Title: “Warlock: Charm City Chronicles”
Synopsis:
In the gritty streets of Baltimore, a war veteran named Xavier Steele returns home haunted by the scars of battle, seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle. However, Xavier’s life takes an unexpected turn when, in the throes of alcohol-induced stupor, he experiences astral projections that foretell impending crimes. Initially dismissing these episodes as mere dreams, Xavier is shaken when real-life events unfold exactly as he witnessed.
As the pattern repeats itself, Xavier, code-named “Warlock” from his military days, discovers a latent superpower triggered by his inebriation. With newfound abilities, he embarks on a mission to protect his city from a local gang’s reign of terror and ruthless developers threatening his neighborhood’s existence.
Amidst the chaos, Xavier encounters Heather, a determined and idealistic rookie cop patrolling his beat. Unaware of Xavier’s dual identity, she becomes a vital ally in the fight against crime. Xavier, grappling with his own demons and the burden of his secret life, finds himself drawn to Heather, setting the stage for a forbidden love affair.
As Warlock battles the criminal underworld and the powerful interests seeking to exploit the city, he must navigate the complexities of his double life while safeguarding those he cares about. “Warlock: Charm City Chronicles” is a gripping tale of redemption, love, and the enduring struggle between personal demons and the call of heroism in a city on the brink.
WARLOCK: CHARM CITY CHRONICLES
by Craig Phillips
CHAPTER ONE
The girl hadn’t screamed yet.
She was still walking, earbuds in, seconds from the alley. Her keys jingled once in her hand—then she shoved them into her pocket like they wouldn’t save her anyway. She didn’t hear the footsteps behind her. Or see the shadow peel off the wall.
But Xavier Steele did.
He stood ten feet away, or maybe miles. Time didn’t feel right here. The air shimmered like heat off pavement, and he wasn’t sure if he was floating or just not standing. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Just watch.
He tried to shout.
Nothing.
Then—
A blade.
A hand.
A scream that cracked the silence like thunder on glass.
And just like that…
He gasped.
Coughing. Choking. Eyes wide. Body soaked. His arm twitched and knocked the bottle off the armrest—glass clinked, whiskey soaked into the rug, and the TV buzzed out static like it had been listening.
Xavier sat there, frozen, in that battered recliner like he’d just come back from war. Again.
“…what the fuck…”
He rubbed his face, fingers trembling, then stared at his hands like they might answer for what just happened.
Baltimore moaned outside the window—sirens somewhere, always sirens. He pulled the blanket off his lap, stood up too fast, and felt the world tilt sideways.
It wasn’t a dream.
He knew it in his bones. Same way he used to know when someone was watching his six in the desert. That gut-deep certainty. Something had happened. He just didn’t know where. Or when.
And worse—
He didn’t know how he got there.
The bottle was still bleeding into the carpet.
Xavier didn’t move at first. He just sat there, blinking into the blue wash of the TV screen, his chest rising and falling like he’d just outrun a ghost.
“That’s all it is,” he muttered. “A goddamn ghost.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, palms over his face. The stubble on his jaw scraped against his hands. His breath still hadn’t evened out. He reached for the remote and turned the TV off. Silence slammed down, thick and suffocating.
In the corner, the radiator coughed like it was trying to clear its throat. Somewhere outside, a car backfired—or maybe it didn’t.
He got up, wiped his hands down his sweat-soaked T-shirt, and shuffled to the window. Opened it. Lit a cigarette with a cracked Bic. The flame stuttered like it was scared.
Outside, Charm City muttered to itself. Neon buzzed. Streetlights flickered. Someone shouted about a dice game on Fulton. Someone else shouted louder.
Xavier took a drag and exhaled hard. “I’m losing my mind,” he said to nobody. Or maybe to the girl in the alley.
He thought about calling someone. But who? His phone was dead, anyway. Like most of the contacts in it.
He stubbed the cigarette out on the metal window frame and let the breeze—thick with trash and fried food—wash over him.
Then he saw it again. Her face. That exact moment. That scream.
He flinched.
The sun was crawling up over the rooftops now, bleeding gray light into the apartment like it was ashamed to show its face. Xavier threw on a hoodie, no shirt underneath, and stepped outside.
The cold slapped him awake.
He hit the corner bodega, mostly for smokes and maybe a coffee. The same guy was behind the counter—eyes half-shut, hoodie pulled tight, headphones in. Xavier nodded. Didn’t bother talking.
It was quiet out, mostly. Sunday morning quiet. Baltimore before the buzz.
Then he heard it.
Two women sitting on a nearby stoop, bundled in housecoats, pink curlers peeking out like antennae.
“…they said she’s lucky to be alive,” one said, shaking her head.
“Down behind Ray’s. That alley with the busted light.”
“Mmm-mm. What the hell is wrong with people?”
Xavier stopped.
They were talking low, like it was a secret. But that name—Ray’s. That was the spot.
