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Multiple Settings BLEAK PINES - THE STORY

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Wayne

Wayne

Local writer
Roleplay Availability
I am looking for roleplays.
Roleplay Type(s)
  1. Group





















  • intro






























    Twin Peaks



    Angelo Badalamenti


























    Back to the spot.



    T
    he sun hangs in the sky, neither bold nor bashful. A cold breeze snakes its way through the trees, brushing against the warm air like two strangers passing on the same narrow road. It’s the kind of weather that doesn’t ask for your opinion, it simply is. For the average citizen, it’s perfect.

    Life in Bleak Pines hums along, steady and uneventful, as Mondays often do. Time drips away like syrup, slow but inevitable. Shadows grow long, stretching across the town’s modest streets. The sun, polite as ever, begins its retreat, ceding control to the soft glow of streetlights. It’s almost night now, and Bleak Pines seems to exhale, settling into its quiet rhythm.

    The day passes with little mention of the girl, her name tucked away like an old receipt in the back of a drawer. But those who still remember her are gathering tonight at The Spot, a diner whose coffee is as famous as its creaky red vinyl booths. Everyone knows The Spot. Everyone’s been there. It’s a place where the coffee’s always hot, and the air smells faintly of old wood and secrets.

    Bleak Pines isn’t the kind of town that stays awake too long after dark. Its nightlife is confined to a few predictable places: the diner, the arcade, and a disco club that stubbornly refuses to fade away. Its big, wooden doors rarely open, and yet its neon sign buzzes to life every night, casting its pink glow over the empty street. People say the club is more popular now than it ever was in the ‘70s, but no one can name a single person who’s been inside. Still, the light’s always on. That’s enough.

    Main Street is the town’s spine, lined with small, weary businesses: a video rental store with a faded blue carpet, a hardware store where three old men lean against the front door like sentinels and a few other points of interest. The neighborhoods are quiet. The houses are tidy, but never pristine. There’s always a patch of overgrown grass or a cracked windowpane. Imperfections like these give Bleak Pines its charm. It’s a place where things are just good enough, not perfect, but comforting in their flaws.

    As the streetlights flicker to life, the teenagers take their cue. The sound of 1983’s greatest hits pours from car speakers, filling the night air with synths and drum beats. The cars themselves prowl the streets, driven by kids barely old enough to hold a license. They park in loose clusters, leaving more empty spaces than filled ones. It’s a strange, uneven pattern that no one bothers to figure out.

    Inside The Spot, the scene is simple: a few people scattered across the booths and bar stools. The air smells of fried onions and freshly brewed coffee. Two cops sit by the counter, their hands curled around steaming mugs. Three women sit alone in separate booths. They know each other, of course, everyone in Bleak Pines knows everyone else, but they don’t speak. Instead, they savor their solitude, the low murmur of the diner offering just enough company.






























intro



cast








Bleak Pines



Population:
5,120








time



Evening







date



March 7th, 1983







location



The Spot







status



closed











cs





lore





ooc

















♡coded by uxie♡
 



The Tormented.





David Quinn.



































Eyes without a face
















location

The Spot.






outfit







interactions

None.






tags

None.












The sky was a vast, painted thing, pale gold melting into the kind of blue that made you feel both watched and utterly alone. The sun lingered like an old friend reluctant to say goodbye.

Inside his house, David Quinn ran his fingers through Max’s fur. The German Shepherd’s eyes held the quiet weight of understanding. Max knew. Dogs always did. He wanted to go, wanted to follow, but Quinn couldn't take him. A week in Bleak Pines, one night for the old diner booth crew, the rest spent with family, the ones who had stayed. There were errands to run, hands to hold. Quinn was reliable. He always had been.

Outside, the air was thick with the smell of fresh paint and cut wood. Sarah Torrance, his neighbor, stood in the glow of the setting sun, hands smeared with red. Paint, probably. Buckets and furniture littered the front yard. She had been at this for days, moving things in and out, rearranging, repainting. Quinn sometimes wondered how big the house actually was. From the outside, it was small.

"Hey, Quinn. Bleak Pines?"
she asked, cleaning her hands with a white cloth—friends called him Quinn.

"Yeah. Meeting some high school friends."
He leaned against the fence, slipping a key from his keyring, passing it to her.

"The diner booth crew?"
She smirked.

"Old name. We were young. Come on, Sarah."


"I know. Just like seeing your face when I say it."
She gestured toward his house.
"Max’s food still in the same spot?"


"Yeah."


"Alright. Take care, Quinn."


The Dodge Dart rumbled as he settled behind the wheel, the kind of silence that stretched before long drives creeping in. He sat there, fingers resting on the ignition, the weight of something unspoken pressing against his ribs.

Every year, the diner booth crew felt less like a crew and more like a collection of people sharing the same space out of obligation. Words stretched thinner, silences stretched longer. Maybe this year, they'd finally run out of things to say.

Not all of them, though. Alex and Ricky, he still considered them friends, real ones, the kind who stuck even when everything else frayed at the edges. They talked, checked in, grabbed a drink when they could. It wasn’t like before, when they knew everything about each other, but there was an ease to it, a trust. The rest of the group? That was harder to say. Some friendships survived time, others just endured it.

Quinn twisted the radio knob.

"You’re locked in to 104.5 Wavy FM , where the tunes are fresh, the news is hot, and the vibes? Always smooth! I’m your main man, Oliver Redfield, keeping you company on this fine day!"

"Now, folks, we’ve got a wild one brewing, word just in, an ongoing case surrounding a young lady named Laura... oh, wait a second, hold the phone! My producer’s waving at me, ah, looks like the FBI’s jumped in on this one. Can you believe it? Kinda reminds me of that whole Beatrice Woods case a few years back... and we all know how that turned out. Or, well... how it didn’t turn out. Real shame. Heard she was a sweetheart."

"But hey, let’s not bring the mood down! We’re keeping it electric, because guess what? Michael Jackson’s Thriller is still sitting high and mighty on the charts, holding that crown since February 26th, and honestly? No one’s touching it! The man is unstoppable! And what better way to celebrate than spinning one of his hottest tracks? That’s right, folks, crank up the volume, grab your dance partner, and BEAT IT with the King of Pop!"

Destiny has a way of playing cruel jokes.

Quinn turned his eyes back to the road, gripping the wheel just a little tighter. The radio crackled, the voice of some smooth-talking DJ floating through the speakers, casual, effortless. And then, a name.

Beatrice.


A single word, plucked from the static, pulling him back to a place he thought he’d left behind. He didn’t believe in signs, but there were moments, small ones, fleeting ones, where the universe seemed to whisper. He had to see them. For Beatrice.

The Dodge Dart hummed beneath him, steady, familiar. The car was his, truly his, not just in ownership, but in the way it ran, in the way it felt beneath his hands. He wasn’t a mechanic, not exactly, but he knew enough. Knew how to listen. A bag rested in the backseat, filled with the essentials. Quinn never carried much. He wasn’t tied to things. Things could be left behind. Max, his loyal, waiting companion, was different. The car, maybe, was different too.

The road stretched ahead, long and dark, the kind that made you feel like you were driving through something rather than toward it. North Bend lay behind him now, a town much like Bleak Pines, but without its teeth. It had streets that emptied by eight, young people who left and rarely looked back. It lacked something Bleak Pines had, something in the trees, in the way the forest loomed just a little too close, in the myths whispered in the voices of those who never left.

And then, the sign.

“Welcome to Bleak Pines. Population 5,120.”

The numbers had changed over the years. Not by much. Not enough.

Quinn’s hands tightened on the wheel. The town looked the same, because the town was the same. Buildings went up, buildings went down. The bones of the place never shifted. The diner booth crew was probably already at The Spot, their old haunt, waiting, if they even still showed up. Maybe this was the year the silence finally swallowed them whole.

He pulled into the parking lot. The neon sign buzzed, flickering red across the roof of the Dodge Dart. He killed the engine, sitting for a moment, breathing in the still air of Bleak Pines. The weight of it. The familiarity of it.

It was always familiar.

Too familiar.

The doorbell chimed as he stepped inside.

"Evening, hon',"
the waitress greeted, voice warm, practiced.

