Realistic or Modern 𝕋𝐇𝐄 𝔻𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝕐𝐎𝐔 𝕂𝐍𝐎𝐖 { IC }

[idalie]

Episode One: The Devil Made Me Do It

Location: 975 Parallel Street, Atchison
Company: Everyone
Tags: BELIAL. .V1LLAINISM._ erzulie IRIDES idiot cherriesandwine. celadon. aeneas. elytra mourning star

“I want you to go find something for me⁠—” A voice bleats out, wavering where static interference bends and distorts the benefactors smooth, palatable tone. These calls are to become a common occurrence in the coming months, a request out of the blue on an old, rotary-style motel phone. “—Atchison, Kansas. Right on the Missouri River. Now they say plenty of things can’t pass running water, would we call that a blessing?” This question means to go unanswered, “975 Parallel Street. Things going bump in the night, neighbours complaining hard about animal carcasses turnin’ up on the regular. I’ve secured you rooms in town, try gettin’ something genuine.” His sincerity turns into an easy laugh, “First and last chance to make an impression, remember that.” The receiver clicks on the other side, monotonous beep distressing its lack of connection.

It was the type of Southern heat that had the small of one’s back pooling with sweat, sitting up against vinyl-cover seats on an eight-hour journey crossing state lines. Briefly stopping in St. Louis for fuel, stretching out stiff legs and picking through gas station food, they’d continued on into the night ‘fore reaching Atchison. Booked into a local bed and breakfast, as promised with the enticing aspect of all expenses paid, the owner led them up into those threadbare rooms with their nicotine-stained walls and decor that must’ve been left unchanged since the Great Depression; the sort’ve place where electricity still felt as if it’d been introduced in a hurry. However, they’d been fed, proffered cigarettes and coffee over a breakfast spread, eyeing newspapers of yesterday’s print all emblazoned with Nixon’s puggish profile.

Time had been kind to Atchison, an idyllic city that’d sprung up in the midst of greed and struggle, though the people there would claim it’d been long buried. Shady streets and low-boughed trees, new age homes with concrete and flat-top slates sat across from the wooden porches of yesteryear⁠—screen doors rattling in the warm breeze as the quiet of midday settled.

975 Parallel Street fit the picturesque assumption of a gently decaying America. It’d been an old house, once white, now peeled or stained as rust haemorrhaged orange from the upstairs window’s hinges⁠—long disintegrated, held on only by the internal lock. Blinds were pulled fast⁠; mould creeping up on the inside, whilst dead insects piled on the interior sills, viewed through the grimey glass. It’d been abandoned for some time, a tarnish to the neighbourhood with its overgrown lawn and clumps of brambles, surrounded by a rotting, white-picket fence. That, and the terrible scent of decomposition, rising from the small and curled up cadavers of neighbourhood cats, mice, and maggot-writhing pigeons, all wedged beneath the front steps and letterbox. Little bones and twisted corpses.

Perhaps the greater fear was finding the homeowner still propped up, half melded to her armchair in the soft glow of an old TV.

Pushing through the soft plywood of the boarded up front, the interior’s debris comes into view. Where moss grows atop old carpet, glass splintering underfoot, smell worsening as it pricks the very back of your sinus. Though rare is it that investigators of the paranormal prowl where a life is not yet ended⁠—it feels as if the house is devoid of spiritual energy. Rather, the echoes of it remain, humming in the wall cavities and up the ceiling’s rafters. Expecting to hear rattling, the scuttling of rodents and ghostly knocking, all is stagnant. You know why nothing moves; glancing back to the pile of flesh and fur poking out as if a welcome mat across the hearth.

For your first investigation, breaching out into the unknown on the whims of a benefactor, it comes at a great disappointment. Fear that his words ring true; this impression is everything. Sigils and vandalism mean nothing, save for the neighbourhood children playing amid someone else's ruins.

Gathering by the front of the slumping brick and mortar foundations, ears begin to prick at the crack of gunshots. A scream follows, torn between vocal cords until silence, like a snapped violin.

Though rare is it that investigators of the paranormal prowl where a life is not yet ended⁠—you repeat, something must be done.

coded by archangel_

 

[idalie]

FATHER AUGUST ⁠— servant of god.
tags: n/a ; location: 975 parallel street ➜ the lynch house ; interactions: n/a

CW: Gore, gun violence, blood

Call it not the measure of a man’s faith, but the courage to pursue it even in his darkest hour. Father August relied upon it as comfort, on occasion he outwardly disbelieved it, and most certainly did he hide behind it as a child draws their blanket up to turn from terrors of their own imagining. God was watching⁠—his grandfather’s mantra as he wagged his finger up toward the sky, glaring from his armchair throne at the cross-legged boy distracted from schoolwork to sneak long looks at the flickering films with sharp-dressed matinee idols and perfectly coiffed leading ladies.

There were days he wondered whether he felt the weight of God, or Grandfather, upon his shoulders. Great leadened weights of grief and guilt in equal measure. Was there any difference to which kept him on the straight and narrow? Acting jailers to their own teachings.