He grabbed his coffee, walked off slow, ears burning.
“…teen girl. Real pretty. High school maybe. They said it happened last night…”
Xavier didn’t hear the rest. His blood was already pounding. His breath came short. He made it back to his apartment without feeling his feet.
Phone. Where the hell was his phone?
He found it dead under a pile of laundry. Plugged it in. Waited. Pacing.
The screen came to life.
News app. Local section. He tapped with fingers that felt too big.
And there it was.
“Teen Girl Assaulted Near Franklin and Carey—Suspect Still at Large.”
He stared. His eyes jumped line to line, but he barely registered the words. He didn’t need to read. He’d already seen it.
Same alley. Same girl.
Same goddamn scream.
Xavier sat back in the chair, the same damn chair, like the thing was chained to him. The coffee was still hot, untouched. The news alert kept glowing on the screen, but he wasn’t looking at it anymore.
He was staring at the floor.
Same girl. Same alley. Same scream. Before it happened.
He rubbed his temples like maybe the answer was buried in his skull. Or maybe he could press hard enough to make this all stop.
But it didn’t stop.
Instead, something unlocked. A door that had been creaking for years in the back of his mind finally gave way.
He reached under the couch, shoved aside a pizza box and a busted umbrella, until his hand closed on something familiar. A dusty old shoebox. He pulled it out and popped the lid.
Dog tags. Folded flag. Photos. Shrapnel. One bent Zippo that didn’t work anymore. And at the bottom—
A black leather-bound journal. Stiff from age, corners curled like dried leaves.
He flipped it open.
Handwriting—his. Sloppy, jagged, scribbled during his worst days in the desert.
“Dream again. Woke up in the wrong place.”
“Eyes open but body stayed behind.”
“Saw the child before the blast.”
“Warlock. They used to call me Warlock. Said I could smell death before it came.”
He stared at the name. Warlock.
It hit different now.
Not just a nickname. Not just a joke from the guys in the barracks.
A warning.
A truth.
He picked up a pen and turned to the last empty page.
Wrote in all caps:
WARLOCK
Then leaned back. The word stared up at him like a loaded gun.
CHAPTER TWO
Xavier woke up before the sirens did.
No headache. No whiskey fog. Just that strange, awful stillness that comes after something inside you breaks—but nothing around you does.
The coffee on the table was cold. He drank it anyway.
Sunlight cut through the blinds in lazy gold bars. The kind of morning light that should feel peaceful. But it didn’t. Not in this apartment. Not in this city. And definitely not in his skin.
He reached for the journal.
It was still there. Still real.
His thumb ran over the word he’d written the night before—WARLOCK—pressed into the page so deep it felt like braille for the blind part of himself. Like his body had written it harder than his mind meant to.
He flipped back through the entries. Each one like a breadcrumb he’d left for himself in a maze he didn’t even know he was in.
Woke up screaming again.
Felt like I was somewhere else.
Burning in my chest before I opened my eyes.
What if I’m not crazy?
He grabbed the pen. Stared at the page for a long time. Then finally wrote:
It wasn’t a dream.
He put the journal down, stood up, and walked to the window. The world outside looked normal. Like nothing had happened. Like a girl hadn’t almost died. Like he hadn’t seen it.
But he had. And now he couldn’t unsee it.
Xavier sat on the edge of the bed with the journal in one hand and his phone in the other. The screen was cracked, battery blinking red, but it was enough.
He pulled up the news again. The same story. Same headline. Same girl.
Except now… there was video.
A shaky cell phone clip. Grainy, angled weird. Someone filming from an upstairs window. It didn’t show the attack, not fully—but it caught the aftermath.
The girl. Bloody. Screaming. Running.
And something else. Just a flash.
In the background, right before she bolts—a figure. A blur. Standing still, half in shadow.
Xavier’s stomach dropped.
He rewound the clip. Slowed it. Paused it. The shape was there again. Same height. Same frame. It looked… like him.
He stared. Eyes narrowing.
No one else seemed to notice it. The reporters didn’t mention it. No online comments called it out.
But he saw it.
He saw himself.
A knock at the door.
Not hard. Not soft. Just… official.
Xavier paused the video, shoved the phone under a pile of shirts, and moved toward the door like the floor might give way under him.
He cracked it open.
“Still in one piece, I see,” said the man on the other side. Late fifties, wearing a badge and a beat-worn face. Officer Lenny Marks.
Old-school. No nonsense. Had a voice like a dull blade and eyes that missed nothing.
“Lenny,” Xavier said. He opened the door wider.
“Didn’t think you’d be up this early,” Lenny said, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “Figured you were still living in that bottle.”
“I was. Still am, sometimes.”
Lenny glanced around. “Smells like it.”
He sat down in the same recliner Xavier had nearly died in the night before.
“Had to come by. Girl got cut not far from here last night. You hear anything?”
Xavier shook his head. “Didn’t see or hear shit.”