He walked to the booth. Their booth. He was the first one here. That fact sat heavy in his stomach. Either they’d stopped coming, or traffic had swallowed them up somewhere along the way.

"Anything for you, mister?"
the waitress asked.

"Coffee."


"And how do you like it?"


He looked up at her. The words came without thought.

"Black, as midnight on a moonless night."











 



The Forgetful.





Ricky Sawyer.



































Ripples
















location

The Spot.






interactions







tags

None.












This year, the anniversary of Beatrice’s disappearance fell on a Monday.

It had been much easier to run away from it all the past couple of years, when the day happened to fall on a weekend. But today was a school day, and the halls felt suffocating. The students’ chatter sounded livelier, their eyes a little hungrier, like something scandalous dangled at the tip of their tongues. Another young woman had just vanished without explanation, just in time for old conspiracies to rise from the ashes where they should have long been forgotten.

Even the staff room wasn’t safe from it all. The older teachers – most of whom had known him when he was still just a student here – looked at him with pity, or sympathy, or some unspoken emotion that he couldn’t quite decipher. The newer ones were worse; they talked. They asked. They forced Ricky to speak when he'd much rather hide in silence.

The library was the perfect getaway. It was quiet here – no whispers, no mindless gossip to share or prodding questions to ask. Aside from one vivid memory – standing by the classics section, begging Julia to help him with a presentation on the Bronte sisters – Ricky could hardly recall spending much time there as a student. This place didn’t give him a trip down memory lane as much as a detour from it. At least that was what he'd hoped.

But now Ricky sat at a desk, grading half-assed essays on The Great Depression, the impending reunion weighed heavily on himself. Everywhere he looked, his brain forced connections to what awaited him later today. He found himself staring at a row of Stephen King books, his mind wandering over to Quinn. Was he in town yet? Should he have offered him the spare room at his place? He couldn't remember exactly how long he said he'd stay this year.

A few bookshelves away, a group of students argued about their book report on The Women of Brewster Place, their impassioned whispers filling the otherwise dead silence in the room. One of them went off throwing snarky comments about someone named Naylor and a potluck. Ricky tried not to laugh; the context was lost on him, but somehow it sounded exactly like something Henri would say.

And then, finally, he looked over at the classics section. The smile fell away from his face. Was he even going to see Julia at all this year?

Ricky looked down at the stack of papers before him. The nib of the pen left a dark red splotch where he had pressed too hard, having forgotten all about it. He put the cap back on the pen.

Maybe the library wasn’t quite the perfect getaway he thought it was. Or maybe he simply wasn't in the right frame of mind for doing anything productive.

Filing the papers away in his leather briefcase, Ricky stood up and prepared to call it a day. He was heading for the exit when the librarian tried to catch his attention.

Sarah was a petite woman with thick-framed glasses and long chestnut brown hair that she always wore in an intricate braid. She'd only moved to Bleak Pines a few months ago, replacing the last librarian who had finally retired after three decades working for Bleak Pines High's library. Sarah had an easygoing smile, didn’t ask too many questions. It was another reason Ricky didn’t mind going to the library lately.

“Hey, Eric?”


He turned around. The smallest twitch in the corner of her lips was all he needed to know that something else was up.

“You forgot something.”
In her hand, she waved an old paperback, and beckoned him to come closer. The book’s title read, The Left Hand of Darkness.

“I didn’t peg you as a sci-fi type,”
she continued, setting the book down on the counter just as he reached her.

“Well, you pegged right. My shelves are all Rolling Stones and MAD Magazines, I’m afraid. I liked the pictures.”
Ricky blinked, tilting his head as he inspected the book cover. It showed a dark castle surrounded by icy peaks; in the blue horizon, a pair of sad-looking eyes stared right into his soul. It was eerie, in its own way.
“Did I place an order for this when I was concussed, or possessed, or otherwise not in a legally binding state of mind?”


She laughed. He liked it when she laughed.

“Maybe,”
she said.
“How was your sanity eight years ago?”
She pulled out a slip of paper from under the counter, its edges yellowing over time.
“This fell out of a cabinet while I was doing some cleaning last week.”


It was an old form for an interlibrary loan request. Ricky recognized the handwriting as his own, though he had zero recollection of actually filling anything of the sort. When, finally, his mind filled the blanks, the look on his face shifted from realization to horror to sheer embarrassment in the span of a moment.

“Oh, yeah. That.”
He laughed so hard he thought she might just shush him out of duty. When she didn’t, he simply continued with a half-explanation,
“That was, uh, my sad attempt at impressing someone.”


“Well, it’s not too late.”
She grinned, then pushed the book towards him.
“This is from the librarian’s personal collection, so make sure to take good care of it.”


“I promise.”
He ran a finger along the book’s worn spine, then glanced up at her with a small smile.
“Wouldn’t want to disappoint the librarian.”


“And you might just impress her.”
Her grin grew just a little bit wider.
“See you at the candlelight vigil later?”


He smiled, then shook his head.

“Ah.”
She hesitated, biting her lip a little, before finding the courage to ask the question:
“Got other plans, then?”


“No,”
he caught himself,
“I mean, yes. But, um, not like that. It’s a bit more like,”
the sound that left his mouth was halfway between a sigh and an awkward laugh,
“like a family obligation.”



In fact, it was exactly like a family obligation. Just a bunch of people coming together once or twice a year, not because they wanted to, but because they felt like they [i[had[/i] to.

The tan Monte Carlo pulled into the parking lot of the diner, just as shiny as the day Ricky’s dad gifted it to him four years ago after he’d finished his degree. Ricky chose the spot right beside the Dodge Dart.

So Quinn was already here. He’d expected that, of course. The real question was if anyone else was going to show up.

At first, everyone had been enthusiastic about keeping in touch, about commemorating. Over time, the conversations became more silence than banter. Excuses started to pop up. Plans got cancelled. Sometimes, Ricky wondered if he would even be at The Spot right now if it wasn’t a mere ten minute drive away.

He looked at himself through the rear-view mirror, and paused for a moment before finally deciding to take off his tie and undo the first two buttons of his light blue dress shirt. Even his hair appeared a little too put-together, and so Ricky tousled it into some mild state of dishevelment until he felt like he was ready to go.

The stupidity of what he was doing didn’t elude him. He never felt the need to do any of this when he was just driving up to North Bend. But today was different. It felt like a break from real life, like he and his old friends were going back into that little bubble where the span of eight years didn’t matter, shouldn't matter.

It felt like they were all playing a role, and he didn’t want to disappoint.

Ricky took one last look at the leather briefcase beside him. The stack of essays laid inside it, still ungraded. On top of the briefcase, the old sci-fi novel sat in plain sight. He barely even got ten pages in until he realized he needed to get going. But all of this was soon forgotten as he exited the car and headed inside.

He knew exactly where to look as soon as he stepped on the other side of the diner’s doors. With a quick nod as a greeting, he slipped into the seat right across Quinn, managing to get there just in time to catch the last bit of conversation between him and the waitress. Ricky turned to the waitress, smiling at her with the familiarity of a regular.

“And I’m having what Shakespeare here’s having.”
His gaze drifted back towards Quinn.
“The drive here wasn’t too bad, I hope?”











 



lover.





julia.














Julia hated having too long alone with her thoughts, only the noise of the engine and the road to keep her company. She didn't usually like to put on the radio, it didn't distract from her inner dialog so much as play out like interference, a buzzing fly at the periphery of her thoughts. Even in the long stretches between cities, silence of the drive accompanied by the racket of her mind, i-5 was a nightmare. The new expressway was extremely convenient for when she had to travel for work, too bad everyone else in the region thought so too, determined to hydroplane at nearly 80 miles and hour toward their destination. In the short time since the full stretch had been completed, it had become a near certainty for pacific northwesterners. It would rain, JJ would pay taxes, i-5 would be a nightmare, and eventually, she would die. The few certainties of life that could be clung to.

After wrapping up a destination coastal wedding in Florence, all Julia wanted was to charge one more night in the hotel room and order pizza. She'd only written three nights into the contract, and tonight was the night. Instead of heading back to her apartment in Queen Anne, she'd be turning off toward the mountain pass. As soon as the highway became blanketed by thick trees, and began weaving through the mountains, she would know home was close, the shadow of the cascades offering to swallow her whole as her knuckles grip white on the steering wheel, veering onto highway 18 and away from the promise of her empty, quiet apartment.


