed.
I lifted the lid. A postcard slid into view first — glossy, edges water‑softened, the stamped image of Hallowspire Square caught in that golden‑hour glow you never forget. Beneath the postcard lay a torn photo — only a corner of a face remained, my jawline blurred in the smear, the rest ripped away. My throat closed.
Then I noticed the lid’s inside was written on too: a neat line of ink across the wood. Below it is another line:
Last chance to keep your life the same.
Tears trailed down my cheek, but I wiped them away hard. This was not the place to fall apart. I slammed the trunk shut, heart thudding against bone, and climbed into the driver’s seat. I’d seen the box once before. At the academy morgue beside another officer’s remains. Now it sat in my trunk like an omen. Whoever left it wanted me to remember what I’d buried.
The city lights faded behind me. The endless rows of buildings gave way to winding roads. Rain pelted the car windows as I left Manhattan behind, heading toward the ruins of Charlatan, the city the arsonist turned to ash. I only wished I could have saved him. Nate, I’m sorry for not being brave enough to return when the arcade burned down.
Rubble crunched beneath my tires. The masked man was still on the loose, and I had no time to waste. As I navigated the maze of crumbling streets, jitters clawed at my insides like a swarm of nervous butterflies. The silence of the city was thick, broken only by the howling wind.
A figure emerged from the shadows. Red eyes glowed with a predatory focus. At first, I thought it might be a crow with a long, sharp beak, but I knew better. Moonlight revealed a tattered black hoodie and pants streaked with dirt and grime. Dry blood smeared across the mask’s beak and eye sockets. He stuffed his hand into his pocket, and I instinctively reached for my holster.
"Drop whatever you have and put your hands up where I can see them! Now!”
He raised a hand — a lighter perched between his fingers.
“Drop it,” I demanded.
“As you wish,” he said. With a swift flick and a toss, he ignited a ring of fire, encircling us in a menacing glow and I’m forced to stumble away from the heat.
Metal flashed in his hand from the corner of my eye, but it was too late. Pain seared through my forearm as he thrust a steel blade into it, forcing me to release my weapon. The ghost city erupted into our battleground. Rain poured down as the masked man closed in. If I didn’t act, everything I’d done would be for nothing. My blood would only add to his trophy collection.
The fire fizzled to embers under the downpour. Silence settled, heavy and broken only by ragged breaths. He knocked me to the ground and advanced. A light caught my eye, so I turn my head. It's my gun, submerged in mud. I dragged myself across the street to reach it.
He pivoted me with his foot, knife raised. Thunder roared and, without warning, I shoot. He dropped to his knees, clutching his leg. The acrid sent of smoke and spent gunpowder burned my lungs.
“It’s over.” I gasped. “You won’t get far.”
Still silent, he pulled a small revolver from his pocket. I had been bested again, forced to play his game and lose.
"Dammit, don’t," I whispered. My plea fell on deaf ears. The trigger clicked. The gunshot echoed through deserted streets. I froze, watching the masked man crumple. Blood pooled around him. He spared me — but why?
I stood, rain washing the blood from my hands, when something peeked in his grasp — a photo strip. Me and Nate, laughing at the arcade before it burned. My breath caught. How the hell did he have this?
Something about the way he slumped… the tilt of his shoulders… made my stomach knot before I even touched the mask. the faint metallic smell of blood mixed with rain hit me as I reached down and peeled the mask away.
For a second, the world stopped.
The rain blurred his face, but there was no mistaking him. I got nauseous, every muscle locking in disbelief. No. My knees nearly gave out. Nate’s eyes stared back at me.
A raw sound tore from my throat, somewhere between a scream and a sob, bouncing off the hollow buildings around us. I fell beside him, shaking, searching for any explanation that made sense. None came.
Then I saw it. Crumbled in his hands. Two photos, one ripped and the other a strip. Faint ink bled through the paper, half-smudged but legible under the rain. My fingers shook as I turned it over.
It’s either you, him, or the boy.
Beneath it was another line:
He’ll die choking on smoke, lungs melting before the flames take him. And his boy, Niles, won’t even get the chance to scream.
