Death by a Dead Man’s Hand

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Ethan Mitchell, old for his years after seventeen years in prison, knew the exact amount of time since his arrest for murder: eighteen years, five months and three days. After so long in prison, many things confused him on his release, but one thing he was sure of was that people do not come back from the dead. However, one month before his release from prison for the murder of a man, he had received a letter. It had only two sentences.

Time will not save you. St Mark's Church, three in the afternoon, the first Wednesday after your release.

He had recognised the writing. After all, hadn't they grown up together. The signature was unmistakable: it was his brother Martin's. But that's not possible, Mitchell thought. I killed him, spent seventeen years in prison for his murder.

A voice echoed through the church; Ethan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 'Martin, it can't be, ' Ethan said. 'You're dead. I killed you.'

'You'll see me soon enough, ' the man said. At ten feet from Ethan, he stopped and reached into his right-hand jacket pocket.

'No, don't.'

'It's only right, ' the man said. He levelled the gun that he taken from the pocket and emptied three bullets into Ethan, the noise echoing around the church. The man then put the gun into his pocket and walked out of the church and onto the busy street.