"You could still turn around."
She could, there was a roundabout right off the exit. She didn't have to join the logging trucks heading east up the mountains.

"You packed your bags already. Mom would be furious."
She'd left the other driving factor unspoken, even in her animated conversations with herself she was rarely completely honest. If she had been honest, she would have said that last year was still ringing in her psyche. She was desperate to move on, she couldn't be defined by someone who'd left her as a teenager, willingly or not. The downpour started as the light of day began to fade, leaving her at the mercy of her headlights on the winding roads. It was about here that she'd veered off last year, taking a turn into a small roadside cluster of businesses, and turning around and heading north. Avoiding the diner booth crew hadn't given her the closure she'd wanted. She'd driven for hours until she'd hit the strait. Someone had to break the cycle of their little sad sack ritual. Someone had to start moving on, push the crew into taking charge of their own lives. She hadn't felt in charge though, sitting alone at the end of that dock in Anacortes. She'd just felt alone, looking out at that dark cold water with something gaping open inside of her. JJ didn't want to be the person she had been when she'd left Bleak Pines, the person she always felt creep back in whenever she came back, but she couldn't sit alone in her apartment with that black hole of grief.

Julia hadn't felt right about her relationship with any of them since they'd graduated, but they were the only ones who got it. Well, maybe not Ricky, she knew he hadn't known Bea long, knew that the secondhand grief for a person he hadn't gotten the chance to get very close to wore on him but he still showed up, better than she'd managed to do. He might be a better friend than any of them for that.

She'd stayed in touch with Alex more than any of them, despite the rift of her continued push against his conspiracies. Things had been more strained with them lately. Engulfed by the trees and the rain she could almost feel herself regressing, back to the home-schooled, awkward, overcompensating, broken hearted kid she'd been when she'd left. Her younger self was always so much more prominent among the familiar scenery. It was hard to be her whole self around people and a place so entrenched in the past for her.
"Better than being alone. They'd better be here."


It was characteristically dreary as she pulled into the parkinglot of the diner, rolling her tense shoulders and neck. Even from a 7 hour drive, JJ was obsessively early. She bit her lip, chewing on it nervously as she watched the door. She didn't recognize any of the cars in the parkinglot, but that didn't mean that none of them belonged to the crew, a lot could happen in the two years since she'd been here. She unlocked the door to get out, only to be hit with the vision of herself sitting alone at the booth, suffering pittying looks from the waitress all night. Would it still be Jamie? Or had she actually gone onto nursing school like she'd been talking about last time she'd been here?

Or worse, she'd go in and it would just be her and Quinn or something. She sank down in her seat, rethinking her whole plan of coming back. Staying away last year hadn't just been lonely, it had felt like a betrayal, especially to make the decision so last minute without telling them. It wasn't too late to retreat to her parents house and simply stay there for the time she'd taken off for this little visit.

Quinn's dart pulled up. One nightmare avoided, another realized. Her sage green Subaru GL wasn't exactly conspicuous from where she'd parked in a darker corner of the lot. It took her a pathetically long time from the point that she watched Quinn walk into the diner to steel herself to get out of the car. Long enough that Ricky pulled up and entered the diner in the meantime as well.

"God J, just stop being a bitch already"
she muttered, checking her hair. It looked fine, just a momentary gesture to stall before stepping out onto the pavement glistening with reflections from the neon sign of the spot, air fresh in a way that came from rain and mountains, lacking the tang of smoke and salt that came with Seattle. 'Here we go.' The familiar bell and warm, greasey scented air greeted her. Her heels clicked on the linolium as she gave sort of an awkard wave toward their regular booth, hanging her coat on the rack by the door like she still belonged there.













 



The Night Owl.





Alex Beck.



































I'm So Tired
















location

The Spot.






interactions

David, Ricky, Julia
















It was raining.

What had started as a lazy drizzle was now coming down in steady sheets, rhythmically drumming against the tin roof of the auto shop and running down the sides of the open bay door in thin rivulets. Alex stood just inside, shoulder propped against the cool metal frame, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The tip flared cherry red as he took a slow drag, the light of it casting his face into chiaroscuro. It accentuated the hollows of his cheeks and the heavy bags under his eyes, making him look as wrung out as he felt in that moment.

The nicotine didn’t do much—not for the exhaustion clawing at the edges of his mind, not for the tight knot coiling inside his chest. He exhaled sharply, eyeing the plume of smoke as it twisted upwards before disappearing into the damp air.

He was, admittedly, stalling.

It was getting late, he should have been at the diner by now. Hell, he should have been there twenty minutes ago. But the thought of walking in, of seeing them all again, felt much more nerve-wracking than it should have. They were probably all sitting there, fake plastic smiles and meaningless pleasantries pushed in an attempt to fill the silences that lengthened over the years. He already knew how it would all go the moment he walked in, the awkward tension that would hang in the air as everyone else did their best to avoid the one thing he could never let go of.

He could see their looks already—the judgement, the pity. He couldn’t decide which was worse. It left a bitter aftertaste on the back of his tongue.

Things between the crew had spiralled over the years, not entirely dissimilarly to Alex himself. He had been avoiding Julia’s calls for weeks now, letting the phone ring until it fell silent, too drained to deal with whatever half-concerned, half-exasperated tone she would have waiting for him. Henri wouldn't have called, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t have something to say. She had that way about her—assessing, measuring, eyes sharp enough to carve you down if they wanted to. And Ricky—Alex barely let himself think about Ricky. He had been his closest friend, once. But now there was only tension, awkward and unbearable, stretching between them like an open wound Alex didn’t know how to suture and it still hurt.

Maybe Quinn would get it. Maybe. But Alex wouldn’t hold his breath, not anymore. At the very least Quinn wouldn’t push. And these days, that’s all Alex could really ask for. Because none of them understood. And that thought had filled his chest with a slow-growing resentment.

If he was lucky, none of them had caught wind of the movers that had left only earlier that very afternoon, yet. He glanced back over his shoulder, at the stack of boxes poking out from the backroom. He still hadn’t finished unpacking, the better half of the day having been spent cleaning up his uncle’s old extra-wide trailer situated at the back of the property. A good enough place to stay, until he found something else. And, as of now, Ron was the only one privy to his move back. Hell, Alex hadn’t even told his parents yet, another source of dread that was pushed down and buried for the moment.

He took another pull from the cigarette, smoke burning his lungs, keeping his hands steady. The radio was on, a low murmur from the corner, some old classic rock station struggling against the static. The air smelled like oil and old rubber, the kind of scent that would seep into your bones if you spent enough time in it. This place had always been a refuge for him, a place where he could shut out the world, focus on what was right in front of him, the tangible. Somewhere he could lose himself for hours in the mindless rhythm of repairing something broken. If only his current predicament was so fixable.

He flicked the cigarette away, watching as the ember sizzled out against the wet pavement. His motorcycle sat just outside, streaked with water, chrome glistening dimly beneath the streetlight. He should just get on and go. Stop stalling and get it over with.

Alex ran a hand down his face, fingers catching against the stubble on his jaw. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed his jacket from where it had been tossed over a workbench, shrugging it on with a roll of his shoulders. The leather was worn, softened by years of use. Still comfortable in a way few things were nowadays, even if it hung looser than it should have over his frame now. The keys were in his pocket.

Even with the newly replaced tires, driving the motorcycle in the rain was probably a bad decision. But he had been making plenty of those lately. What was one more?


The streets of Bleak Pines blurred past in what had mercifully dissipated into a light misting, neon signs casting distorted halos in the puddles. Alex barely registered the turns and stop signs, knowing the way without thinking, muscle memory guiding him through the turns until the warm, flickering glow of The Spot cut through the gloom. The diner stood just as it always had—its red and white sign buzzing softly against the dark, the yellow light from inside spilling out through the windows.

When he pulled into the parking lot, he let the bike idle beneath him, staring through the rain-streaked windows of the diner. Inside, he could see silhouettes shifting in the very booth that had once been a second home to him. He recognized them immediately.

Quinn. Jules. Ricky.