His suspension had given the Priest time to think, in time alone between ill-deserved sorrows. It wasn’t his daughter, it wasn’t his family, feeling as though a thief for mourning the way he did. A pretender, some ill-disguised murderer lamenting over the dead of his own causation. Where some men ought to have shirked their robes and vows, or latched ever stronger onto the scripture with delusions of the Old Testament⁠—August drifted.

The drive had felt reminiscent of basic training, all sorts jammed into two vehicles as they amused themselves with chatter or sleep, somewhat glad he’d been one of the few chosen to take the wheel for the first stretch to St. Louis. It’d been a nice day for it, dust obscuring the road behind, spinning up from beneath the tyres. Not a cloud in sight. Even sharing rooms at the bed and breakfast with its yellow-tinted walls and tobacco-stink didn’t make the Father wince, he’d been glad to escape his own monotony. And as much as he refused cigarettes in pious citation of the Lord, it’d been known he’d often loitered behind the chapel smelling of Marlboros after mass.

Times were different, he’d confessed, even for the most devout.

Accustomed to the poverty and hoarders of his childhood neighbourhood, among home visits to those unable to rise for church, he’d been nigh unphased by the conditions. Save for the collection of slowly decomposing rodents and pets, sitting by the entrance, one having to stride carefully for fear of crushing something in an already coagulated pool. The smell itself, causing the Father’s head to turn instinctively away.

Fanning out in search, they’d hardly managed to scale the staircase for fear it’d give out beneath them. No longer structurally sound as it’d once been. History left to rot, as it had the owners of this place. Regrouping outside to share the empty-findings of their preliminary investigation, preparing a next move that would save their hides from telling the benefactor what’d gone wrong rather than right, the air cracked. A thunderous, echoed shot, followed by shrieking.

Father August had known the sound of a firearm better than he did the voice of his own mother. That, and the earnest cries of terror one makes as they stare down the barrel of a gun. Civilians, mostly. His heart juddered, stalling as it recalled the way in which to make his feet move forward.

“Find a neighbour with a landline⁠—a police officer, a fireman, anything,” Tearing away into a sprint, his words part-whipped, “The Lord detests idle hands!” Beckoning the group's divide, Father August flinched at another dispensing of bullets, wrestling with the handle of the house across the street before he noticed the garage propped partially open. Ducking beneath the rolling door, resting on a short table of tools as though mid tuning of a well-prided vehicle, the silence here was unlike anyother. Where 975 held the air of abandonment, where he and few others now occupied possessed a warm and slow quiet of a family weekend cut short.

Blood seeped from the ajar door to the kitchen, rolling down the steps into a syrupy puddle off the pinkened linoleum. Closer still, pushing the door on it's squealing hinges, lay a man. Or what once was, nose and mouth caving inward with a mis-matched crater of gaping flesh and pock-marked shards of bone. Teeth, lodged up scattered about his head; but it was his eyes. Open, albeit the sclera stained red as he'd lay there, letting the crimson run backward and fill shattered sockets.

August barred the way, "Anyone unfamiliar with the dead should stay behind," He glanced upward, unshaven features catching the sun, "They're still in the house."

coded by archangel_

 

[BELIAL.]

LILY LOVEDAY
tags: n/a ; location: 975 parallel street ; company: anyone following

Had life dictated itself otherwise, Lily was sure that she'd be somewhere a lot more ideal. Albeit, in that situation, she'd also be a lot more disinterested with the world. There was plenty to linger on in safety, serenity, and whatever the hell came with drinking away all your fears by the poolside. She'd probably have sunk a lot more of her wallet into such habits, and if she were lucky, if she started floating facedown someone would find her. The outcome of the Lily who didn't take opportunity when it handed itself to her was one who was either dead or so engulfed in her lingering grief and fear that she was basically dead by then. So perhaps, in turn, it was a blessing in disguise that such misfortune had clawed its way into her life; that she'd saddled herself down to talk with a bunch of strangers and made her way to a fuck-all town with nothing in it, not even a ghost to write home about.

It was something that she wasn't even sure how much she believed still, anyway. Someone of a fairly open mind, given her near decade spent crossing the country with hippies in a bus, she did like to consider all that was unreal about the world. There were strange things that happened, that couldn't be explained, but that was just the way it was. The situation with Till, well, was something that still didn't make a lick of sense anyway that she tried to wrap her head around it. The others in the group had shared their stories, and while it had made her feel not so alone... it did make her feel a hell of a lot more crazy.

Still, a pay was a pay and it beat sitting on the couch leafing through the newspaper for some other job ad to leap up from the print. Plus there was plenty of eye candy in traveling, lots of strangers to meet, and a lot of bathrooms to do a line in. Sometimes, truly, it was just about the little things in life.

She made what use she could of the time spent traveling, chatting it up with anyone who'd care to listen. The cigarettes that danced on her fingers seemed to rapidly multiply as the traveling went on and on, one hand out the car window and the other beating at her knee to an unknown tune. Memories, then, that coated her mind like nicotine on dry lips. As humid as the summer was, the heat still seemed to zap all of the liquid from Lily's body. She was glad she'd packed light-- not that she owned much anyway-- and had opted for whatever revealing pair of shorts, halter top and flowy number she had stuffed into her bag. Her boots were always a staple, however, no matter the weather. Clearly they were in for a ride, or so the phone-call had implied anyway, and thus she knew that the trusty boots would remain at the top of her priorities.

