Realistic or Modern 𝘔𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘺 𝘏𝘪𝘭𝘭 [1x1]

[miyabi]

DO NOT OPEN!

Are you here with me?

]Are you here with me?

Hello? Can you hear me?

HAVE YOU SEEN THEM?

 

[miyabi]

Arden Fong.

covet

location

Music Shop "Vinyl Destination"

outfit

click me!

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interactions

name, name, name

tags

mother of sorrows

What has been rumored must have sprinkled truths within it; the town’s secrets, what lies beyond the concrete paths — beyond the trail of trees that conveniently obstruct the view. Yes, there has to be truth in it. However, she could never quite find the answers: where is the facility; is it real; what disturbs the dead of night? Unsettling, the myths of cryptids, metahumans, the corruption of man merely miles away in the unknown — she was getting ahead of herself. There was no solid answer: not in the footage she’d taken, not in the woods where she carefully treads – alone, no less. Of course, that cautionary tale should be addressed at a later time. Danger, as it seems, liked to rear its ugly head in whilst comparatively ensuring to steer from her paths. Call it luck. The universe’s bet.

But there has to be something, no matter how far along she is ahead of herself.

The footage in front of her spares no details, it is apparent: the abandoned building off of 5th and Holland was just as it presented itself. Abandoned, left with nothing but the myriad of cobwebs, layers of dust, and the unfortunate-looking doll by the entrance. Its eyes, beady, unsettling, but it shows as nothing more than chunks of porcelain poorly strewn along with rough canvases of fabric and the dominant, pungent stench of what seems to be a mixture of the formidable eeriness in the wind and weed.

No, wait. Technology isn’t advanced enough for smell-o-vision. Maybe she could be the pioneer of that.

Her head snaps up, gaze ripping from footage to form. There stands someone in the darkness of the basement, along the stairs, where the light just barely protrudes from behind them. “Holy fuck!” She felt the profound, overwhelming bite of anxiety, quickly released by the realization that she had already made it out of her chair, bottom to the ground.

“Geez, maybe announce your presence or somethin’? Nearly gave me a fuckin’ heart attack,” a hand raised to her chest, fingers clutching to the fabric of her shirt. Arden closes her eyes for a moment with a shake of her head, “and before you ask, no. I haven’t clocked in yet.”

The figure descends from the steps, deeply colored light highlighting their facial features. They’re strong against the harsh light, and soften as the rest of the basement lights come to life. “Mhm. Right…” words trailed off, being picked back up one by one, showcasing the prevalent struggle to mush them together into a sentence, “you… ahem– what… did… I…” Arden bites her cheek in anticipation, a growing frustration at the slow pace at which they could get the words out.

She couldn’t take it anymore, watching as they struggled; though, she already knew what they’d ask, a common occurrence once every few days. “Yeah, yeah. What did I tell you about… blah, blah, blah,” Arden shuts off the camcorder and the television, tongue playing off with a dismissive tone, “it’s no big deal. There’s nothing in those buildings anyways.”

“But… what if…” Elijah rubs the bridge of his nose, quickly discarding his cautionary notes — reciting what sounded like something he’d trotted down and rehearsed in his head in the duration of his thinking, “Eugh… fuck it… I’m too high for this…” He’d been so caught up in Arden’s arbitrary, unpredictable choices of urban exploration that he’d fallen less concerned with being high. His eyes, red as they were, fell to her as she stood there, arms crossed, brow raised.

“I can tell, bro,” her head nods, the tone of her voice indicative of the potential minefield of nags, but her tongue is bitten.

+++​

The mundanity of work, it was always the same people; both odd and ordinary, some mused about the new shipments of music, others had their complaints — how Arden had opted for another running list of songs they had never listened to and, unfortunately, hadn’t the taste for. Elijah was in his own world, high off of his mind, sitting there with his eyes closed, arms crossed against his chest, sitting in a chair while she stood at the counter: counting the ticking minutes that passed without a single word uttered from her lips.

It was like this. Often. Elijah, red-eyed and weary; Arden, equally exhausted, though the reasoning differed. The only solace found was within the ability to choose what played and when — without the supervision of their manager, a young woman with tenacity, bubble braids brightly colored, uniform pressed and always adorned with some sort of accessory far louder than any tune that could be heard from the speakers. The standard greeting, “Welcome in! If you need anything, let us know!” was ingrained, every moment she heard the door’s bell jingle. It was automatic, subconscious, immediate, and truthfully, draining.

