Running through the streets of London. Not to anything, not from anything. Just running for the sake of running. That’s where I think it began. After all, what is the best place to start my statement? I don’t want to leave anything out. This is the beginning of the story of the ultimate fate of Mr William Sancter. So, as I said, we were running for the sake of running. The streetlights an orange blur, everything else the source of jokes and endless, pointless laughter. We had never been to London before; we came here regarding our positions in a job much farther away from Chicago and much closer to London and the Continent. Our friend, Miss Camille Wood with whom we managed to talk into letting us stay (her apartment was, in effect, two apartments. One of which had been converted for guests and other clutter), had taken us out of her small two bedroom apartment where we had spent a lot of time talking about … well, whatever it was it wasn’t important. We had a dinner and left maybe around eight o’clock, dizzy from cheap cigarettes, whiskey and whatever else we could find to make the time pass faster until our horrendous hearing the next day. The air was heavier than I had found it when we had gotten off the plane, it felt like I couldn’t move as easily as I should have been able to. I was light headed, all three of us must have been, and everything seemed to move slowly. Running seemed to be the best option. Nowhere to go, but everywhere to explore. I had my camera with me, which had been given to me by my ex girlfriend some years ago. Everything looked amazing, whether London was really like that, or whatever it was that was making us feel giddy. Everything looked like it had been drawn up by Edward Gorey, and I had to take it all in photo. We ended up running from Trafalgar, and something loud with a lot of lights was going on. People were cheering and making a lot of noise. We were heading in the direction of Big Ben and that infamous London Eyesore, as Camille had liked to put it. Working as a sort of perpetual motion machine, egged on by nothing other than each other, we continued down the road, past the all night supermarket where the old man stood at the checkout, picking his nose. And then there was that man. He was tall, taller than me even, but his head was bowed low and he was trying to make himself unseen. In fact, I almost didn’t see him at first. He didn’t so much blend in with the shadows as just everything around him but for a brief second, in the streetlight, he appeared. He turned to face me and me him, and I saw into his eyes. Now I wish I had taken a second to understand what I had witnessed; his face, his expression and the infuriated look in his eyes. Instead, I decided to take a photo of him. I brought my camera up, fast and took a photo of him, hunched over and looking over his shoulder me at it. It wasn’t a very good photograph I could tell from the small two second preview. It was blurred and the most part of the photo was of the building behind the man. It was then that he animated himself. He turned to and shouted something to me. His voice was gruff and most definitely not in the best moods. The photo, upon consideration, was not a good idea. He walked up to me, and in one short sharp sentence, told me to delete that photo of him. I looked at him, saw the rage in his eyes, and deleted the picture. He only saw the small bin logo, but was convinced, and in a quick second he had vanished once again into the background. Mr William Sancter, Miss Camille Wood and myself carried on, not sure if it was safe to laugh at what had happened. The world suddenly seemed much more sober, and the air even heavier. We reached the London Eye, and sat on a bench by it, looking in awe at the wheel. I turned my camera on, to look at the photos I had taken. It was the usual blend of fingers on the lens and blurred shots. Then I came across that photo. The one I had just taken. I had, of course, lied when I said I had deleted it. Whatever it was he didn’t want me to take a photo of, I wanted to know. But I can’t begin to even begin to tell you what was on that photograph … but, well you can look later if you want. I’m not. I’m never going to see it again. The most part of the photograph was of the stone building behind it, glowing yellow from the streetlights, and my camera’s way of taking bad pictures at night, and there was the man. Or rather, whatever was there in the place of the man. Whatever it was, it wasn’t he who had come over and shouted at us. The man, as shady and suspicious as he was, awkwardly looking over his shoulder, was not that. The thing on my screen, and I had to zoom in to make sure I wasn’t just hallucinating, was of a monster in the same clothing … I think; it’s hard to remember these things. The awful monster, in the jacket, with the claws, the peeling dark-red skin, his mouth twisted revealing what were probably teeth if teeth could get so thin and sharp, was staring at the camera. Even in the still image I could recognise his eyes and all the horrors I had felt from just a glimpse. I looked away from my camera. I couldn’t look at it for another second. William Sancter must have seen me wince, because he came up to me and asked me what was wrong. I showed him the picture, and told him to delete it. He must have deleted it, because it was no longer on my camera when he handed it back to me. That night I slept in Camille’s spare bedroom in her first apartment and William slept in her other apartment. I had dreams, probably irrelevant to the case at hand, but they were of the man, of the photograph and everything. There were no images, just a series of feelings of pain, and fear, suffering and I awoke in a cold sweat, light was seeping in from the curtain. I went to see William, to see if he had awoken. He hadn’t. As for the ultimate fate of William Sancter, I don’t know. I was not awake, and I cannot tell you more than that. I went into his room … and … I can’t describe the horrors. Not really. I can’t describe the blood on the walls, the mess of red all over the bed, and floor and walls.The remains of William’s body was sitted, slumped rather, on the computer chair. I had barely even noticed the image on his computer. That’s all I can relate. I’m sorry if this doesn’t help, but it has me. Writing it down has made it easier to clear it from my head. Whatever was on the photograph, I need to forget it.