It suddenly all felt too real. Briefly, Alex contemplated turning around, going back up the road he had come from. This could all be avoided; no explanations, no awkward conversations, no sidelong glances like he was already a lost cause. But he already knew he wouldn’t leave. That wasn’t how this worked. Not him. He couldn’t.

Instead, with a slow, steadying breath, he reached down and turned the key, killing the engine. The absence of its rumble left an uneasy emptiness in its wake. He sat there a moment longer, fingers still curled around the handlebars. Alex had never been late before. Never hesitated. But the idea of walking through that door, of sitting under their scrutiny, made his ribs feel tight.

Regardless, he forced himself to move, pulling off his helmet and shaking out his hair, the air bitingly cold against his face. With no more excuses to be had, he swung his leg over the bike and stood up. The walk up to the door was over far too quickly; he hesitated for only a second before his fingers grasped the metal handle.

The bell above the door gave a halfhearted jingle as he pushed it open, the warmth inside slamming into him all at once—thick with the scent of coffee, grease, and something faintly sweet. It smelled like a memory. It was almost too warm here, stifling after the cold outside, and his damp clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin.

The inside of the diner had remained unchanged over the years, the same red vinyl booths, the same checkerboard floor, the same scent of coffee in the air thick enough to stick to your clothes. Time never seemed to touch this place, even as it wrecked everything else. The sound of the door shutting behind him barely registered over the low murmur of voices and the distant hum of the jukebox. Heads turned. Not all of them, but enough. Enough to make the space feel smaller.

Once upon a time, the very thought of Alex being late to the reunion would have been laughable. He had always been one of the first to show up, ready to drag everyone back into conversations none of them wanted to have. He was too impatient, too eager to dredge up the past. He would be sitting at the booth, fingers drumming against the table top with an almost manic energy, leaning in to spill his latest theories and musings, desperate to get any of them onboard, to dig deeper into things that were better left buried. He was always waiting for that moment, waiting for them. Tonight, they were the ones waiting for him.

Alex didn’t meet their gazes as he approached the booth. Wordlessly, he shrugged off his rain-soaked jacket as he slipped into the open seat next to Quinn.

He was silent. No friendly jokes. No theories. No eager, energetic rambling. Just a strained, tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach those tired eyes, eyebrows furrowed in a way that betrayed an underlying edge of frustration.










 



The Tormented.





David Quinn.



































Eyes without a face
















location

The Spot.






interactions

Ricky, Julia, Alex.

















“And I’m having what Shakespeare here’s having.” Ricky—it felt fitting that he’d be the first to greet Quinn. For a few seconds, it almost felt like just another weekend, a thought that pleased him. “The drive here wasn’t too bad, I hope?”

“It was alright, I didn’t expect you so early”
He did, in fact he wanted Ricky to be the first, their conversations felt more natural, easy, something that gradually vanished the more members of the crew arrived, a strange irony, when Quinn looked back at their friendship, the two were never really friends during highschool, Maybe the change meant something—growth, time? He didn’t know. But for the moment, he was glad to see a familiar face.
“Good to see you Ricky, it’s been a while. How’s everything?”


It didn’t take long for the coffee to arrive, the waitress carried two mugs, tall with a tapered body that widened at the top, but with a sturdy and flared base, they were colored a warm brown and the handle was large and curved, extending outward before looping back to the body, making it comfortable to hold. She set them down before pouring coffee straight from the kettle.

“Could you leave the pot? I’m sure we’ll need more before long”
she nodded, placing the kettle on the table, then turning away and leaving to attend to other clients. The bell chimed again.

Julia.

Quinn caught a glimpse of the awkwardness in Julia’s eyes. something fleeting, but it was there, and it unsettled him. She was here this time, at the reunion. Last year, she hadn’t come, and Quinn never judged her for it, but now, seeing her standing there, a strange tension hung in the air. They were all supposed to be here for Beatrice, to honor her, to keep the memories alive. But Julia’s presence felt different, like it carried a quiet weight—a question neither of them had asked out loud: Was this her way of moving on? Did she think they all had to? Quinn’s chest tightened with the thought, the same feeling gnawing at him earlier when he thought about the past. He wasn’t sure if he understood her anymore, and that uncertainty dug under his skin. But despite everything—despite the years, the unspoken things, the changes—Quinn was always there. He had always been. And somehow, that had to mean something.

He waved back, awkwardly.

Outside, the rain picked up, relentless now, as though the storm itself had a message to deliver. The world outside seemed to mirror the heaviness in Quinn's chest, the sky darkening with every passing second. He took a slow sip of his steaming coffee, the warmth of it a brief comfort. For a moment, despite everything he felt about the crew, about the fractures in their relationships, the unspoken tensions, he found himself wishing for the ones still on their way to arrive safely. To make it here, not just in one piece, but with enough peace to make it through the day. Above all, to drive carefully.

Quinn’s mind shifted from Julia’s unreadable gaze to the new arrival. Alex. His friend. Or what was left of him.

Alex. Was it really him? The face was familiar, but the eyes were vacant, almost empty, like the fire inside had burned out, leaving only the charred remains. David had always seen that fire—Alex's boundless energy, his theories, his restless mind. But now… now it was just quiet, an unnerving silence between them. The last time they spoke, Alex had been on one of his rants again, rambling about theories—some far-fetched, some unsettlingly plausible. David had tried, really tried, to pull him back from the edge, transition his ideas into the believable, the truth without directly confronting him about anything. The police reports, the facts, the hard evidence. David had shown him, worked on it with him.

But Alex just wouldn’t listen, or worse, didn’t want to. It felt like a battle David was losing, but he kept pushing, hoping his friend would come back to him. And maybe Alex did—sometimes. But it was always a little less each time. And now, this... hollowed-out version of his friend was standing before him. The thought of losing his friend—of watching him slip further into this world of uncertainty and paranoia—shook David to his core. They’d been close. It scared him. He’d always feared this, feared that Alex would drift so far that there would be no bringing him back. Maybe that’s what Alex was now, a ghost of the friend David once knew. The thought of confronting him, of asking the hard questions, felt like stepping into a void.

'I’m not sure if there’s anything in the woods, what if we look for whatever the police published? I’m sure we can find something there…'

It had been a while since they’d last spoken, and the look in Alex’s eyes—or, more accurately, the emptiness where that familiar spark once lived, was enough to tell Quinn that something was off. The change in him was more than just time; it was as if something had happened, something Quinn couldn't quite put his finger on. The ache in his chest deepened as he watched his friend, the friend he used to know so well, standing there, a shadow of himself. It didn’t matter how much time had passed or the miles that separated them. There was always this pull, this connection that remained, no matter how distant. These people—his friends, his old crew—had meant the world to him. They still did, even if the ties between them weren’t as strong as they used to be. Maybe it wasn’t even friendship anymore. Maybe it was something else, something more complicated, harder to name. But whatever it was, Quinn felt it, just as he always had. They were still his, even if the world between them had changed.

"Hey, Alex. I’m happy to see you."
Quinn said, the words feeling forced, like a quiet plea for things to feel normal again. He placed a hand on Alex's shoulder, a tentative gesture, as if trying to reach through the distance that had grown between them.
"It’s been a while, huh?"
His voice was warm, but there was a hint of concern, as if he were testing the waters, hoping that Alex would respond in a way that made sense of this strange, distant version of his friend.

The rain outside worsened.










 



The Forgetful.





Ricky Sawyer.



































Ripples
















location

The Spot.










tags

None.












“Good to see you Ricky, it’s been a while. How’s everything?”


“As good as it could be. The kids still pass around notes in class, their dogs are still eating their homework, and all is right in the world.”
Ricky shrugged, though the smile on his face was that of someone who was genuinely happy to see a friend.

Soon, the waitress came back with their coffee. He thanked her with a quiet nod. Ricky curled his fingers around the handle of the cup, before immediately releasing his grip on it. The Spot always served its coffee a touch too hot, and it still smelled exactly the same after all these years: rich, a little smoky, something faintly nutty, and that slightly burnt edge that always made it feel just a bit more comforting, like home.

Ricky decided to leave out any mention of the candlelight vigil happening at the school. It wasn’t like it had come up in the past couple years, and he wasn’t about to start now. Anyway, the whole affair had always felt like it was more for the benefit of the town, than it was for Beatrice.