Had she expected much of that dilapidated home that they'd gone to on Parallel street? No, not entirely-- but something would have been better than the silence and stench that had greeted them. She'd never smelled so much death in one place, what happened when animals were left to roam and eventually die, and she'd near had half a mind to just leave on her own. The afternoon heat had done wonders to amplify the smells, of the mildew that spread like silt in the corners of rooms.

Then crack of a gunshot. Part of her had thought maybe it was thunder, summer storms a regular for their location, but no; all she'd needed was to look onto anyone else's face to see the frozen fear. The scream had come after, half garbled and half muffled by something but so, terribly, audible. Another gunshot to silence those screams dead in their tracks.

Quickly did Padre, a name that Lily had given to their resident 'Priest', spring to action, however. His quickness was admirable, though she was sure that it had to do from the priest's own past of war. Still, It was enough to snap her from her momentary stupor, already a tremble settling on her hands.

"Shi-it," Lily cursed with wide eyes, gesturing with a stiff hand toward anyone left behind. "Shit! Fuck, ah-- hell, anyone keen on movin' fast enough, come 'on now! I-I think there was another home down the street, 'round the block. Faster if we run!"

She wasn't sure how true her statement was, but suddenly all of the lethargy and illness she'd felt from the heat and the house had seemingly left her body.

coded by archangel_

 

[idiot]

SAM HWA-YOUNG ─ THE VESSEL.
tags: idalie ; location: 975 parallel street -> the lynch house
interactions: the priest ; notes: info here

Sam always loved the beach.

The Californian sun simmered onto the pair, their burnt shoulders up against one another. Waves cascaded and crashed over excitable children, their parents keeping a watchful gaze from under the protection of their umbrellas. Their mother believed the sun had gifted Sam's freckles that clustered around her cheeks. You love that beach more than your own home, Hwa-Young.

Rina was the same. Every weekend they would beg their parents to take them to the San Jose beach.

Sam wasn't sure if it was the sun, the hot sand in her fingers or the water that rushed over her. She relished every moment of it. Her father even said she could take surfing lessons when she turned fourteen. Sam had even started a countdown on her calendar. Only 243 days to go!

"I wish we could do this everyday." Six-year-old Rina sighed, her voice somewhat sombre; wet tendrils of hair brushing up against Sam's sand-encrusted arm.

"Yeah? That would be groovy." Sam's voice had invertedly become deeper when she hit puberty, leaving her with an almost husky tone. A girl at school made fun of her for it, putting on some exaggerated, deep voice whenever she spoke. It was so annoying!

Sam's eyes fluttered to her sister who had gone unusually quiet. What she originally thought were droplets from the ocean were tears streaming down her small face. Sam couldn't stand when her sister cried, it made her feel as though she wasn't a good enough big sister. It was her job to look after her and crying was a big sign she wasn't doing her job right.

"Hey, hey..." Sam shuffled closer to her sister, the yellow and white striped towel almost being swallowed up by sand in the process. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"You have to promise me," Rina sniffled, arm wiping tears from her eyes, "That we will still go the beach when you get older like mummy." Sam was thrown off by the request. Sam was only thirteen. She still had forever to be a kid before she was an adult.

"Well, lucky for you, that is a promise I can keep." Sam wrapped an outstretched arm around her sister, holding her close, "I promise you, Ri, we will go the beach when I get older."

"You have to pinkie promise," Rina started, already sounding more chipper again, "Oh, and stamp it! You have to stamp it or else it won't come true!"

"Duh, of course. I'm not silly." Sam held her sister for a while longer, the two watching the man navigating the waves with his surfboard until their parents called out to them. The two of them hurriedly packed up their things, apologising to the couple next to them that were coated by sand from Rina shaking their towel loose.

If only Sam knew what would happen to her in the coming months, she never would of never let go her sister.

The same sun beaded down on a much older Sam, eyes meeting her reflection in the passenger’s side-view mirror of the van. Sam was unrecognisable to that thirteen-year-old girl in her memory; sun-kissed skin had been stripped and replaced with an almost ghostly, translucent look. Dark bags had claimed permanent residence under her eyes from sleepless nights. Her once healthy, thick hair had frayed and lost its shine. Sam wondered what her parents would think of her — that was even if they recognised her.

It has been eights years since she saw them. Eight years since her mother kissed her forehead goodnight. Eight years since her father made her pancakes, the scent of syrup wafting into her room. Eight years since she had heard her sister’s laugh. If Sam still had tears left she would of choked up at the thought. Instead she stared out the open window, feeling the warm air rush up against her.

Rows of dishevelled houses and shady trees rushed by. Having spotted the ‘Welcome to Atchison’ sign a mile back, Sam knew they were close to their destination. It had been a long drive, one that had made her conscious of how she smelt in the sweltering heat packed in the back of the van. It didn’t help that her trusty perfume was running dangerously low.

