The ghost at the table – Draft 03 – Chapter 23

Andy Delmonte

I sit alone, the office around me a mess of papers and dust. The light from my desk lamp is weak, throwing shadows against the walls like crooked fingers. They blend with the darkness outside my window, a seamless transition from the physical to the metaphorical.

The computer screen glares back at me. Blank. My fingers hover over the keys, itching to move, but they’re frozen by the weight of what’s happened. I can’t shake it off, the feeling that each story I write is just a drop in an ocean of filth and crime. It clings to me, heavy as wet wool.

I’ve covered it all—the beatings, the scams, the cold-blooded murder. Each headline a scream into the void. Each article, a paper tombstone for someone’s tragedy. I sigh, a sound lost in the silence of my office.

My mind races back to the texts I sent Stephanie. Information I shouldn’t have shared but did. For justice? For truth? Or maybe because I’m tired of feeling helpless. I’ve got a wife, four kids. They’re the real reason I take these risks. To make their world seem less rotten.

“Focus, Andy,” I mutter to myself. The cursor on the screen blinks back at me, impatient. Time to pour out another story, to try and cleanse this city’s wounds with words and expose the poison festering beneath. The thought both exhausts and fuels me.

I start typing.

My brow is a battleground of lines, each crease a story, a scar. Eyes heavy with what I’ve seen. They burn, not with tears, but with the acid truth of human cruelty. Haunted eyes. They’ve looked into the abyss too long. The abyss is looking back now.

I lean forward, fingers pausing. The world outside is quiet, but inside, it’s chaos. Thoughts clash. Memories like shrapnel.

There’s whiskey in the drawer. Amber peace. Do I reach for it? It’s a siren call to forget, to blur the edges of reality that cut too deep. My hand moves almost on its own, betraying my resolve. The drawer creaks open, a whisper of temptation.

The bottle’s there, half-empty—or half-full, if you’re fool enough to hope. It feels cool, solid. Real. More real than the shadows I chase in my stories. More forgiving than the dark alleys and darker deeds they lead me down.

To drink or not to drink—it’s more than a question. It’s a choice between numbing the pain and facing the night head-on. A choice between oblivion and the harsh light of day.

“Damn it,” I hiss through clenched teeth. The bottle’s weight in my hand is familiar, comforting in its promise of escape. Yet the screen waits. The city waits. And somewhere out there, the truth waits.

I set the bottle down harder than I mean to. It’s decided then. No drowning today. Not in whiskey, anyway. Maybe in words, if I’m lucky. If the city’s lucky.

“Back to work, Delmonte,” I growl to no one. There’s dirt to dig up, stories to tell. And maybe, just maybe, a fraction of truth to set free.

Memories flood in, uninvited guests in the aftermath of that brief oblivion. Faces, names, places. I’ve seen things. Things I can’t unsee. Corruption like a cancer, eating away at the city’s core. Violence, sudden and brutal, spilling blood on streets that never seem to wash clean. Injustices that tangle and twist around lives until they choke out hope.

They say Adelaide never sleeps. Makes sense. Nightmares don’t need rest.

I’ve written about it all. Each headline a battle scar. The words should cut through the lies, expose the rot. But sometimes it feels like I’m just shouting into the wind.

Half an hour into the writing and the siren call of the bottle was too tempting to resist. Now, the bottle’s almost empty. Just like the promises of change.

“Keep digging, Delmonte,” I mutter. “Dig until you strike bone.”

The screen’s still there, glowing dimly in the dark. Waiting for me to make sense of the senseless. To find the words that might light up the darkness, if only for a moment.

“Let’s get to it.” And I take another swig, staving off the shadows a little while longer.

The cursor blinks. A taunt in the dim light. I lean forward, my eyes squinting at the white of the screen. It’s an almost- blank canvas, but my mind’s a mess of colours that won’t blend.

“Truth,” I whisper to the empty room. “If only it were that simple.”

I think of the stories, the ones that got away. The tales half-told ‘cause the full picture’s too big, too deep. Journalism’s the shovel I took to this dirt, but what’s the use when the hole just leads to more darkness?

“Scratch the surface, Andy. That’s all you can do.” The thought is bitter, like the dregs of the bottle. You dig and dig, and what do you hit? Bedrock. Can’t break through bedrock.

Fingers poised, I start over. Words form—half-truths, quarter-truths. They march across the screen in a parade of helplessness. I stop. Read them back. They sound hollow, echoes of echoes.

“Damn it.” My hand moves on its own. A few swift clicks, and the words disappear. Back to square one, back to the blinking cursor.

“Need the right words.” But they’re like shadows—chase ‘em and they shift, twist into something else. Something safe. Safe doesn’t cut it. Not anymore.

“Dig deeper,” I mutter. But even as I say it, I know. Some truths are so buried, you need more than a keyboard to unearth them.

A fist slams down. The desk quivers. A pen rolls, drops, forgotten. Frustration’s a live wire in my chest. Anger heats my face.

“Make a difference,” I snarl to the shadows. My voice is a stranger’s, rough and raw. “That’s the job, isn’t it?”

The screen’s glow mocks me. Words should be weapons, but mine? Blunt. Useless. I’m caged by headlines, hemmed in by editorial lines drawn thick and bold. Lines that say, ‘this far and no further.’