I grabbed the ripped photo and the one I had in my pocket. Together, the full image came into focus: me holding my son, Niles, in my arms. Nate had been forced into a choice no one should face. The ultimatum wasn’t about him — it was about me and my son. But, who would do this?
Before I could gather my thoughts, a shadow detached itself from the alley behind me. Pain seared across my side as a blade plunged into me. I stumbled, eyes widening as I took in the figure before me.
The rain blurred her features, but the intensity in her gaze cut through everything.
“You’ve done… nothing right,” she hissed, voice low, venomous. “The diseased don’t belong in this world. You were given the chance to correct the damages you propagated. All you had to do was let go and walk away. But you… You chose him to put him first. And now… you will pay.”
The world tilted as darkness crept in from the edges of my vision. My chest burned. Blood seeped through my clothes. Rain washed over it in a futile attempt at absolution. In my final glimpse, I saw her face. A god playing judge and executioner.
“Melly?”
The city’s cries, the storm, the past ten years of pursuit — it all faded.
And with them, me.
The Promise
Stars assemble along the array of blue and purple hues, decorating the night sky. The trees sway in the rain to the chorus of sobs and cries that echo through the open gates. Yellow and orange leaves cascade around a clock tower, which resides at the center of this maze-like garden. The decaying shrubs rest on the saturated soil. The lights that illuminate the smooth trail flicker with the clunking of my boots.
Memories flash like lightning during a crazed storm with each step. Fog envelopes me in its misty embrace, leaving a trace of salt and mystery on my tongue. The embrace transcends the boundaries between the living and deceased. A connection unbroken by the grasp of death. At last, it all comes to a standstill upon reaching a large, flat stone that was overtaken by stemless leaves. Its ridged cracks become prominent as I scatter the moss and prickly vines that cover it.
The crows chirp as they glide onto another tombstone across from me. One gawks inquisitively, while I gaze at the inscription with drenched eyes and tear stained cheeks.
Mason Sterling 1975 – 2020. He died protecting those he loved. May his soul find peace.
“Hey, Dad. I came back. Just like I promised.”
I paused, letting the words hang in the air, heavy with all the things I never got to say. “I… I wish you could see me now. I’m bigger than I was… stronger, I think. I hope I’m making you proud. I hope… I’m living the life you wanted for me.”
The silence felt endless. I swallowed hard. “I talk to you sometimes, when it’s quiet. When I feel like I’m losing myself… I remember your laugh. Your stupid grin. The way you’d make even the worst day seem lighter.”
My throat tightened. “I just… I just wish you were here. I wish you could see how far I’ve come, Dad. How much I’ve grown. And I hope, somehow… somehow, you know I still carry you with me.”
I exhaled, the weight of the years pressing down. “I love you, Dad. Always.”
Whispers
The voices in my head won’t shut up. They taunt and laugh, fully aware of how much of a coward I am.
Their laughter crashes through me like a tidal wave, pounding against my ribs until my diaphragm seizes. I double over, gasping, pain surging through my chest. We won’t let you go, they whisper.
Why can’t I remember how to breathe?
Hot sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes. My legs wobble, and I lunge for the medicine cabinet, fingers clawing at the handle. The sudden weight tips the wooden frame forward. Bottles of all sizes spill and clatter to the floor, rolling and tumbling. I wince as their sharp clatter echoes through the room.
“Damn it!” I drop to my knees, hands scrambling through the mess, eyes darting from one label to the next. The voices grow louder, pressing in from every direction.
I throw each one over my shoulder in a frantic search. Panic crawls under my skin, sparking through every nerve. “Come on… where is it!”
Then I see it— the one with the glittery Pikachu sticker on the cap.
My hand shoots forward. I clutch it tight against my chest, a tearful smile breaking through, holding it as if it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the world.
I twist the cap until it clicks. “Make them go away,” I whisper. My hands shake so violently that the pills clank together like marbles.
I force them down, bitterness clinging stubbornly to my tongue. Tears and sweat streaks across my face. For a moment, the voices fade, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence pressing against my chest.
They'll never leave me alone. My therapist has reminded me so many times of their normalcy. It's human nature, she says. But is it really? It’s only ever been this way since mother brought that thing into our home after dad passed away.