So instead, Ricky was content to settle into a comfortable silence. That was the thing about Quinn and him; there was never any need to fill the quiet when it was just the two of them. It certainly made the drive to North Bend more than worth it, whenever the chance presented itself. They'd sit there without words, and once in a while, something would pop up in someone's head—last night’s game, the new Simple Minds album, remember that time when…—and easy conversation would wake, stretching into the space between them. Sometimes it meandered. Often, they laughed. Eventually, it always lulled back into silence. And that was okay. Sometimes all one really needed was the quiet reassurance of an old friend, and a good drink.

Strange how things turned out. The truth was Ricky couldn’t remember ever having a single decent conversation with Quinn back in high school. Quinn was the football superstar; Ricky was just another band kid. They were supposed to run in different circles, to live in separate worlds. But in a place as tiny as Bleak Pines, often all it took was an extra step for lines to blur and worlds to collide. Sometimes, he wished he’d realized this much sooner, but then again, things had a way of working themselves out in the end.

Indeed, they did. Quinn looked past Ricky, moving his hand around in a gesture that could only be described as awkward. Henri, probably, judging by the look on Quinn’s face. With a soft chuckle, he turned around to greet another old friend, his eyes growing a fraction bigger when he saw that it was someone else. Instead of a wave, he offered her an excited grin, jerking his head to the side as if to say, what are you waiting for?

Julia couldn’t—didn’t?—make it to last year’s reunion, and if he was more honest with himself, Ricky didn’t expect her to make it to this one either. It wasn’t a big deal—just … inevitable. As inevitable as dwindling phone calls, as plans that fell through and Christmas cards that had less and less things to say. A few months ago, he found himself staring at a blank card for what felt like ages. What was he even supposed to write? See you soon, not knowing if he actually was?

In the end, he settled for Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Short, simple, and so generic he could have just got the same words pre-printed on the card. He wanted to write down the words himself, though. That way he could fill in as much of that empty white space as he could.

It didn’t matter, shouldn’t matter—Julia was the one he’d trusted with all his darkest, stupidest secrets in high school—and yet here they were now, all that space between them, growing wider by the year. With the two of them, the silence felt like something to be filled before it grew too vast, before it became just another excuse not to pick up the phone.

So he grinned wider, scooted off to the side closer to the window, jerked his head toward the booth again, and hoped, just for a moment, that maybe this time, the space would close just a little.

It wasn’t long before a fourth member joined them, and this time, despite himself, Ricky found his gaze wandering over to the rain outside, the smile on his face faltering ever so slightly.

There were many different types of silence in the world, and the one Ricky shared with Alex felt heavy. Suffocating, even, like he’d almost rather take his chances with the pouring rain outside.

But it wasn’t Alex’s fault that Ricky had put him on a pedestal when they were younger. Ricky had always thought that he was meant for bigger things than Bleak Pines, but Alex… well. Alex was always meant for things bigger than all of them. It was the way he saw things in a different light, the way he could explain three weeks’ worth of algebra into a five-minute metaphor that somehow made perfect sense.

Ricky had been desperate to impress him, once upon a time: half-finished sentences in the margins of his notebook, because he wanted to have something intelligent to say when they saw each other next; long-forgotten library forms; all the silly little things that were lost to time. In the end, it wasn’t enough. Never was.

And Alex, as it turned out, was just like all of them. Take away a piece of him, and he broke like glass. After Beatrice’s disappearance, he buried himself deeper and deeper into conspiracies and half-baked theories, his grief twisting into obsession, and Ricky watched it happen without a word, because he was sure his friend was infallible.

By the time he mustered the courage to confront him, it was too late. He was too far gone. I can’t keep watching you tear yourself apart, man. That was the last thing he’d said to Alex before their interactions devolved into excruciating monosyllabic exchanges in reunions like this. It still stung to think about, not because he regretted walking away, or because he thought he could have saved him, but because he thought he’d let him down—not by leaving, but by staying silent as long as he did.

Now they were back to silence, though Quinn, thankfully, seemed perfectly determined to cut through it with some kind words and a friendly greeting. Ricky took a deep breath, tried to tell himself how ridiculous he was acting, and managed to recover some of that easygoing smile as he finally shifted his gaze towards Alex.

Ricky reached for his coffee cup. It had cooled down enough to drink, though he still didn’t take a sip. His fingertips tapped along the side of the ceramic, following the pitter-patter of the rain outside, and he let another moment pass before finally finding the resolve to push the cup towards Alex.
“Here,”
he said. A peace offering, maybe. Olive branches. Something.
“You look like you need it more than I do.”











 



lover.





julia.
















She'd expected things to be awkward. They were always a little bit weird, but it was so easy to get so caught up into the weight of the day and forget that these were her friends. At least they had been, not like she had any better ones now. She wasn't at the periphery for long, she thought David's awkward return wave was likely the best she'd get but Ricky's answer, the grin that spread across his face brought a nostalgic warmth to the whole space. For a moment it was like the diner was a sanctuary from the gloom outside rather than an extension of it, for once a familiar face evoking the soft and light thrill of running around the arcade just a bit after curfew moreso than it did the suffocation of her funeral clothes or the feeling of drowning underneath the heaps of books and newspaper clippings and photo 'evidence' far too late into the night. it wasn't fair to any of them that those memories were often so overshadowed by what happened after, the candle of youthful joy unable to hold up against the monument of tragedy.

Ricky reminded her of the good times. She answered the gesture with a small smile, moving to take him up on the offer when the door chimed again.

Alex had been avoiding her calls. As bad as she felt letting her once close friendship with Ricky fade into an occasional card, he wasn't the reason she'd shown up and talked herself out of veering off the highway. The great thing about Ricky and David, they'd be here. She wished they wouldn't be, and as much as she hoped they would move on, there was something to be said for the knowledge that she'd probably find them right where she left them whenever she came back into town.

Alex, however, had been circling the edge of something terrible for years. The look on his face could only mean he'd fallen in. She hovered by the booth until he sat down, as if he might bolt, or just fall over.

"Well."
She could almost hear her own mother in her voice, but she wasn't as inclined to tiptoe as the boys were.

"Don't you look like a ray of sunshine."














 



The Night Owl.





Alex Beck.



































I'm So Tired
















location

The Spot.






interactions

David, Ricky, Julia
















"Hey, Alex. I’m happy to see you. It’s been a while, huh?”

There was no doubt that the hand placed upon Alex’s shoulder could feel the tension coiling in the muscles beneath, a thrumming of restless energy hidden behind an exterior of dishevelment and weariness. The gesture should have been reassuring, perhaps even comforting, but instead it made Alex’s stomach twist because there had been a time when he wouldn’t have thought twice about returning it, slinging an arm around the other man’s shoulder and yanking him into an embrace with an easy laugh.

Quinn had always been the steady one, the dependable one, the one there trying to hold things together. Like a lighthouse on the shore, unwavering no matter how lost to the sea things appeared to be. But these days, Alex felt increasingly unmoored, adrift—and he wasn’t entirely sure he cared to be found again, to make it back to safe harbors.

“Yeah,” was all he was able to muster in reply, pushing the word out with a deep breath and an awkward, stilted nod. His voice sounded rough around the edges, too many cigarettes lately and not enough sleep. He didn’t meet Quinn’s gaze, didn’t meet any of them. He was too afraid to see how they were all looking at him now.

“Well,” Julia spoke, dragging the word out. Her tone was light but edged with something sharp and pointed, something that had Alex bristling before she even finished the thought. “Don’t you look like a ray of sunshine.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He was well aware he looked like hell, but hearing it out loud, hearing it confirmed by Julia who had always been anything but gentle, words always laced with that familiar bite, it made something sharp twist in his ribs. He huffed a humorless laugh, glancing out at the rain pouring over the cracked asphalt of the parking lot outside so he wouldn’t have to look at her.

“Yeah. That’s me. Sunshine. Nice to see you too, Jules,” Alex muttered, tone dry as kindling. His fingers tapped impatiently against the table top. It was an old habit, deflecting with sarcasm. He knew she would see through it though, she always had. That thought left a sour taste in his mouth, but he simply didn’t have the energy to engage with it further.

