Realistic or Modern 𝐀 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐄 — 𝐚 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲.

[demonology]

Two strapping and young investigators took to Wolfhorn's woods two days prior. Neither sets of parents have heard from Tate Rowe and Adrian Winchester. They were known locally as a pair of high schoolers with an eye towards any suspicious character that might have explained the murder of a fellow student only a handful of months prior. The strange lurkers in the woods, the suspected 'monsters', had called them inward.

Blood, shed countless times prior, and claw marks decorated Tatum's body in a strange, morbid display. He was dead, and no time was set aside to grieve the conspiracy theorist's oddities. Instead, the community turned towards discovering Adrian, dead or alive.

Thus, a search party has been called at the edge of the woods, a thousand feet from Town Square. Folding tables were collected from neighbors, and the elementary school's reflective vests were borrowed in mass. School was let out early, forcing many parents to find last-minute childcare, though many also saw their workplaces close up shop. A wind rustles through the trees, and Wolfhorn Creek is so quiet that people shudder at its noise.

Then, the clock ticks to exactly four, and a volunteer from the Red Cross tosses up a pack of water bottles onto the table. Another checks their list of people who RSVP'd online for the party, surprised to find so many unfamiliar names. This is the first time in Wolfhorn Creek's history where a news reporter from out of town has arrived to capture footage. This is also the first time a search party has ever been called, mandated by the Mayor and Chief of the WCPD.

Most people do not recall Adrian, except for her billowy red hair and perhaps her recently deceased acquaintance, Tate. The spritely high school student escaped notice, but it is her youth that makes the search party all the more important. The townspeople of Wolfhorn are raw, as though the attacks are a fine grater and they are the shavings of cheese on the plate. Innocence that can be saved, after already seeing innocence lost countless times over, makes the town brazen, even as the sun threatens to set and expose them to the treachery of dark.

As the volunteers gaggle in their reflective gear, Mayor Sandinista stands before them, holding up a megaphone.

Her voice crackles over the crowd, saying, "Thank you to everyone for attending."

Quickly, she turns off the megaphone, realizing how incomprehensible her words are. "Today," she yells out, adjusting her own vest. "We're looking for Adrian Winchester. Many of you already know her, or have seen her around, but please consult the packets you were handed for a proper photo of her."

Opening the manila folder, Adrian's photo stands out starkly against the sea of freshly-printed words. Her smile is tentative, indicative of a school photo.

"Also inside your packet, you'll find information on how to call for law enforcement in the event that you find her." Sandinista stops momentarily, swallowing hard, before adding, "In the event you find Ms. Winchester not alive, please pay extra attention to the instructions, as the woods would then be a crime scene."

Stepping back, the Mayor allows the Chief to join her, and they both take an end of the yellow tape surrounding the trees just behind the triage set-up. They tear it off, officially making the woods open-season.

"Good luck, and let's find our girl!"

SEARCH PARTY.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Geun Sae]

The divots and small potholes that lined the windy mountain roads of rural Virginia rocked Adil back and forth as he sipped down the last of his coffee from behind the wheel of his Jeep Cherokee. The sun had yet to break through the mist that only lightly obscured his view of the road, and as small droplets of moisture trailed their way down the length of the windshield his eyes jumped back and forth between the slick, leaf-covered road and the pile of paraphernalia in his passenger seat. A small Ziploc baggie with a dozen caffeine pills, an empty bottle of Vicodin, an empty fast food bag stained with grease, and a polaroid camera sat atop a stack of newspapers from the Virginia chronicle and a handful of other publications from what Adil had deemed the armpit of America.

He just made it to the halfway mark across the country when the news broke. Two more missing teens, high schoolers who lost themselves in the endless expanses of backwoods USA. When he received the call from his editor in the shabby motel on a highway somewhere in Oklahoma he couldn’t help but ponder in confusion why someone would brave the treacherous voyage into the forest by themselves. The reality was Adil didn’t care much for the story at all. A tiny town, a slew of unsolved disappearances and murders sounded all too Twin peaks-ish for his liking. The mass hysteria made it even worse, nothing about a town full of unhinged angry white people made Adil feel any more comfortable. On his way there, he’d encountered at least a dozen more interesting stories than whatever the hell was happening in Wolf-fucking-horn Virginia.