Not a lie. Not technically.
Lenny studied him. Long beat.
“You sure about that?”
“Why? You think I had something to do with it?”
Lenny’s face didn’t move. “I think you see more than you let on. Always have.”
Then, with the faintest smirk: “Still a jarhead, I see.”
“Better than being a Navy traffic cop,” Xavier shot back.
A beat. That familiar mix of friction and familiarity.
“Girl said she saw someone. Tall guy. Said he was just standing there, like he came outta the wall. Then he disappeared.”
Xavier froze.
“Sound like anybody you know?”
He didn’t answer.
Lenny stood. Adjusted his belt.
“You keep your ears open, Xavier. You see anything weird—anything—you let me know.”
Then, at the door, Lenny turned back with a look that was more warning than goodbye.
“This city don’t need any more ghosts.”
And he was gone.
The sun was higher now, but the light felt colder.
Xavier stood in the bathroom, gripping the sink. Staring at himself in the mirror. Not his face—his eyes.
There was something new behind them. Not anger. Not pain. Something older.
He splashed water on his face and toweled off slow, eyes still fixed forward. The blur in that video clip kept playing in his head. Over and over. That flicker of a man. Standing still while everything else moved.
And now…
Now the air felt heavier.
He stepped out of the bathroom, and it hit him like a wave of vertigo. The ground didn’t move—but his mind did.
Something was pulling at the edges of him. Not like a dream. Not like the night before. This was different. Sharper.
He reached for the journal. Clutched it like it might anchor him.
And then the room bent. Not in shape, but in sound.
The radiator went quiet. The street noise dropped to a whisper. Even the birds outside stopped mid-song.
And that’s when he felt it—the shift.
His vision swam. His pulse slowed.
And in the blink of a breath—
He was somewhere else.
Stillness.
He was standing in the middle of a park. Not one he recognized. Grass overgrown. Playground rusted. A row of swings squeaked softly in the wind—except there was no wind.
Everything was dim, like twilight pressed through fog. Colors muted. Sounds stretched out and slow.
And in the middle of it, a boy. Maybe ten. Skinny. Alone. Sitting on a bench, backpack at his feet, clutching something in both hands.
Xavier tried to move closer. He could now. Feet worked. Body obeyed.
He walked slowly, careful not to make a sound—not because the boy would hear him, but because he didn’t want to break whatever this was.
Then he saw what the kid was holding.
A toy soldier. Missing one arm. Covered in dirt.
Xavier stopped.
Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he was watching something that was, or something that used to be.
He looked up—and across the park, in the distance, behind the jungle gym—there was movement.
A man. Approaching. Hooded. Slow.
Xavier’s body tensed.
The boy didn’t see him. He was talking to the toy, head down.
“Turn around,” Xavier said.
No sound.
He tried to shout.
Nothing.
Just like before.
The hooded man was closer now. Slow steps. One hand in his pocket. The other twitching like it was waiting to grab.
Xavier moved. It was instinct this time. No hesitation. He stepped around the swing set and toward the bench, ready to shout—
And then the boy looked up.
Eyes wide.
He saw the man.
Xavier shouted again—still no sound. His legs pumped harder. This time they worked. He ran.
But he was too far. The man was already there.
The boy turned to run—too late. The man grabbed him, yanked him up by the arm, and started dragging him toward the street at the far edge of the park.
Xavier kept running.
He reached the bench, hit full stride toward the trees—
—and then he stopped.
Not because he wanted to.
Because everything froze.
Mid-stride. Like the air had hardened. The world paused.
And then—rip.
A sound like cloth tearing underwater.
Xavier’s body jolted back like he’d been pulled by a hook.
He landed hard. Back in the apartment. Gasping. Drenched in sweat. Knees on the floor. Heart in his throat.
The coffee mug had shattered. The journal lay open, face-down.
He reached for his phone, hands shaking, opened Notes.
Typed in all caps:
BLACK HOODED MAN. LATE THIRTIES. GREY VAN. FIRST THREE DIGITS: 9AC.
Then he just sat there. Breathing.
Staring at the floor.
The van. The man. The boy. It all spun in Xavier’s mind like smoke in a closed room. He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t shake the feeling he should’ve done something. That he still could.
But what was he supposed to do—call the cops? Tell them what?
“Hey, I left my body and watched a kid get snatched in a dream dimension. Here’s three letters from a plate. Go get ’em, boys.”
He laughed. Once. Dry and cracked.
But underneath the sarcasm was a slow boil. His fists were clenched without him noticing. His jaw locked.
Something inside him wanted to move. To chase. It wasn’t about drinking anymore. Or dreams. Or damage.
It was about purpose.
The girl in the alley. The boy in the park. These weren’t coincidences. This wasn’t madness.
This was a calling.
He stood.
Grabbed the journal. Slid it under his hoodie. Opened the door. Stepped outside.
Published by:
Audible Publishers