When they stopped at St Louis she opted to sit in the passenger seat for the remainder of the road trip to Atchison. It wasn’t because she had body odour per say. More reminiscent to the scent of decay and death that seemingly exuded from her. The same one that became apparent as their convoy stopped at their destination.

975 Parallel Street, the voice on the dial-up phone had instructed. He had told them they had to find something genuine to ensure a good first impression was made.

Sam remembered finding the flyer stapled to the telegraph pole after finishing a gruellingly long shift at the grocery store. Tearing it off the pole, Sam took it home, tucking it away in a drawer in hopes he wouldn’t find it. As expected, Sam woke the next day to find it ripped up and scattered over the floor. She spent the next hour taping it back together, stuffing it into her coat and attended the first meeting that night.

Sam wasn’t expecting a job out of it. In a moment of selfishness, she was disappointed that it wasn’t the miracle she wanted — an answer to him. To his existence in her body. Well, that may of been her fault. While others shared their story in the circle of mismatched chairs, Sam would shake her head each time the new representative for that meeting asked if she wanted to share. Would they be scared of her? Would they think she had lost her marbles? What happened if he took over?

Everyone piled out of the van, filing onto the cracked pavement with the others from the car. Sam slinked out, dressed wildly inappropriately for the sweltering heat. Lily had even asked if she wanted to borrow some of her clothes when she saw her that morning. The buttons of her long-sleeved blouse were done up incorrectly, but thankfully the oversized sweater vest covered up her tired mistakes. Drab, flowing pants and nondescript, scuffed sneakers completed the look. Her mother would probably collapse if she saw the way her daughter dressed. A seamstress from a young age, her mother had her finger to the pulse of fashion and kept up with the trends. Her children were no different, making sure she sewed them clothing fit for the times.

Sam followed the others to the entrance of the house that had seemingly become the unspoken graveyard for all matter of animals. Squatting down at the front stairs, Sam couldn’t help but stare at the little carcasses that had been stuffed in between each stair’s footing. A gnawed collar gleamed around the hollow carcass of something. Sam instinctively went to reach for it before the floorboards groaned before her.

The Priest had opened the groaning door once more, followed by the others. Sam slowly rose, ignoring the pain in her knees. A near-deafening shot perked Sam up, her eyes darting in the direction as a scream ripped through the quiet streets. Almost instantly the Priest gave orders and sprinted with rehearsed motion to the opposing house.

Before Lily spoke, Sam couldn’t explain why, but she followed after the Priest. The thought of running to some neighbouring home and having to explain herself was more than enough of a reason. Plus, Sam didn’t have the best experience when it came to the police.

Sam ducked under the roller door after the Priest, not wanting to be caught alone if the police did show up and started asking her questions she didn’t know the answer to.

When did you last see uh, this Nibbles — your neighbour’s cat? I’m asking because your neighbour here thinks you were the last to see him. Sam shook her head, keeping the door barely ajar; hiding the smeared mess of what was left of Nibbles. She didn’t remember any of it. All Sam could remember was waking up with the blood-smeared collar in her hands. They wouldn’t believe her if she told them.

It was him. It was always him.

Sam couldn’t help but think the same thing as she watched the blood pool down the stairs behind the Priest, barely registering that his mouth was moving.

coded by archangel_

 

[elytra]

WAYNE KELLY ─ THE ARCHIVIST.
tags: idalie , idiot ; location: 975 parallel street -> the lynch house
interactions: Father August, Sam ; notes: tw mild gore/dead animals

Some made the mistake to say that Wayne wasn't religious.

Now, he didn't believe in God. Didn't believe in a lick of scripture either, he'd tell you that. That said, there was plenty of worship to be found in other places. A good poem, for example, showed that well. Poets were masters of mixing the divine with the human, finding something to say about little things. Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence, as the good ol' Max Ehrmann once wrote. There was no divinity in angels for Wayne, but a good cup of coffee in the morning was worthy of some worship. If that was religion? Well, he was a damn pious man, that was for sure. People and him just didn't see eye to eye on the definition of sanctity.

All that aside, he was sure they could all agree there wasn't anything holy about what was going on in 975 Parallel Street.

Wayne wasn't sure what he was expecting from the venture, really. Wasn't sure what he'd been expecting from his trips to Bentley Meridian Community Center either, but that at least held a little bit more sense. Like God, he wasn't a fan of the idea of spirits. Before old lady Margret had taken up residence in his shop- or he'd taken up residence in her shop, chronologically speaking -he'd shucked himself of any spirituality. Growing up Catholic didn't mean staying Catholic, and Wayne was sure that a loving God wouldn't be going around throwing hurricanes and floods and who-knows-what-else at his so-called 'flock'. It didn't sit right with him, no, so he decided that rather than unpack that suitcase, he best throw away the whole thing.

And even after Margret, he still didn't put any stock in it. He could accept maybe something was going on in the shop, but could attribute most occurrences to shoddy workmanship. Burst pipes and damp spaces were little more than plumbing and air circulation issues that he didn't have the money to fix. Sure, little odd for a place that had been newly renovated, but it wouldn't be the first time new places had been done badly. Some folks just weren't made to be handymen.