Even so, he had no choice in the matter really. He was already on thin ice. If Marcus wanted him covering stories about missing people and ghost stories about aliens and chupacabras in the forest, so be it, even if it was a little degrading. How does one go from covering international conflicts and civil wars to bum-fuck shanty towns in the middle of nowhere? Though, it sure did beat the alternative of writing gardening tips for Martha Stewart’s Home Garden magazine.

It wasn’t all bad though. The ride to Virginia was scenic enough, even if most of it was flat fields of potatoes and corn. The drive gave him time to think, and honestly maybe getting out of the city could benefit Adil in a way he couldn’t quite put to words.

The night before, he’d been cooped up in another drab hotel right outside of Kingsport when he heard the first broadcast. The woman’s cool voice over the airwaves would sporadically interrupt the sounds of grunge metal and whatever late-night twangy country fare was typical of the rural south. Calls from townies on what was called “The Witching Hour of Wolfhorn Creek” were Adil’s first introduction to the place he planned to call home for the next few weeks. He sat, and with his tape recorder and a mic he recorded a few hours of the show, in part for journalistic reasons, but also out of strange curiosity.

On the right side, the wooden sign on the edge of the road read in bright red letters: “Welcome To Wolfhorn Creek”.

Adil sighed. His editor had already signed him on to cover the search party for the missing teen who hadn’t been found yet, and though the human part of him really did want to help find them and lend his efforts as best he could, he’d be dammed if he didn’t find himself a pharmacist who took counterfeit prescriptions first.

 

[demonology]

OAKLEY

Her walkman played "Careless Whisper" by George Michael, the last embers of it drowning out the shuffles of the crowd. When the mayor stood before the crowd to speak, "Rebel Without A Pause" by Public Enemy started, shocking some much-needed adrenaline into her system, even as she took off her headphones and shut poor Chuck D right up. Sandinista was a strange crow by Oak's standards, but that was her new normal. Living in the local motel short-term also allowed her a varied mosaic of Wolfhorn's newest acquisitions or, rather, victims. Because of this, she listened to the official with more attention than usual, noting the lilt of her voice at the mention of a dead body and the finality with which she spoke.

Sighing, Oakley slipped her arms through the holes of her reflective vest. Her hand started to get tangled in the cord of her headphones, but quickly it was undone and without much fanfare. She stood tall, pulling one leg back in a stretch, as she waited in line for her packet. Her jaw began to ache with the bubble gum becoming stale in her mouth, and she spit the hard, pink lob out. The air pulled at her hair, reminding her of the surroundings. In the distance, she eyed the Flo's Freezy Treats, a small ice cream parlor. Yule plagued her thoughts. A memory struck her with the image of her best friend. Her family. They'd missed closing day at Flo's, a seasonal tradition. She'd been in the ground by then.

Oakley averted her gaze, scuffing the ground with the toe of her boot. Pulling out a cigarette, she lit it and tied her hair back behind her ears. Evergreen ecapsulated her vision, and the mission at hand came back to her. Right. She smiled at the Red Cross clerk, nodding.
Tate and Adrian were past Yule's time, making it difficult to even recognize the faces pictured within her manila folder. The heft of trees blanketed her as she walked forward, eyes still trained to the pictures. She stuck the complementary pen behind her ear, and then finally, she took the cigarette from her mouth and breathed out her drag.

While the darkness clouded around her, a fictitious ice cube laid in her throat, but she dredged onward. Memories threatened back towards the surface, up above and into her frontal cortex. Her head snapped to the right, studying the distance. It was the flutter of a reflective jacket, orange streaming off the back of some poor soul.
The gun laid heavy on her back, and Oakley relaxed her shoulders. That wasn't necessary. At least not yet.

Yule had told her the attacks were becoming less apparent, though not less frequent. In her eyes, anyway. Yule obviously hadn't been prepared for the end of her life, as it had even shocked Oakley. The warning signs were well-hidden, but Oak wasn't intent on letting another one pass her by.