I finish securing the bandages around my wrists and gently pull my sleeves over my wrists. My movements remain slow, almost reluctant, as if touching the fabric could hold me together.
Then, there's a familiar jingle coming from the front door. It’s slow and almost calming, like listening to windchimes on a semi-breezy day. The door creaks and my voice catches in my throat. I got to tell her, I remind myself.
I exit the bathroom and make my way down the hall, but I stop to stare at the pictures hanging on the wall. The house is dark, with only a few overhead lamps keeping me company. I can just barely make out the faces of those looking back at me. One thing is for certain. None of them had me in it.
“Mom, you there?” The lights flicker, and the stairs screech in sync with the clunking of my boots as I descend. Not a single response was given— only the hum of a refrigerator door fills the air. “Mom, Can I talk to you for a minute? It’s about—”
I barely make it to the open space between the living room and kitchen before the refrigerator door slams behind him, startling me into full awareness. He is there, standing in the doorway, a bottle of scotch dangling from one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other, and that grin stretches across his face in a manner that I know all too well.
“How’s my favorite boy?” He says.
“Dave,” I murmur, trying to step back, only to have his hand clamp onto my shoulder.
"Hey, hey, hey. Are you forgetting something?" He rasps. He says it as if he were merely commenting on the weather.
My nose twitches at the acrid stench of liquor emanating from his breath. “I said hi, didn’t I” I reply, shifting until he releases my shirt.
His head tilts slightly, eyes catching the dim light, glinting in a way that makes me instinctively shrink.
“Hi?” He mimics. "I haven't seen you in weeks. You’re always with that friend of yours. Come on. Why don't we have a couple of drinks and play Twister like we used to?" He lifts my chin with his finger.
I gag in utter distaste and swat his hand away. "Sorry, I’m busy.”
He attempts to grab my hand to pull me closer, but I flinch away— breath beginning to heave almost instantly. “C-can you stop putting your hands on me? Last time you got this drunk, I had to get tested."
He laughs and places his bottles on the kitchen counter. The rumbling thunder shakes all the windows around the house. The walls quake with each loud strike, and the room grows cold. Only the sirens blaring outside fill the void between us.
"I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you." Dave's fist strikes my cheek, sending me sprawling to the ground and knocking over the glass centerpiece on the counter.
He rolls his sleeves and towers over. "I could've sworn we had a conversation about mouthing off," he says, pinning me down with his foot and grabbing a kitchen knife from the counter.
“I—” My voice falters, lodged somewhere between my ribs. “I said I’m sorry. I really don’t want any trouble—”
"Shut up." He removes his foot and kicks the air out of my lungs. Lowering himself, he constricts my neck with his free hand and presses the cool blade onto my chest. "It's hard being a parent."
My breath hitches as I tremble beneath his grip. The edges of my vision blur and darken, and the sound of my beating heart grows louder. The only thing keeping me from losing consciousness is the sting of sharp steel carving fresh wounds over those once healed.
He leans closer. His voice is low. “Don’t bother crying. I like it better when it’s quiet.” He take one long swipe across my abdomen. Not deep, but enough to draw blood.
I sob, trying to wriggle my way out of his vicious grip. But he slaps a hand over my mouth.
"Shh. It's okay, Ni. Life is all about learning from your mistakes," he says, removing his hand and patting my face.
"Mom's going to be home any minute. If she catches you—"
"She won't," he snaps.
"She will if I tell her," I threaten.
His glare becomes cold. He moves his foot off my shoulder, picks me up, and slams my head onto the ground with a skull-wrenching thud. "What did you want to say to your mother, Niles? That I'm hurting you? That I'm an abuser?"
I scream in agonizing pain as he points the tip of his knife at my shoulder blade and digs it in deep— a pool of crimson liquid forms on the wooden planks beneath me.
"You made me cut you, Niles. What's one more?"
The voices crow, triumphant. As long as he lives, so shall we. What are you gonna do, Niles? one jeers. Another laughs, as if he had the nerve to do anything.
Without thinking, the anger that has been coiled up inside me snaps taut. I snatch him by the nape of the neck and shove my forehead into his. Heads collide with a sick, hollow thud that drowns out everything for a second.