Doubt crept in when he'd seen a flash of some woman's face in the shower and nearly cracked open his noggin on the tiling, and if there was one thing Wayne did not appreciate, it was doubt.

Doubt led him to tearing down that poster and taking it home. Doubt brought him to sit in metal chairs with drab brown-yellow cushions that did nothing to make them more comfortable and snacks that were, frankly, a bit of a let down despite being free. Doubt had continued to tug him along to even getting in a van with folks who might've been off their rocker for their beliefs, which must've made Wayne also off his rocker for being there as well. He'd been a good passenger, mind you, none of that impolite staying-silent crap. Did his due diligence, engaging in conversation every now and then.

Point was that now doubt had managed to get him in front of an house that seemed to serve as an grotesque cemetery rather than a place for the living.

The place smelled like rot, bodies wedged in the difference crevices the property offered up. The heat didn't do anything to help with that, making the scent swell and become almost gag-inducing. It encased the area, surrounding them more and more the further they went.

Wayne was no stranger to the smell of death; when he was younger, he'd handled the cleaning of the hotel his parents had been in charge of. One hot summer, a stench had come up from one of the mail rooms. He'd been sent to take care of it, and had found a space behind one of the mail cubbies that mice had been falling into. Unable to escape and with no food to speak of, they had torn each other apart. Bones scattered in a thin layer, nearly covering the wooden bottom, and on top sat the remaining mouse. Apparently, the food hadn't been enough; it had laid there, eyes sunken in, red seeping into its fur from where it had seemed to gnaw off its own leg. It's stomach was torn open, organs spilling out sloppily. Wayne had always found that odd; there had been no other mouse to be found, no sign of what had given the one that hadn't been fully eaten such an injury. The decay had seeped into the wood and wallpaper, spreading filth throughout the hotel for days. There had been flies everywhere in that room, enough that mail had been moved elsewhere for the time being while the pests were being eradicated.

975 Parallel Street, however, didn't seem to have that issue. Instead, it looked as if even the insects had died. The maggots still riddled the bodies that laid around them, but Wayne couldn't hear the usual buzz of flesh flies. He had crouched down, shirt pulled over the lower half of his face as he took a look at the flooring of the room, a mix of moss, carpeting, and glass shards.

There was nothing here. Abandoned and forgotten, not even agents of decay seemed to remember the place. He fully was ready to say such when they were outside with the rest of the group, an I-told-you-so ringing hollowly at the back of his mind. He didn't get that far, however. Such was cut off by the ringing out of a gunshot.

First instinct for him was to follow Ms. Loveday to go on and find some folks better suited to handle the situation than a crew of ghost hunters and haunted individuals. Wayne had never been a fan of the idea of being shot. Doubted anyone was, really, but some folks had some sort of savior complex that drove 'em to be insane, he supposed. That said, he was also no coward, and it didn't take many to go and fetch help. It did take a few pairs of extra hands to keep more people from getting more holes than a colander, though. He knew a bit of first aid, which was better than nothing.

The amount of blood seeping onto the floor suggested that better than nothing could still amount to useless, though. As did the man's face, sunken inward like a pothole on a particularly shitty road, gnarled with his own teeth and bone mass. Wayne could see the scene partially past Father August, the blood oozing clearly onto the steps. He didn't have a particularly clear look at the moment, and he wasn't sure if he really wanted one yet. He was still deciding.

"The dead ain't gonna do much right now I don't think, boss." Wayne commented, looking around the garage, before picking up a particularly sturdy wrench. He wasn't one to bring a tool to a gun fight, but it was better than nothing. "Now, a fella with a gun, that might do some damage. Can't do much for our friend on the floor, so I suggest we step carefully now, yea? Don't want to be playin' charades as a sinkhole, personally."

coded by archangel_

 

[erzulie]

DOROTHY HONORÈ ─ THE WRITER
tags: BELIAL. ; location: 975 parallel street
interactions: lilly lovejoy;

On the day of her 9th birthday, one Dorothy Louise Honoré was given a five year journal coupled with a beautiful black and gold fountain. The poor citizens of Natchitoches had not known peace for a while after that.

The dairy’s pages had been filled long ago but her love for storytelling hadn’t ended there. There were no friends who had stayed by her side the way writing had. Through all walks of life they traveled hand in hand. The struggles of life fought to separate them time and time again yet they were never apart for long. So it was only natural that she pursued a career that kept her dear friend close. It shocked no one when her efforts led her straight to Southern University. Amongst the students of English and Journalism, she had been right at home. Her mother had never been keen on her career choice but even she smiled on the day of her graduation.

Who could have guessed that life would lead her down such…interesting road. And all because of a simple ad too. It had pulled at her like nothing else, flashes of a bestselling book and recognition had left her clutching the paper tightly in her fish. Dorothy saw her future right there ahead of her, she just needed to grab it. There was nothing that would change her mind, not her mothers disapproving shake of the head and not the being that had been buried deep within her subconscious.