Oakley swallowed heavily before refocusing on the path she was walking on. Standing still, she eyed the distance and decided to finish her cigarette. Better that way. She slammed her back against the tree, taking a long drag and brushing another loose strand back into its rightful place. Her hair was frazzled. Her has waggled. It was obvious what was happening, and she attempted to forget it. Rather, work through it.

No use wussing out now. After all these years.

Her mouth formed a grim line, smiling at anyone who walked past her. People suddenly became a welcomed concept, as did a search partner.

O
A
K

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  type mood here
  
  

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  outfit

  outfit here. Leather jacket here.

  
  
  

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  not yet (:<

coded by reveriee.

 

[am3thyst.]

mood :

fomo

location :

vic’s vinyl

outfit :

mentions :

none

interactions :

none

curran

;; iris

Iris had discovered the tiny tv in the back. After fiddling with the antennae for a bit and dusting it off, the small screen was playing a crackling image of the mayor’s speech. She fussed with the volume dials and Mayor Sandinista’s voice warbled out of the speakers through the empty record store. Light filtered in the windows, obscured by the flyers and leaflets plastered on the inside of the store front. The shop was desolate, even the owner, Daniel Lewis, had left to join the search party leaving Iris, as he usually did, in charge of running things.

Most of the businesses in town had shut for the day, but when Iris asked Mr. Lewis if he planned to close up, he had put down the box he was holding, wiped his brow dramatically and said, ‘the world needs music now more than ever Iris.’ This was the type of corny shit he was always coming out with so at this point Iris had trained herself to nod along solemnly rather than laugh out loud.

Iris didn’t really mind working though, on a regular day they would barely get ten customers. This meant she could listen to whatever she wanted, read books, magazines, and take as many smoke breaks as desired. ‘Vic’s Vinyl' probably wouldn’t get any patrons before closing time. Something about the outdated music selection and lack of organisation didn’t appeal to the majority of the residents of Wolfhorn Creek.

To be fair, Iris could understand. Most people had switched to CDs about five years ago and occasionally she would be stocking a shelf and find vinyl shattered in its sleeve or covers with absolutely nothing inside. The place had its charms though and it meant that the people who frequented it were interesting enough. Iris still didn’t know how Mr. Lewis hadn’t gone completely bankrupt yet. Maybe the mysterious namesake of the store ‘Vic’ was a benefactor, she would have to ask him sometime.

Iris tapped her freshly painted nails against the wooden countertop impatiently, narrowing her eyes at the mayor’s pixelated form.

“Good luck, and let's find our girl!"

This made Iris grimace. She wouldn’t consider herself a pessimist, in fact she was an idealist by nature but the idea that Adrian Winchester would return safely seemed a little far-fetched even for her.

Two days before, a young, white faced police deputy had wandered past the store in a daze, bumping into the rack of old rolling stones magazines by the door. She had seen him before; knew he was a relatively recent addition to the force and according to one of the secretaries that would come in occasionally had “a penchant for the dramatics and a very low tolerance for the job he was in.” Iris couldn’t help the buzz of excitement in her stomach as she helped him inside, cooing and gasping as he told her all about the awful day he had had. The mauled body that was found in the forest. That was what really grabbed Iris's interest.

‘Tate Rowe.’ She had printed the name in neat italics on a scrap of paper when the officer had left. He’d told her in hushed tones about the state of the body, slashes, and gashes. ‘inhuman’ he had shuddered as Iris sat, the cogs in her brain whirring away.

Now, she frowned as a picture of the red-headed girl flashed up on screen and the wind rattled the panned glass door. Iris had no desire to trek around in the mud among grieving townspeople or stick little orange flags into the ground but still she felt a little twang of envy that she may miss out on something big. Her thoughts wandered to the camera sitting in her backpack, and wondered briefly if locking up early was an option. She had been itching to get back out and take some pictures.

The last time she’d attempted an excursion something had stopped her; for fifteen minutes she had simply stood on the boundary of the thick foliage and willed herself to go in. Iris figured it was some stupid hang-ups from all the cases she’d been reading the night before so swore to come back at a later date, possibly with a partner to calm her nerves. It’s what she had come here to do after all.

coded by reveriee.

 

[buttnugget]

» robin fuentes

『 LOCATION 』Widow Miller's House
『 TAGGED 』

"Good luck, and let's find our girl!"