“Can’t cross ‘em,” I mutter. “Can’t tell it all.”

I yank open the drawer, its contents clattering. There’s the photo, edges frayed from my touch. Wife’s smile, kids’ grins – pure, unknowing. Their world’s supposed to be safe. Supposed to.

“Protect ‘em, Andy.” But how? My hands shake. Powerless. It’s a cruel joke. Tell the truth, but only so much. Only what they can stomach.

“Sorry, loves.” I tap the glass. “I’m trying. Swear it.”

My gaze lingers on their faces, searching for strength in their innocence. It’s there somewhere, hidden beneath the helplessness. I straighten up, take it in.

“Truth’s got layers,” I tell them. “Like your stories at bedtime. But these tales? No happy endings.”

The room’s quiet. Just me and the ghosts of words unsaid. And a family that trusts me to come home. To keep the darkness at bay.

“Truth,” I repeat, softer this time. “It’s all we’ve got.”

Eyes shut. The world narrows to a point, to a breath drawn deep. Clarity’s sharp edge slices through the whiskey fog in my mind. I make the vow, silent as the shadows creeping across the cluttered mess of my office. Fight. The word pulses like a heartbeat.

“Expose,” I whisper to myself, tasting the promise on my tongue. “Even just a shard of truth.”

The photo’s still there. Wife, kids—my everything. They don’t know the demons I chase with every typed line. Shouldn’t have to know. But the fight… it’s for them too.

Determination boils up from some untapped well inside me. It’s liquid fire, scalding away the doubts. They depend on me. Not just to come home, but to stand against the tide.

“Risk,” I say to the room, to the dark corners where fear likes to lurk. “It’s part of the deal.”

I can’t be just a bystander, not when I’ve seen what I’ve seen. Corruption, violence—the underbelly of this city that never sleeps, always bleeds. If I don’t shine a light, who will?

“Them or us,” I mutter, eyes snapping open. The family in the frame smiles back at me, ignorant of the war I wage for their tomorrow.

“Shed light,” I declare, voice steady now. My resolve is iron; it has to be. For Adelaide, for justice.

“Deep-rooted horrors,” I remind myself. “They fester in silence.”

My fingers itch to write, to scream the truths that claw at the inside of my skull. I’ll risk it all—my safety, theirs. Because what’s a life without purpose? Without a fight?

“Truth,” I say again, a mantra against the darkness. “Unveil it. No matter the cost.”

A new document blinks on the screen. Cursor pulses like a heartbeat. Ready for truth’s burden to spill over, ready for the fight. I don’t hesitate, not anymore.

Fingers hit the keys hard. They dance, they rush. Words form—raw, urgent. The darkness I’ve seen pours out. It’s poison leaving my veins, finding a home in black on white.

Each sentence is revelation. Each paragraph a battle cry. Adelaide’s underbelly, exposed by keystrokes. My mind races, heart thuds. This is it. This is what it means to stand up.

The story takes shape. Corruption. Violence. The silence that lets evil root deep. Not on my watch. Not while I can still type, still breathe.

“Got to tell it,” I whisper to the machine. To myself. “Got to show them.”

My family… I see their faces. Their future on this screen. It’s more than news; it’s a lifeline. For them. For all of us.

Words are weapons. And tonight, I wield them fiercely.

The screen’s glow is my solitary light. It’s late. Too late for any sensible soul. My office, a cave of paper mountains and tech relics. I’m not sensible. Haven’t been for years.

“Save it,” I mutter to the blinking cursor. Truths laid bare in digital ink. Dangerous truths. The sort that makes enemies. Powerful ones.

Click. The file name hovers—a beacon of defiance. “The_Untold_Exposé” I type. My pulse hammers. A drumbeat to the rhythm of keys.

“Can’t turn back now, Andy.” The words echo off the walls. They hang there, a challenge.

Click. There it is. Confirmation. Saved. Locked into the hard drive like a secret too volatile to stay whispered.

“Doesn’t matter what happens next,” I say. A promise. To me. To them. To her—Stephanie. She knows. She understands the cost.

I lean back. The chair groans. Like the city outside. Groaning under the weight of its own sin.

“Got to protect them,” I whisper. Wife. Kids. Love wrapped in vulnerability. I’ve made my choice. They’re why I fight. Why I can’t stop. Won’t stop.

“Truth’s a funny thing,” I muse. Funny how it cuts. How it frees. I’ve unleashed it now. Set it spinning into the ether where it can’t be caught. Can’t be caged.

“Let them come,” I say. To the shadows. To the fear. A second bottle of whiskey taunts me. Not tonight. Tonight, I’ve got clarity. Purpose.

“Tomorrow, then.” That’s when it starts. The fallout. The backlash. But also… hope. Maybe change. Got to believe that.

For now, the screen dims. Eyes burn. A day’s work. More than a day’s. A lifetime’s.

“Sleep,” I command. No answer but the ticking clock. Counting down to something. Always counting.

“Tomorrow,” I repeat. And with that, I stand up. Take the photo of my wife and kids. Hold it close. Their smiles a shield. A reminder.

“Goodnight,” I say. To the empty room. To the city that never sleeps. To the battles yet fought.

“Goodnight.”