There was no place for doubt, her fears could not go where she was heading is what she’d told herself. And has she stood before her mamo,
smelling of orange blossom from the blessed florida water that had been sprayed on her, she felt as though she could face anything. The blessings placed upon her would keep her safe, grounded when the earth seemed to shake around her. And the thought of mamo’s gapped tooth smile would forever remind her of the love she had.

Dorothy placed a chaste kiss on the mojo bag in her hands and quietly slipped it back into her pocket. They had arrived at their location finally. It was time to make an impression just as their mysterious benefactor had said. The town that they’d been sent to was similar to any small town honestly. To an outsider there was nothing particularly interesting about it. Dorothy knew better however, there was a reason why they’d come after all.

975 Parallel Street, the house reminded her of the many houses left to rot back home. With no one to care for them they failed to survive against the elements. The smell had her nose openly wrinkling in disgust. Brown eyes started to water ever so slightly. Dorothy could only compare the smell to the kills her daddy would bring back home from hunting trips sometimes. For a second she could vividly see the back of his truck opening, displaying the game laying inside. It took her a moment to steal herself, to school her features and walk inside with the rest of her group.

Not even a moment after the unmistakable sound of a gunshot rang through the air. Dorothy nearly dropped to the floor then. Her tiny town was no stranger to gun violence. As shots sang their death song, her family had always made sure to hit the floor. Instead she used the adrenaline to spring into action. Clutching her bag Dorothy followed Lily’s command. There had to be something to help something. Surely they’d heard the shots in such a small town.

coded by archangel_

 

[celadon.]

ELISE ADAMS
TO SEEK IN VAIN
tags: idalie idiot elytra
location: 975 parallel street -> the lynch house
company: august, sam, wayne, others

EARLIER
St. Louis, Missouri

It was a warm day. Mid-afternoon. Sky settling down for the coming evening.

Whoosh.

The phone-booth stood so close to the highway that, every time a car passed on the outside lane, the frame of the thing would shake in the loose bolts of its foundation like a child's wind-up toy. And it would be so loud. It would sound like this: Whoosh.

Elise waited with the phone to her shoulder, watching through the booth window the other ten inside the diner, huddled in group-speak, pieces of food dangling-falling off the ends of their forks. Whoosh.

She waited and waited and whoosh whoosh in exasperation was about to start wrangling around in her pocket for new money but then, from two states away, a busboy:

“First Street Dining Room?” Whoosh.

“Yeah.” Whoosh. “I sent my keys through your mail slot, did you get ‘em?”

He's immediately upset and cursing her out. “...You got a lot of fucking nerve calling back here.”

“Sure, I know. If you go in my-”

“So, what? Does he play guitar?”

Whoosh. She sighed. “...Whatever you thought would happen between us, it wasn’t going to happen at all. So you can stop fretting about that.”

“Oh, okay, I got it, then. Bandy young folk in a painted school bus,” whoosh, “they let you hit the pipe and now they’re your friends and best marauders, right?”

“Fuck you. Do you want to help me get fucking through this with you, or what?”

“No, no. You listen now.” Whoosh. “I told the boss when he hired you, he asked-”

“Come on, Jay, just-”

“No, no, listen, he asked me, he said, is she a… you know, is she, is she a junkie? Like some wasted hippie? And I knew what you were and I said no, no. No. I said that.” Whoosh. “I said that over and over again until he believed it. Because of what you said about second chances, and I took that to heart-”

whoosh wh-whoosh whoosh

“and I lied for you, and now he’s going around seeing if you stole anything since you went about what you went about so goddamn quickly. Now he sees that I’m-” whoosh whoo-whoosh “the idiot of all time, and he’s reaming me out like I'm at... fucking baseball practice-”

“What are you talking about?”

“And he’ll never trust me again. So that’s gone forever.”

“Okay. I’m sure there’s other places with dish-carts to run. Don’t be so down on yourself.”

Elise thought she’d sweat enough and would like to take some of the breeze, then, so she slid the phone-booth door, rickety on its tracks, all the way open. All the work-sound and horn-issuing traffic of the late day invited properly in with her.

“You and that fucking nerve. I’m telling him you called, by the way.” Whoosh.

“If you want me to talk to him right now, I will. Go. Put him on. I think I'd like that better, anyway. I bet his cock's still attached.”

His anger veered between very real and very... applied. This - “FUCK YOU. ELISE.” - was midway between.

“I’d be more respectful of your anger if you were anybody else.”

“Is… is this what you do? You run around and then, you get bored, you let go of things, and you go on somewhere else and then you make prank calls? Like-"

A heavy loader’s tires on the running board.

Elise covered her left ear with her hand. “No.” The sound was like a jackhammer.

“Like a schoolgirl on a Friday night? Is that what you do?”

“This is different.”

“You know, I believed all the shit you said about building shit here. I believed it.” Whoosh. “You got friends here and now they don’t know where you went, or what that was about. So you’re really not a nice person. To the other women. How’s that feel?”

“This is something I got to do, Jay. This is different. I don’t need to explain it to you.”

“Try.”

A bug prodded at Elise’s hairline and she slapped it away. “I don’t need to try, either.”

“I’d like you to.”