Standing behind the dusty mauve recliner occupied by her housemate, Robin's expression soured as she watched the live news broadcast on Mrs. Miller's old boxy television set.

"What d'you think made her so special that Sandinista finally called for a search party?"
With one hand on her hip and the other on the back of the recliner, she leaned her weight toward the elderly woman and moved her eyes from the screen to her friend.

The old widow heaved a sigh and shook her head before looking up to meet Robin's gaze.
"We both know it doesn't matter. Frank and Crystal would want us to help find her."
She brought her pale, slender hand up to rest over Robin's, giving the younger woman's fingers a slight squeeze.
"Even if no one did the same for them."

Letting out a frustrated puff of air, Robin stood up straight and ran her hand through her dark, curly locks. Mrs. Miller was right. It wasn't as if she had anything against Adrian Winchester - she and her now-deceased friend Tatum had called in to her radio show a few times before - it was just that she knew how often people disappeared from this place, and this was the first time in Robin's short few months in Wolfhorn Creek that she had seen anyone give a damn.

Six months ago when Frank Miller had disappeared after a routine fishing trip, there was no search party. There were no missing person's posters. His face wasn't on any milk cartons. Lucille Miller and her adult children were left to grieve amongst themselves without an answer, attending a funeral for an empty casket. The most the Miller family received were short-lived condolences and whispers from her neighbors that Frank Miller had been taken by the monsters.

Four months ago when Crystal Harris went missing, it felt like no one noticed or even cared. Except, of course, for her best friend Robin: the person who uprooted her entire life to come to this eerie little town of weirdos just to find out what had happened to her. During her initial search for Crystal, Robin found herself frustrated as she ran into nothing but apathy and conspiracy theories from the people she questioned about what was going on in Wolfhorn Creek. While most rational people will tell you that human beings don't just up and disappear, the folks who still stayed around here were content to accept that maybe they did. Worse yet were the cuckoos spreading tall tales about monsters in the woods.

If there was one thing Robin could say for certain it was that no werewolf, no vampire, no one-eyed one-horned flying purple people eater had absconded with her friend in the middle of the night out here in Nowheresville, Virginia.

She and Mrs. Miller knew all too well the pain and sorrow that comes from a missing loved one with no answers to be found, which is why she knew she had to lend herself to the search party as soon as it had been announced. Even the worst news was better than not knowing. You could find peace and begin to heal if a body was discovered. Uncertainty only brings sleepless nights and never-ending nightmares about what could have happened - or what might still be happening.

She headed into the kitchen, her beloved tan and white pit bull hot on her heels. She filled a dark blue thermos halfway with boiling water, dropping tea bags inside to steep. As she let the tea brew she packed a small piece of Tupperware with two of her homemade lemon blueberry muffins, dropping it into her oversized, tan leather shoulder bag that sat slumped on the kitchen table. As the timer above the stove rang out to alert her that her tea was ready, she tossed the tea bags out and poured several tablespoons of honey into the steaming mug. With snacks and a hot drink ready to be shared, she scooped the bag over her shoulder and walked toward the front door.

"Alrighty, Miss Lucille. Dolly and I are headin' out for the day. I gotta stop by Brown's and pick up a new inhaler - need me to bring anythin' back for ya?"
Robin stood in front of the door, keys to her hand-me-down 1985 Chevy Caprice station wagon and thermos in one hand, sunflower yellow dog leash in the other.

"No, that's alright. You girls just come home safely." Mrs. Miller shared a warm smile and gave a little wave to the knee-high dog at Robin's side.
"Good luck with your search. I hope you all find that young girl."

"You and me both. Bye Miss Lucille, we'll see you in the mornin'!"
With a smile, Robin stepped out the door into the chilly November air. Loading herself and her dog into her car, she began her drive to Brown's Pharmacy - her first pit stop on the way to the search party.

code by @Nano

 

[miyabi]

Heard it through the grapevine…

The thing about dead people is that they almost look fake, like figures made of wax; their skin is cold and stiff; bodies in the casket as they lay peacefully are always in the same position. Sometimes, you can’t decipher real from fake until you pick up the smell—that smell that haunts the senses for prolonged periods of time; formaldehyde mixed with death and an eerie feeling of peace. They always looked peaceful, even if laid to rest after horrid accidents.