He stands. “Shit, Niles, what the fuck!” he curses under his breath.
Taking advantage of this opportunity, I give him a kick to the balls with the little strength I have in me.
"She won't believe you, Niles. She already thinks you're losing it," he cackles.
“You’re fucking insane!” I scream, nails dragging along the floor as I drag myself toward the front door. Reaching the doorknob, I twist, pull, and thrust, but it won't budge. It just jiggles beneath my grip. There's no escape.
“Where are you going? Things just got interesting.” He spats. Then, in the blink of an eye, everything went slow. Dave surges toward me, something clenched in one hand.
With nothing but a mirror present by the doorway, my reflex takes me: I swing at the mirror by the doorway, the impact shattering it into a scatter of glittering pieces that skitter across the tile. I tumble to the ground to go through the pieces until I find one the size of a dagger, and clench it in my palm.
Having had enough, I let out one final war cry and jab it into his neck. He locks eyes with mine— blood gushing from his wound. Such a good boy! Do it again! They chant. I yank the shard out and repeatedly stab it into him. With each aggressive thrust, memories from the past cloud my entire vision like a scene in a movie. Every punch to the face. Every new scar he's marked. All the times he's had his friends over. Every disgusting act endured because of his influence. It all comes back to me.
And then everything stops.
The shard slips from my fingers and clatters against the tile. For a heartbeat, there is nothing but the ringing in my ears and the thrum of my own pulse. The voices curl through me, whispering in every corner of my skull. Finally. Finally. Finally, they chant, slipping in and out of coherence. You’re strong. You’re free.
“Niles?” Her voice shatters the haze. I turn to my mother in the doorway, bags left at her feet. Her eyes dart across the shards and the space where he once stood. They widen, flicking between horror and disbelief. Her lips part and she swallows, wordless. She can’t yet translate the scene, can’t yet name it.
The voices laugh and hiss. She won’t understand. No one will. They never do. You did what had to be done. One laughs cruelly. But the price— oh, the price.
She’s trembling, fragile as a candle in the wind. . Her eyes search mine, desperate, and I realize I cannot meet them—not yet. The world feels unreal, a frame stretched and blurred.
“Mom…” My voice is hoarse, small, carrying none of the power I thought it held. She flinches at the sound.
The voices crowd closer, sharper now, mocking. You wanted peace. Did you think it would be simple? Did you think it would stop here? Another hisses: It never stops. It never ends. Not really.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us thickens, heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the faint hum of the refrigerator still running in the background. Her lips tremble, trying to form words that never come. I watch her eyes—how they dart between me, the knife, and the body that’s no longer moving.
The realization hits her slowly, flooding her face with disbelief, grief, and something close to fear. She presses a shaking hand to her mouth, a small, broken sound slipping through her fingers. The silence between us stretches thin, trembling like a wire pulled too tight.
“What did you do?!”
I take a minute to soak it all in. Even bloodied and bruised, all she seems to care about is him.
“What you couldn’t,” I whisper.
About the Author
Trickster Ozaki has always felt like background noise—the guy in the corner you only notice if you’re really paying attention. For years, he didn’t think he had a voice that mattered, let alone one that could reach anyone. But hey, he kept writing anyway. He earned a BFA in Creative Writing from Full Sail University (yes, he survived the group projects and existential crises) and has been dumping himself into short stories, blog posts, and manuscripts ever since.
He writes murder mysteries, psychological suspense, and stories that dig into the messy, complicated sides of mental health—because let’s be honest, life is messy, and humans are complicated. His hope? That someone, somewhere, reads his words and feels a little less alone, or at least slightly entertained while contemplating their own brain.
Trickster’s biggest dream isn’t just putting words on a page. He wants to open a café that doubles as a creative space for kids who don’t have access to programs like his. They could make projects to sell at the café, stash that cash in savings, and maybe even get a shot at college—because why should creativity be a luxury?
He writes because he has to, because it keeps him awake and alive, and because he believes that even someone who always felt invisible can leave something that actually matters. And if wit and sarcasm were actual currency, he’d probably be able to pay off student loans by now.
Instagram: @ Trickiebooks
This was really good writing Bryam. Dark and twisted but enjoyable to read. Excited for your next stories!