“Right, so you can be all unsatisfied and just ignore what I say in favour of whatever ideas you have, live off in the fancy whatnot of your own mind, call me a whore… am I right? Is that an accurate picture?”

“Look. I’m sorry I’ve called you things, alright?”

“No, you’re not.” Whoosh. Whoo-

“Just fucking… I’d like to know. I’d like to think whatever… that thing, whatever that was, that, even if it wasn’t, you know, real, or good, or wasn’t gonna be, then it was at least something where you’d owe me. Give me this.”

“Well, it wasn’t. It wasn’t. Shut up, now, ‘cause I have to tell you: take my keys, go to my place. Your tapes are in my room there somewhere. Just look for ‘em. You’ll find ‘em. Take whatever else you want there and I won’t stop you. Can’t, anyway. I took what I needed. I was very careful about that, so go wild if you please, like Christmas in August. You’re welcome. Just leave the mattress and the... radio. Rhon's getting those and she'll take what’s left.”

An upturn in his voice, suddenly, and it's sewer charm: “You needed to call just to tell me that?”

“I hoped I’d made it obvious that I think you’re stupid.”

“Oh, right, right. Okay. Let’s go with that.”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll manage. Where was the voice in your head before you met me? It wasn’t there, was it? Just think back to that time, just... fit the memory, and everything will smooth itself over for you. Guaranteed."

“You…"

There was a long pause. She could tell what he'd come to know right then: that in ten words or so, she'd be gone. He'd never listen to her voice again.

"Okay. Just better be careful with whatever you’re doing. And-”

“Yeah. Sure. Bye.”

Then she hung up and climbed out, all sweat-marked, squinting into the glare of her own confusion:

What was that supposed to be?

***

Elise did not want to sit anywhere and think soberly about the phone call she just made so heading back into the diner she slipped first into the restroom, which was red and grimy inside and poorly wired with hot copper lights. One of the stalls had an OUT OF ORDER sign on it.

Doing coke made her think a lot more than she already thought, about things she didn't want to for sure, but this was okay, there were people here who would distract her and grab her by the mouth and kiss her. Not literally. More than that, though, she didn't really care about complications. She wasn't operating like a normal person would, in the face of a normal level of stress. She knew that. She might have even repeated that to herself, made it a quotation - chapter one, paragraph one, I am not a normal person with a normal level of stress - as she took several bumps, from a vial, off the nail of her smallest finger.

The clarity of the drug made everything so odd and dumb and funny so by the time Elise returned to her old spot at the table, she was laughing a little bit, though with enough awareness of her appearance to not lean into it. It wasn't that she didn't want them to suspect anything. It was that it just worked better for her that no one knew for sure.

As she shuffled to the end of the seat where Father August had just been sitting, a uniformed waitress rounded the corner and Elise whistled maybe a little too dirtily at her to get her attention.

"Excuse me. Hey."

"You want something?"

"Yeah." She lit a cigarette. "Cup of coffee."

"Anything to eat?"

"No. I only eat nuts and berries."

"Well, we have cherry pie. That's got fruit in it."

If she tried any harder to throw her eyelashes at this waitress, Elise would have injured herself. "I'm alright. Thank you."

She adjusted then in her seat, appreciating the full length of her spine, then dragging on her cigarette and keeping it in her mouth as she took back a pair of sunglasses she'd placed at the centre of the table. She wore them on her face and it made her whole vision yellow. Then she let out this very elegant plume of smoke as the cigarette found its nest in her fingers again.

To herself, not even to any of her cohorts: "Summer days. Summer days. Just think, there's a chain gang running around somewhere out there, doing stores, maybe. I wonder if we'll be fugitives too."

And she was really happy about this. Her coffee arrived with a saucer and it was a splendid occasion. She looked out the big windows and saw sun and city and knew, or at least very strongly guessed, that they would meet the devil soon. She licked her dry lips and could not be any happier.

***

PRESENTLY
Atchison, Kansas

Nothing from the first search. Just an old house of ratty fake wood and barely breathable air. The only death it could attract being animals too scrawny to have ghosts at all.

There was a sense of uncertainty among the group then, and Elise for one was very bitter, but what was most interesting was that, for a minute, the mystery and the backgrounding sureness of their shared project truly gave way and just in a moment they were almost strangers again - just looking at each other, relieved at their own stupidity, going: what the fuck are we doing here? What is this?

Then BANG-SCREAM-BANG, and Elise dropped down beneath the windowsill in a cowering position, but she wasn't surprised by that. She wasn't experiencing it. What surprised her, really, and what she felt was ironic in what showed her about herself, was that that group didn't fall then into a zone of complete chaos and disloyalty like she thought they might. Already were they mobile. Already were they running. Towards gunfire or up the road somewhere.

By the time Elise had gotten to her feet, the last other person was leaving 975 Parallel. And she didn't go anywhere. She just held her arms back and tested her reach, an exercise alone in the dead house. Was she high? She forgot if she'd gotten high before, if that was what this - the parts of her spread an irretrievable distance - was.