But the bodies never look the same as they once did as they breathed life.

Heavy eyelids threatened to close with every push of the scalpel, flesh cut cleanly beneath the thin, sharp blade—the smell of formaldehyde kept her awake, as did the stale cup of coffee that sat atop her stainless steel table. The bitter scent in the air sends her mind rolling back in, eyes fluttering back onto the manila folder: Forest Jane Doe—descriptive. Jane Doe. John Doe. Too many Doe’s—as much as she hated to admit it, the name Doe had popped up far too many times to count; something about people nowadays, runaways, nobodies, not that it mattered. They weren’t too different from the people with identities. Clarice knew better than to ponder on the thought, she was here to do her job and nothing more.

“Li, ‘ya gonna join the search party?”

Yes. She was. There was a morbid curiosity that she’d been fixated on for quite a while now, most of it was so that she could get her grubby hands on information that most people are too ignorant to look for—Clarice often found that people didn’t search for the things they were afraid of. And this—this was the unknown. Maybe that was why she’d accepted the job, forensic pathologists aren’t often summoned, and they surely don’t accept it as quickly as she did. Ambition ran deep, curiosity did, everything did.

The woman nodded in response, gave a thumbs up without bothering to look upward, the continuation of an autopsy on her table following suit. That was it, nothing more—not a word, only a small gesture that was taken in equally as quietly.

There was the ticking of the clock that rang in her ears alongside the crunch of bones under the rib spreader, music bouncing off of the walls. She carried onward, a few glances through the small glass window of the large metal door in between the reworkings of a human’s innerworkings. As morbid as it was, there was peace in the cold, linoleum lined room; it might’ve been the fact that these people can’t talk back.

“Sorry, Doe. Duty calls—raincheck?”

Pushing the now cloth covered body into the morgue, Clarice dismisses herself, a one-sided conversation cut short by quick footsteps and the slamming of large doors.

…Not much longer would you be mine.

The cigarette lit between her fingers let off a thick cloud of smoke. An inhale, an exhale. Wheels crunched over the gravel of the road, hitting each small bump in between the sound of cutting music; a couple boys sat in front of the convenience store, bare chested and bored. Maybe they didn’t care much for the clouds above them, the ones that looked like they’d weep soon, but she couldn’t question them. Hell, she was going out in the same conditions, only—this time succumbing to the thick of forestation and gloom.

Her car radio cut in and out, a few murmurs in between as her hand reached to smack it. “Damn thing, can’t you just work for once?” Disgruntled words slithered from parted lips, attention momentarily lifted from the road and onto the piece of shit she had to listen to to fill the excruciating silence of what could’ve been her car ride.

“Finally!” A final smack dealt saved her in a sense, body jolting back into action as her hands made a quick turn of the wheel, swerving onto the other lane. In the back seat, the apparition of a woman with empty sockets—she’s imagining things, a not-so-friendly reminder that she should’ve been resting instead of heading out to the search party. Tires screeched against the blacktop, her cigarette flying out the window, and a sudden stop. Her head nearly hit the steering wheel, but thank God for seatbelts. She took a moment to compose herself, chest rising and falling in quick moments before the rush of adrenaline pumped through her veins.

In this moment was the realization of grief. Palpable grief. But it had cleared as quickly as it appeared.

Clarice turned her head, something to reassure herself by: there was no way that was real. “Keep it together—Jesus, what the fuck,” skinny fingers rubbed against her temples as her foot stepped on the pedal again. She was lucky enough to be so close to the meeting spot, a few people in a crowd surrounding a woman—the mayor to be exact—wielding a megaphone; it wasn't exactly hard to miss, the rest of the roads looked as barren as could be.

Stones work their way to the tree line, broken by brightly colored vests in the sea of people. The sides are covered by yellow tape, making the forest look all the more threatening; this shouldn't have come as a surprise, but it did. Clarice pulled on the neon vest, colors bold against the muted palette of her outfit, and set onward on foot in pursuit of a young woman she'd only seen a few times in her lifetime. The smile placed on her cheeks in the photo pulled a veil of reminiscence over her—only for Clarice's smile to dwindle towards the realization that there could be a body: a young one.