Dust collects on the untouched vinyls, apparent that the prior shifts hadn’t bothered to clean it up — “leave it to the night shift,” as they would say. The cold air from outside swept from under the crack of the bottom of the door, trailed snow prints dissipated into small strokes of water, not a cautionary notice in sight — not like the store could afford a new one.

The clock strikes 11:00 P.M., nearing midnight, only an hour left; she notes this alongside the following hours that conclude her shift. Nobody knew exactly how the store could stay alive 24/7 given the little foot traffic it got on most days, but there is little to complain about when you’re holding a job that pays well for doing nothing most of the time.

“Hey, welcome in—” Her gaze falls to a man clad in a hooded puffer jacket, neon orange and tattered; a stark contrast to the newly bought cargo shorts he wore, tag still on. She’d wondered how he’d survived the pursuit of the icy December wind, but the thought was as quickly interrupted at the rate he’d taken off his hood. Salt and pepper hair messily strewn about, mimicking the bare trees that stook like skeletons along the snow-trodden roads. His eyes, twitching, the right a cold, foggy blue marred by a singular, deep scar; the left filled with ember, tones of copper and honey. His face is gaunt, sleepless, and much like his eyes, his top lip twitched in unison.

He was antsy. Arden had encountered her fair share of customers, but none like this. “You… I saw you!” He points to her with a snarl, his breath even more pungent as he approaches the counter. “Yesterday. Yester… Day! In the building! You know what fucking building, don’t play dumb!” Her expression answered for her it seemed, a mixture of confusion and horror, nostrils flared, eyes widened, a frown. “Yeah… yeah! I fucking saw you! You and that stupid, stupid camera!” Calloused hands slam against the hardwood countertop, intensifying the stench of cigarettes, gasoline, and the tangy, sour aroma of onion. That was it. Onion. The man likely hadn’t had a shower for days, dare she say, weeks.

“Wow, holy shit,” what could he have wanted? Arden would’ve known if they’d met before given his stench, “sorry, brother, who the fuck are you?” Horror turned to annoyance, her face couldn’t hide it.

What can she say? She’s expressive, possessing the uncanny ability to share the deepest inner thoughts of her own such as: “What the fuck,” “Why the fuck,” “Who the fuck,” and many others. The complexity of man.

“It’s ME! Me!” The man exclaimed, words tinted with a certain severe rabidity, “It’s me! It’s me!” He repeated onward, beating a hand against his chest. His face had gotten closer, body leaning over the counter, “You know me! I know You! The building!” His eyes fall stillborn, lifeless, the darkening of his expression immediate. She could feel the sudden hatred burning the air, “tell me what you saw, you bitch!”

Arden is puzzled. No, it isn’t just that; it’s provided with layers, unsure of whether or not to reply to his unnerving babble. If he wasn’t mad before, he’d gone so in a matter of seconds with little time to comprehend — she doubted if he was able to comprehend it himself.

He’d finally woken up, Elijah, that was. Albeit late and confused — far more than usual. A man, leaning over the counter, smelling soured — Arden, angling away to preserve her sense of space; he pinches his nose, apparent that it had fully woken him up from his slump. And when the dust had finally settled, Elijah emerged, arms crossed against his chest.

“What the hell is the issue, man? Calm down,” his voice, though with an attempt at an authoritative tune, falls flat. The man’s stature, the way in which his body and face moved, it had all become unsettling. As he barked, screamed, shook and gripped the counter, Arden and Elijah backed away. But they could never escape that oozing, putrid odor; the spit, the rage, it had all become too much. If one enters the room now, they would feel the heavy air and the heat that boiled from the top of the man’s head. It wouldn’t be hard to miss the twisted, unsettled faces of the poor employees.

“Her! It’s her! Her, her, her!” The stranger repeated onward, calloused and dirty fingers pointing to Arden.

She quickly swats his hand away, gaining whatever sort of brazenness she had, even if there hadn’t been much. “We get it! You’ve been saying the same thing for the past 5 fucking minutes,” Arden watches as the man reverts to a state of what looked like a stricken child, “are you done, dickwad?”

“No. No! No! No! Tell me what you saw! Now!” The man demanded, barked, flung himself over the counter and grabbed her by the collar at light speed. Elijah, with attempts to get the man off of her, shakes him — only to be shoved away, back slammed against the wall of vinyls. With efforts to fight back, Arden holds her arms up, the constant struggle of the back and forth, panicked and angry.