And then there was Ricky.

A ceramic mug, filled with steaming coffee as black as midnight on a moonless night, slid across the table, settling in front of Alex. He blinked down at it, like it was taking a moment for his mind to process it.

“Here,” Ricky’s voice was casual, like it didn’t mean anything. “You look like you need it more than I do.”

“Oh, no, uh, it’s okay, I can just—” The words came tumbling out before Alex could think, stilted and awkward. His eyes flicked between Ricky, the cup, and the waitress somewhere in the background, preoccupied wiping down the counter with a wet rag.

Alex’s hand hovered over the mug, like he was preparing to push it back. But then he caught the other man’s expression—casual, expectant, maybe even a little hopeful beneath layers of carefully worn nonchalance. Before he knew it, his fingers were curling around the ceramic, warm and soothing, and he was pulling it closer.

The two of them hadn’t really talked in a while—really talked. Alex had lost track of how many times he had replayed that last real conversation over in his head. ‘I can’t keep watching you tear yourself apart, man.’ He had snapped back, bitter and angry and hurt that Ricky of all people refused to listen to him, to understand. Alex had pushed and Ricky pulled away, and when it was over, the distance had settled and remained like a scar that refused to fade. Not a day had gone by that he hadn’t regretted the way things had gone down, but it had seemed irreparable until now. Maybe this was better than nothing. Even if it was just a cup of coffee.

“Thanks,” Alex murmured, reluctant to meet Ricky’s eye as he accepted the offering. The warmth seeped into his palms, solid and grounding.

It was inevitable, the way the silence began to settle between them all. Every year it got just a little heavier, lasting a little longer. Rain drummed heavily against the windows, a dull, ceaseless sound that seemed to only punctuate the stillness.

Typically, this was where Alex would start, where the theories would begin spilling out, where he’d crack a joke and then ease into some casual mention of whatever latest fixation his investigations had brought him to. It was almost like muscle memory at this point, the way he would inch the conversation towards something that mattered, something real, something big, something that should make them all listen.

But not this time.

This year, Alex had made a vow to keep his mouth shut. No theories, no investigations, no mention of the research that had been bleeding him dry for years. He was beyond exhausted, and he knew that none of them gave a damn anyway. If they did, they wouldn’t look at him the way they did, with pity and disappointment and misplaced concern. Like he didn’t know what he was talking about, like he was crazy.

If they didn’t want to believe him, then fine, he was done wasting his breath. He would find the answers himself. With or without them. That was one of the reasons he was moving back to Bleak Pines, after all.

“So,” The word dragged out, followed by a too-long beat of silence, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to say, finally settling with, “You all got here okay?”

It was a safe question, a normal one. But the words still felt foreign and strange coming from his mouth. Small talk had never been his thing, even back then. Even more so now, when there were always so many far more important things to say—but he wasn’t going to say them.










 
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The Resentful.





Nora Alvarez.



































Holidays In The Sun
















location

The Spot.






interactions

David | Alex | Ricky | Julia
















She tasted it now. Blood. Metallic, sour, it crept into the back of her throat. Nora swallowed, head held back, eyes still adjusting to the grimy fluorescent light overhead. She rocked back slightly on the toilet lid, a broken gasket making the whole fixture teeter precariously. She sat motionless, craned neck growing numb, with a wad of thin toilet paper shoved against her face, and waited. Heart’s Barracuda played from a boombox radio out front, then some song from Blondie that she couldn’t remember the name of. Both passed by, clocking in a good three or four minutes each, the only way to tell how long she’d been in that strange purgatory that smelled like gasoline and stale piss.

Fuck, she was so late. Running behind to begin with, now she’d lost another, what, eight minutes? She knew, internally kicking herself like a mangy dog for it, that they wouldn’t have expected much else. She showed up late every other time she’d met them at the Spot. A fresh searing of shame at having to make up the lost time with a series of “huh?”s or “wait who’re we talking about?”s always made her resolve to do better next time. To subvert expectations and all that. Be decent for once. Now, she was later than ever, already a good thirty minutes behind by the time the nosebleed hit.

She was on edge as it was - being back in the midwestern town that raised her in the dark, in the rain. She pulled over in a panic at the town’s only gas station, dripping bright fresh blood into her hand in a desperate attempt to avoid fucking over the rental’s nylon seats.

When Blondie gave way to a blaring commercial break advertising Joan’s Country Restaurant & Gift Depot, Nora took her chances and leaned forward. She was close to feeding the machine a dime for a goddamn tampon to shove up her nose when, mercifully, the flow seemed to have stemmed on its own. She breathed an elated sigh, kicking up off the toilet and wetting a brown paper towel in the sink. She dabbed at the blood that’d gotten over her mouth and chin, wiping it around until the carnage was gone. Nora took a regretful look in the mirror to be sure. Notes in sharpie and lipstick leaving phone numbers for a “good time” and a few choice slurs floated around her reflection like a halo.

The nosebleed must’ve been something with the air. She probably wasn’t used to the dryness of the Midwest after all this time, ignoring the fact that she’d never had this problem in the years before. She didn’t consider that it was the powder she cut out back at the motel before leaving - a line for courage and charisma.

On the way out of the dingy bathroom, she picked up a packet of gum and a box of cigarettes, the scrawny, greasy-haired man behind the counter eyeing her with a prick of recognition. She was pretty sure he was a few classes behind her, and now he was pulling lottery scratchers and bags of Cheetos.

“Hey, don’t we…?” He ventured, but Nora looked away, doling out a few bucks and muttering a colorless “I don’t think so.”

She broke into the carton in the car, lighting it up with the lighter in the console. She cracked the window, blowing a fresh cloud of smoke aimedly at the rain, wanting to get her deposit back. She made it to the Spot in two minutes, as was the nature of small, flat towns. Still, she loitered in the car, killing the engine of the lacquer-red Caprice. She finished her cigarette, biding time until she had to go in. She wanted to see them. Then again, she fucking didn’t.

A lot had changed in a year. A lot. And none of it for the better.

Even now, she was high as a kite. That was definitely a change. Sure, the gang had all been delinquents together before; they were no strangers to Nora taking a rip of a bong or four or five beers every now and then … But they hadn’t ever seen her high, like, really high.

She tossed the cigarette butt out to the parking lot and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to slow herself down. She placated her paranoia, telling herself that they hadn’t seen her in a year; a year was a long time to remember someone. So what if she acted a little animated? maybe their memories would trick them into thinking that this was just always exactly how she was. Or maybe they wouldn’t care, just grateful that she was the only one there who wasn’t acting like they were at a goddamn funeral. Besides, it was a practiced high. She was good at masking it, if no one fixated too long on the large, moony pupils and the occasional bead of sweat at her hairline. She’d just be the same old Nora.

And then she was inside, the chime of the same bell interrupting what she’d hoped to be an undetected entrance. She looked pretty much the same - still sloppy - except now old, stained band tees and varsity letters had been exchanged to a faded leather men’s jacket and a white button-up that had never so much as touched an ironing board, lucky if it even saw a closet hanger. Her dark curls were sprinkled with droplets of rain.

When she saw them, despite herself, she broke into an easy smile. She didn’t really like to smile. She always thought it made her look dorky, but it was a gentle expression that made her otherwise punkish look turn soft.

Even the members of the crew who were faced away from her, she knew on hair and posture alone. Her oldest friends. Shit, her only friends, if she wanted to get sentimental about it. She made her way over to them slowly, a well-rehearsed and meandering gait hiding the fact that her left femur lost a fourth-inch in June when it snapped and they had to shave it down to piece it back together. She didn’t like talking about it, didn’t like the false sympathies or the prodding questions about the Accident. Just thinking the word made bile rise in her throat, made her feel as sick as she did when she used to think about Bea vanishing. The group didn’t know about the Accident. It made a few local TV stations’ evening newscasts but didn’t really leave the city. She was glad for that.

When she approached, she swiftly stepped into the cracking vinyl of the adjacent booth, up and over into a thin space between Ricky and the window. She lowered down into the crevice, her one and only spot at the table ever since they’d started coming here.