"Good luck, and let's find our girl!"

The words seemed far too enthusiastic; perhaps it was to cut the tension, but dammit, it was still off-putting.

Clarice placed the picture back into the folder, gripping it tightly between her fingers. She stared into the void and the void stared back—the sunlight still did no favors. "Poor kid," poor Clarice, too; if there was one thing she hated the most, it was the thought of being lost in woodlands she'd never even dared to walk into. But she had to do it.

She'd made it only a short distance away from the entrance, eyes already beginning to fool her again the further she'd gone in. The trees looked like people, people didn't look like people; and that damn shadow, the one in the corner of her eye, it loomed. Not real, can't be real, she's just tired. Yeah, that's how she justified it.

the pathologist

Clarice

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[SharkBark]

Turtle grease, motor oil, gasoline, even steering fluid. That's all I've ever know. And that's not gonna change. Keep that in mind.

Liam Graham

"Pass me a torque wrench!" Liam said.

Liam Graham was underneath a Honda Accord fixing it's rear suspension on his shift at Motor's workshop. The owner had been complaining that the car's handling was beginning to decrease and that was a clear sign of a suspension problem. The front was in good condition but the rear? Boy was that terrible. The entire crew was surprised she didn't get into a car crash by now. Being the cocky bastard he is, Liam stepped up and took fixing it up to himself. It was a lot harder than expected though.

"Slade, hurry up with that wrench!" Liam called out again, this time sticking his hand out from the bottom of the car. Slade, tall, extremely tatted up, and forgetful, ran towards the cart with the tools on it and scattered through the compressors.

"What size?" Slade asked.

"1/2 inches!"

Slade rushed back over to the vehicle, slid onto his knees, and put the wrench into Liam's hands.

"Thanks." Liam said. Then, he used the torque wrench to tighten a few bolts in the bottom of the car. Sweat trickled down Liam's face and onto the hard marble floor underneath him. The car was letting out a heat from the exhaust pipes that was almost intoxicating. It assaulted Liam's nose hairs and made his eyes burn. All in the daily life of a mechanic.

Liam finished tightening the final bolt and then pushed himself and the board he was on from underneath the vehicle. He stood up with his jumpsuit covered in engine oil and once again, smelling like turtle wax.

"Alright, try to turn the tires." Liam called out.

Motor, real name Charles, who is Liam's boss, got into the Honda and started it up. He then turned the steering wheel around a few times so that everyone else could examine the wheels.

"How are they looking?" Motor asked.

"Amazing!" Slade said. "Smoothest turns I've seen in a while. Nice going, Turtle Wax!"

Liam chuckled. His name at work was, "Turtle Wax" because even on his first day, he reeked of it. It's like he had a turtle wax based cologne or something. Liam got pats on the back and some compliments. Liam was the best at anything that involved being under the car so this was basically his specialty. But when it came to under the hood, he was a mess.

"Nah, it was nothing." Liam said. "Alrighty then. I need a smoke."

"Turtle Wax, you dumb ass." Motor said. "You're covered in oil. Are you trying to get lit on fire?"

Liam looked down at his jumpsuit. Black and brown-ish stains covered it along with his hands. He wiped his hands on it and then ran a few fingers through his hair.

"Oh, yeah. I forgot."

"You better be careful nowadays. I'm telling you, you're the easiest person to track down because of that."

"Because of what?"

"What else? Your stench! You need to make sure to shower more, man. I don't want you ending up like those missing kids."

Liam had forgotten about the disappearances occurring in Wolfhorn. People, especially teens, had been going missing, with almost no clues of how. There were also murders. Murders too gruesome to even explain. Claw marks were in people's bodies. No human could do that. Liam assumed that something like a mountain did it, but other theorist claim that monsters were involved. Seriously? Monsters? That's ridiculous.

"Don't worry, boss. I'll be fine." Liam said. But right after work, he took a long shower.

mood | Triumphant

scroll

location | Motor's Workshop

outfit | Classic Mechanic Fit

tag | turtle grease

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.