One whose sole purpose in existence is to plot against the progress of the common man/woman. A specialist in clandestine—and likely illegal—operations, a specticharacter's life is shrouded in mystery—not the sexy kind of mystery, but the kidnap-your-children-and-sell-them-to-a-Ugandan-crime-syndicate kind of mystery. Specticharacters feel most at home in the back alleys of large cities beneath blinking neon signs promoting a variety of vices. They frequently live in one room basement apartments with Pabst Blue Ribbon stained and hypodermic needle laced carpets, mold covered walls, and a curious lack of furniture besides an uncovered twin mattress in the corner and a 1998 Gateway desktop computer on floor in the middle of the room. They enjoy lurking in the shadows during thunderstorms, and collecting an assortment of trenchcoats. They specialize in pipe bomb development and tailing the vehicles of suburban teenagers enjoying a night of binge drinking.
Did you see John at the High School Reunion? He spent the night lurking in the unlit corner consistently executing the finger pyramid of evil contemplation while voluptuously licking his lips. He wore a grey trenchcoat and a black bowler hat. That guy has become a real specticharacter!