She winced just a second and how the move ground at her thigh, but played it off with a snort, “Shit, guys, we’re getting old.” She looked around at them one by one. David and Alex across from her, Jules and Ricky at her side. With a sedate ache, she lingered a moment on the empty space next to Alex, where Bea used to make six.

David sat across from her, tall enough that their knees nearly knocked under the table. Nora only allowed the briefest of looks, their eyes meeting in a fleeting passing, before turning elsewhere, fueled by a perennial embarrassment at the former fling who’d seen her without any clothes on.

Then her gaze naturally fell on Alex. Sweet Alex, nerdy Alex. Sure, she liked taking the occasional piss out of him but, at the heart of it, she would’ve stepped out in front of a train for him. Out of all of them with their many talents and interests, she’d always picked him to go the furthest. But the tired expression, the grayness in his skin, ah … she remembered that look. She knew it all too familiarly from looking at it in herself. The remnants of a soul taking its last shaky breaths before dissipating into the ether, the husk that gets left behind. The thought hurt. She could take it when it was her on the line, but not Alex, slowly giving way to the parasite of a ghost that ate away at him slowly, the atrophy of lingering in a past that couldn’t be corrected.

The silence that befell the group was heavy as a black hole and, like an itch, Nora felt the need to fill it.

“Sorry I’m late,” She started. “Got a room at Mayfair and there was a dead mouse behind the TV. It took them forever to get me moved somewhere. But they did give me an upgrade. It’s got a jacuzzi and everything.” The Mayfair was Bleak Pines’s one and only motel. Despite the quaintness of its name, the Mayfair Motel was the absolute Bleak Pines could offer; that is to say - not much.

She looked again tentatively at Alex. “You staying there, too? I didn’t see you.” He was usually the only other one that did. Most other years, David crashed with Ricky and Jules with her parents (when she came at all). Since her dad died and the trailer flattened, the crusty old Mayfair was the best she could do. Still, Alex’s company had made it better - a few quiet Midwestern nights sharing a beer and a cigarette on its balcony.










 
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The Tormented.





David Quinn.



































In Dreams
















location

The Spot.






interactions

Ricky, Julia, Alex, Nora.
















“Got here just fine, was worried about some of you, the rain is just getting worse,” Quinn muttered, his voice trailing off as he gazed out through the glass. The storm outside hissed back at him, like some untamed beast rattling its cage. The rain poured in sheets, the relentless wind howling through the trees, whipping the fog of Bleak Pines into shape. It slithered between the branches, as if something was waiting to crawl out of it. Then, the first lightning crack split the sky, followed by another, and then more, coming in fast, like clockwork. Each strike made the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. He turned his eyes back to the table—still waiting for the last one.

Cracks, that’s what he saw when he looked at them. His old friends, now pieces of something that didn’t quite fit anymore. The exact word he was looking for was missing, but the feeling was unmistakable. Like someone had plucked a handful of strangers and thrown them into the same room, expected to share the same space as if nothing had changed. Hell, maybe that might work better than this, Quinn thought, his lips curling into something close to a grimace.

His eyes darted back to the group, his brow furrowing for just a moment, but he quickly relaxed, the fleeting expression slipping away as quickly as it had come. He couldn’t be negative, not now. There was enough of that in the air, like dust settling on a forgotten shelf. Maybe even too much. A silence hung over them, thick and dense. It felt like a wake. You know, the kind of place where you try to fill the emptiness with small talk, pretend everything’s fine, try not to focus on what’s missing. And Beatrice—always Beatrice. Her name, unspoken, as if it was a rule no one had created but everyone followed. It was strange, really. During their reunions, her name was mentioned only in passing—maybe once, maybe twice—but never more. Like saying it out loud would tear open something they didn’t know how to patch back together.

Then, the door groaned open, and she walked in.

Nora Alvarez. She was not spared from the rain, soaked to the bone as the wind outside seemed to whip in every direction, attacking, forcing itself into every crack and crevice. The storm was... wrong. Out of place. Nora was no different, Quinn thought, as his eyes followed her every movement. He could feel the past crawling in her arrival, the awkwardness that never left.

They’d had a brief relationship once, a long time ago, but it was doomed before it even began. Too young, too tangled in their own messes. Beatrice’s disappearance, fresh in their minds, and everything too big, too overwhelming. Quinn’s gaze flickered to the table and then back to Nora, trying to read her, trying to capture something he couldn’t quite place. Her pupils—wide, too wide, almost unnatural. She looked different now, like something in her had cracked open, but maybe he was just imagining it. Back in high school, it wasn’t a secret that she liked to... experiment. It wasn’t even rare, really. He had tried it once. Once. Never again. Their relationship got him to know her, just enough to know things other didn't.

He tried to hold her gaze, to figure her out, but for a split second, the question froze him. What am I doing? His brow were furrowed, but then his gaze softened. His mind was working overtime, piecing together her puzzle, but the answer always slipped away. Maybe it’s not my business. But the thoughts lingered, like smoke that didn’t dissipate. She was safe. That was all that mattered, he told himself.

“Nora,” he said, his voice gentle, a simple smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He was about to say more, but then the lights flickered, a brief flash of uncertainty in the room. He stopped, looking up at the bulbs above, just as another lightning strike sliced through the dark sky. The lights went out completely. The diner was swallowed by darkness, and for a moment, there was nothing but the roar of the thunderstorm outside.

Silence. It stretched. Too long. Too heavy.

Then, the electric hum of the jukebox flickered back to life. Its glow illuminated the corner of the diner, casting strange, shifting shadows on the walls. Everything was dark except for that faint, eerie light. The jukebox’s claw moved, selecting a disc. The needle lowered with a soft hiss, the first faint crackle of vinyl filling the room.

In Dreams by Roy Orbison.

David’s stomach churned, a strange heaviness pressing against his ribs. He didn’t know why, not yet. But as the first line of the song filled the air, everything inside him snapped into place.

‘A candy-colored clown they call the sandman…’

Beatrice’s song. Her favorite song. The one she’d always hum to herself. His eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat. The memory hit him like a wave, but then the song distorted—slowing down, speeding up, twisting, as though something was trying to claw its way free from the grooves.

‘I close my eyes, then I drift away...’

The distortion continued. The tempo changed again, and again, but there was no escape from it. The words looped. Again. And again. 'I can’t help it. I can’t help it.' Over and over, the track warped, until it felt like the song was pulling him under.

Then, the disc crawled to a halt.

Seconds passed. The sweat on Quinn’s forehead grew colder, his hands gripping the edge of the vinyl seat.

And then, with a soft click, the song resumed, unbroken, like nothing had happened. But before the song could finish, the lights flickered back to life, sharp and fluorescent, flooding the diner with an uncomfortable brightness.

The thunderstorm continued, but things felt different.










 
Last edited:



The Forgetful.





Ricky Sawyer.



































Ripples
















location

The Spot.










tags

None.













His sister once told him that some people had a knack for dragging out old versions of you—the ones you’d packed away under layers of responsibility, regret, or just the slow creep of growing up. Ricky liked to think that, for him, Nora was one of those people.

Before she could even reach their table, he’d already shifted over to the middle of the booth, like there was absolutely no question where she was going to sit. Sure enough, she slid into the spot next to him, and suddenly, he was a decade younger.

For a moment, his eyes sparked with mischief, that tiniest sliver of a rebellious streak, the very same one she’d kindled the first time he invited her over to his house—and his mom had shot him a very concerned look. He’d made a point of inviting her over as much as he could after—partly because he thought it was the least he could do after his parents had forced him to move to Bleak Pines, but mostly because, as he’d found over time, she made him laugh harder than anyone else could.

The moment, to his surprise and disappointment, was short-lived. Now that she was up close, it was impossible to miss: the glassy sheen in her eyes, the red around her nostrils. Even just the way she rattled off with a half-assed excuse gave her away. Spend enough time around small-town teens with nothing better to do, and you got a sixth sense for this sort of thing.

Ricky blinked and managed a smile. Inwardly, he wondered if it was irony or inevitability, because as much as he tried to hide it, he was probably now giving her the exact same look his mother had given him all those years ago. The thought of actually confronting her passed his mind, though his gut churned as it did—residual regret, perhaps, from the last time he’d confronted a friend, and as good as lost him in the process.

