A Fictional Account of the Murder of Dr. Bingley - year 1152

It was nearly dark before the man got up from his place in the corner of the bar. His dark hair and thin frame rendered him nearly invisible to the populace of the bar, who were either too drunk or too blinded with cigar smoke to notice anything outside their small circles of existence. The only person who seemed to note his leaving was the bartender, who called out a tired "g'night" after him as he exited the cramped, smoky bar. He'd been stood up, he knew. Wrapping a black cape around his shoulders, the man began the long, torturous walk home. Before the Cleansing, he may have simply stayed in the bar all night. But now - well, things had changed.
He didn't blame the others for not coming. They were young and afraid, too self-centered and nervous to be reliable. He should have known. But they had seemed so eager when he told them his plan...
A carriage passed by in the dark street, splashing the man with cold, dank water. He shook out his cape and pulled it tighter to ward off the chill he knew would come soon. Sure enough, after a few more minutes of walking he began to shiver, painful spasms that shook his frail frame. Light from a streetlamp caught in his eyes, reflecting off of the pale blue cataracts that plagued his vision. The man was nearly blind.
After passing several more streetlamps, the man turned into a narrow alley and emerged in a wooded park. During the day the park was shaded and green, perfect for a hot summer afternoon, but at night it was a dim, frightening maze of trees and shrubbery that threatened to consume the unwary pedestrian. Luckily, the man had come this way many times before, and his step didn't slow as he entered the quiet park.
In fact, his footsteps came faster as he twisted his way through the tangle of greenery. The park wasn't safe at night. Not for an old man who couldn't see. Not for a man who knew what he knew. Was there a noise behind him, just there? A rustle of slick leaves on the dark grass? He stood still for several frightened seconds, but the noise didn't come again. Nevertheless, he sped up, wanting to get out of the cursed park as soon as possible. There! It happened again! A quiet, soft noise. A noise like a small animal inching along behind him. Or a shoe, taking a painfully quiet step. The man whirled around to confront the stalker, but all he could find was darkness. Turning around again, he walked even faster.
Soon he was hearing the noise every few seconds. It always came between steps, as though the thing following him was out of rhythm with his motion. And then for long periods of time, there would be no noise except his own walking. He walked faster and faster, and then quite suddenly he stopped. If there was indeed someone following him, they wouldn't have had time to anticipate his sudden stillness. They would have to take another step. Behind him, a twig snapped.
The man was running before the sound had finished ringing in the dim park. There was no method to his stumbling gait - he simply had to get away. He crashed through bushes that he couldn't see in the dim light and cursed as he tripped over hidden tree roots that lay in his path. He couldn't hear if his pursuer was still behind him; the only sound the man could hear was his own panicked breathing. He made a sharp turn to the left. Just a few more seconds and he would be out of the park. He could feel the light of the streetlamps on his weak eyes. Almost there -
A cold hand caught his wrist, stopping him dead in his tracks. The long, clammy fingers closed around his thin wrist like talons enveloping a field mouse. The man struggled to break free, but he knew that it was no use. Another hand stroked his neck lightly, almost lovingly, as the hand around his wrist slowly released its grip. He could sense the stalker was reaching for something - a knife, perhaps? He tried to turn, to see who was holding him, what they were reaching for, but the hand on his neck suddenly became dangerous, wrapping around his fragile throat with the sinewy strength of a noose. He stopped moving.
And then, before he had a chance to react, the hand that had been around his wrist slammed a knife into his neck. It was a clean cut, severing his artery as well as his spinal cord. He would feel no pain as he slowly bled to death. His attacker laid him gently on the ground as he struggled to breathe. The man's eyes widened as he finally recognized his murderer. But no noise came out of his mouth as he tried to speak. He could only stare in stunned silence as the murderer leaned down and whispered in his ear -
"Remember what you owe me."