Thankfully, he caught the expression on Quinn’s face. Ricky smiled, nodded like he was ready to back whatever Quinn’s said, but before he could say anything besides her name, the entire diner went dark. Above them, he could hear the dying static of the fluorescent lights dissipate into the hair. Behind him, the sound of vinyl spinning, the sluggish hum of a machine slowly whirring back into life.

And then, a voice.

A chill ran up his spine. Unlike everyone else at the table, Ricky could count on his hands the cherished memories he had of Beatrice. In fact, he wasn’t at this table to remember her; to him, it was never about her.

But he’d never forget that lazy Thursday afternoon. It was pouring out, just like it was now. He could no longer remember how or why, but it was just Beatrice and him, stuck at school, waiting for the storm to pass. They found themselves at a dusty, half-forgotten room, and he found himself an old, out-of-tune guitar. As he idly plucked its strings and turned its pegs, she turned to him with sparkles in her eyes, like she’d just come up with some grand idea to stave off the boredom.

(Play me something.

Something? He repeats, because when the most popular girl at school asks him to do the one thing he’s good at, his mind decides to shut down. Uh, I don’t know. He shrugs, tries to play it cool. What do you want me to play?

And she looks up at the ceiling, ponders it for a moment, before her eyes light up again. She beams at him. Do you know that song that goes… )

I close my eyes, then I drift away …

The rich baritone voice filled the silence in the diner. Ricky looked over his shoulder to where the jukebox was. Its lights flickered faintly as the voice in the song warped down several octaves.

Into the magic night, I softly say…

(Roy Orbison? He scoffs, forgets himself. My mom listens to Roy Orbison.

It’s not my fault your mom actually listens to good music. She doesn't miss a beat, only smiles that teasing smile, like she knows exactly what she’s talking about.

The smile grows wider when she sees that he already has his fingers on the right chord, and wider still when he puts on a mock sigh, gives in, and starts to strum.

Because of course he knows it. And she knows that he knows. They break into the world’s most terrible duet, and for a moment, it’s enough to drown out the rain.)

Beatrice had invited him to join her at a sleepy little diner shortly after. Here he was now, eight years later, sitting down at the same table with the same people, except for her.

But just before the dawn, I awake and find you gone...

In the background, the song continued playing, those distortions growing more and more jarring as it got stuck on the same line.

I can’t help it … I can’t help it …

It seemed to mock them, and Ricky had had enough. He shifted in his seat, tapped Julia’s shoulder as if to ask her to let him through. He knew, with pinpoint accuracy, just where to kick the jukebox to get it to sort itself out.

Before he could actually get off his seat, however, the song snapped into dead silence. Ricky sat back down, his exhale coming out shakier than he’d expected. Eventually, the song came back on, the lights following shortly after, and it was like nothing had happened at all.

The furrow in his brows took a bit of effort to disentangle. Ricky summoned up all the willpower in him to keep himself glancing in Alex’s direction. What occurred was exactly the sort of anomaly that was just strange enough to set off one of his … episodes.

So instead, Ricky broke the silence with an uneasy chuckle.
“That’s the third one we’ve had this month,”
he said, as if someone had demanded an explanation. Not that anyone else lived here to fact-check him. Hell, a couple of his students had recently blamed power outages for their missing assignments, so for all he knew, he really was telling the truth.
“Fraying powerlines, I think that’s what my dad said.”
He shrugged.
“They’ll fix it eventually.”













 



The Night Owl.





Alex Beck.



































I'm So Tired
















location

The Spot.






interactions

David, Ricky, Julia, Nora
















The clear ringing of the front door’s bell cut through the muted din of the room, stark enough to pull attention to the newcomer. Nora made her entrance, dripping rainwater onto the scuffed linoleum in all her wind-whipped glory, endowed upon her by the ever-intensifying storm outside. There was some sense of relief to be had, seeing her face. Seeing her here again, even if she was late. Even if she looked… off. Hell, she sounded off too, but Alex was in absolutely no place to judge—or to even trust his judgement to begin with.

“Shit, guys, we’re getting old.”

The exhaustion Alex was feeling went deeper than something as simple as aging—it was a rot, something gnawing at his very foundation, seeped deep inside his marrow. But he didn’t say that. He sat there, only half-present as she launched into some half-assed excuse about the Mayfair and a dead mouse that reeked of not-unexpected bullshit, given her track record. He didn’t so much as blink until she turned and addressed him directly.

“You staying there too? I didn’t see you.”

Alex froze, fully reeled back into the moment by Nora’s words. Shit, he hadn’t even considered that, that she would notice his absence. Something akin to guilt or maybe regret closed in his throat, and it was only then that he came to the full understanding that sharing a six-pack and a pack of reds with her on the Mayfair’s balcony had been one of the few consistently good memories to come from these reunions.

But then there was the bigger issue at hand, the way he knew this question was likely to lead to more questions—to answers they wouldn’t like, and then the looks of disappointment and worry that he could never stand. His lips tried to shape themselves around words he hadn’t fully yet decided on, something about taking his uncle up on the offer to stay in the old trailer while conveniently omitting the time frame he would actually be there. But before the words could be stuttered out, the lights flickered. A moment later, darkness.

And then…

Alex didn’t move, not at first. His eyes locked onto the jukebox across the room, its electric hum crawling down his spine like cold fingers. It was the only source of light in the sudden, suffocating dark, its glow casting strange, jagged shadows across the walls of the diner, flickering and stretching as the machine sputtered and groaned. The song crackled through the speakers, Roy Orbison’s voice rising and falling like a distant echo from another time. It hit him like a punch to the gut. In Dreams.

It was her song. Beatrice’s song.

It brought a sharp pang of nostalgia to his gut, the familiarity of the melody digging into him like claws. He knew the words by heart, even after all this time, after all these years. His eyes briefly fluttered shut, trying to steady the breath catching in his throat, calm the heavy drum of the pulse pounding in his ears.

’I close my eyes then I drift away…’

The diner around him had blurred at the edges, everything else distant and inconsequential, drowned beneath the slow, syrupy distortion twisting through the song’s track. The air felt thick and charged with something unknowable, like the storm outside had bled its way in, leaving a static-laden stillness that preceded something inevitable.

Something about the way the words twisted and pitched dredged the remnants of ill half-forgotten dreams from his subconscious. It was familiar in a way it shouldn’t be. Deja vu wasn’t the right term—no, it was more like something else, like the startling clarity that comes from recalling a long-forgotten memory for the first time. The warped vinyl melody reminded him now for the first time how the words spoken in those dreams were always disjointed, impossibly distorted into an unnatural cadence.

‘In dreams I walk with you… In dreams I talk to you…’

Alex had spent years chasing Beatrice’s ghost, through police reports and newspaper clippings, late-night theories scrawled onto diner napkins and notebook margins. Years waiting for something—anything—to break through the static. And now, here it was. A crack in the silence. A sign.

The thought had pulled him to his feet before he had even realized he had moved, a sleepwalker drawn by something buried deep, something that went far beyond the subconscious. Step by step, he drifted towards the jukebox, its blinking lights beckoning him closer. His movements were slow, deliberate, a moth drawn to the flame through mere biological instinct—’I can’t help it, I can’t help it.’

The machine loomed across from him, an altar to something holy and dreadful all at once. The warped light pulsed like the heartbeat of something dying. It washed over him and stained his pallid skin in sickly neon hues, carving his features hollow. Even from here Alex could see his reflection staring back at him in the glass, wide-eyed and waiting. The storm outside raged on, but all he could hear was the song, looping in on itself like it was unraveling at the seams. He barely breathed, his fingers twitching and then curling into fists at his sides.

“...Bea?” He breathed the name out, more air than sound. It was an invocation, a plea—but the second it left his lips the song cut itself short, a knife severing whatever fragile tie had been there.

Silence swallowed the diner whole like some sort of great beast, leaving them to be digested in the dark.

And then, with a soft click, the song resumed. Normal. Untouched. As if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened at all. Not a moment later, the fluorescent lights above buzzed back to life, casting the diner in its usual washed-out glow.

The only thing now out of place was Alex himself, standing in the middle of the room as if in a daze, having in all reality only taken a handful of steps away from the booth. If the others were speaking, he didn’t hear them.










 
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