At a speed of zero she went back through the once-boarded door and stepped out, freely and ridiculously, like a spirit, onto the asphalt, moving her eyes one way and then another. A 'normal' street - today with the maybe-danger of the situation it shone false and angry. Some houses were power-washed and had their lawns trimmed, while others were dull and comparatively much less grand and they seemed to be begging. Small and sorry and wanting. Some of these had older cars out front, filled with tools and straw, that would never be driven anywhere again.

And then Elise moved her eyes to see into the house and, as she did, some dark image made itself visible in the window. A threat. She fell roughly to her knees then, and kind of like an army cadet she laid herself almost flat and crawled, on a hot driveway, to where the garage door had been partially rolled up.

Inside: a few people too shocked to argue.

She stood up and then wavered there, the force of her entire body devoted to just breathing.

"Are you gonna..."

and she then

of course

lost, in the storms and ruinous blowing dust of her mind, the rest of her sentence and who she was talking to and what about. All dispensed with.

So she stopped, and she waited. She let it all soak.

She waited that she might feel her own tongue again.

And as many years as it felt, it took only two heartbeats. Then, newly composed, she faced Father August:

"Are you gonna talk to him, or are we just waiting to get shot?"

coded by archangel_

 

[aeneas.]

BEAUFORT HAWTHORNE ─ THE PROFESSOR
tags: BELIAL. erzulie ; location: 975 parallel street
interactions: lily loveday ; dorothy honorè ; others

Beaufort had never been much of a road-tripper.

Barely a family man with his folks and the furthest thing from the usual city boy who found entertainment in packing a day’s supply in a sack, buying a cheap tent, and camping in the woods. From recent developments, some would even go as far as calling him a recluse. Hiding within the comfort of his office, grading papers till the sun came peaking out of the curtain blinds, or when the janitor just had enough of the habit and kicked him out. That being said, it was a jarring revelation from co-workers that Professor Hawthorne of all people decided to throw caution to the wind and grab a taste of the open road. Even more so as he did it with a rag-tag group of self-proclaimed supernatural investigators and paranormally haunted.

Perhaps the grief finally pushed him over the edge and turned him senile. The gossip surrounding his trip sure made it out that way.

But if you asked Beaufort himself, he’d say he was doing the right thing. A pursuit for knowledge and answers as he liked to put it. To this day, he wasn’t quite sure what he lived through or what he believed in from it. Despite following behind a van driven by a servant of God, he’d be lying if he ever called himself a fellow child of the big man upstairs. Not enough nights kneeled for the rosary or Sundays spent in Church. Not enough prayers responded to. He had a handful of reasons to have enough hesitations with faith as much as his reluctance for road trips. Yet he found himself spending days burning rubber and nights in shared motel rooms nonetheless.

When the spiritual support group became less of a defacto AA meeting and more of an on-the-road business venture, Beaufort tore a page out of Robert Frost’s book of poetry and took the road less traveled by. As it turned out, the road not taken was one straight to Atchison, Kansas of all places—not what he expected but really, what can someone expect on a hunt for ghosts? The phone call didn’t help soothe the hungry questions eating into the professor’s brain. Things that went bump in the night. Dead animals.

Upon pulling up to the decrepit house on 975 Parallel Street, he didn’t know what was worse: the mental image he made throughout the ride or what was right in front of him. First came reluctance with a side of regret. Old lecture rooms and buildings ready for demolition were the closest comparisons Beaufort had to an abandoned home left to be forgotten. Paint had withered away to meet an equally as aged base, cracked windows, and moth-eaten curtains. If he caved to weakness, he would have quit right then and there. Second was disgust. Beaufort recognized the stench of death too quickly for his liking; felt the familiar hit of exposed flesh and innards enter his lungs like a bitter childhood rival. The return of the smell brought him back to the morning he awoke to Eliza. Her hollow eyes seen in those of the animals’. Matted fur much similar to the rat's nest her hair had become on the blood-soaked pillow. If animals could sing, he wouldn’t doubt they’d share the same guttural tone.

“Dream a little dream of me…”

Thank the handkerchief already covering his mouth that his cheap diner breakfast hadn’t made friends with the outgrown lawn. “A bit of a fixer-upper… definitely was a beloved home.” He was going to have to learn to stomach the rancid sight of decay sooner or later—the job called for it as it seemed. Despite it all, disgust simmered down to the third phase in Beaufort’s cycle of emotion. Acceptance. A short-lived surrender to the task at hand as the labor of investigation came back fruitless. For a moment he thought about the long drive back home, acceptance of the unpretty picture morphed into the acceptance of defeat.

The sound of gunfire ceased all laments. His decision to run for help with Miss Loveday and Honorè was innate. He wasn’t a seasoned war veteran like Father August, lacked the valor of Mr. Kelly, the unbothered nature of Miss Hwa-young, and the unwavering spirit of Miss Adams. Beaufort was a runner. Both in moments of distress and in physical ability. If his urge to flee from rot and time spent participating in local marathons can do a life some good, he’d take it. “Stay safe!” Were his parting words before he began his run down the block. He hoped the police around town were quick, Beaufort had a bad feeling they were in for a long day.

coded by archangel_

 

[mourning star]

CALISTA 'C A L' HOLLOWAY.
THE INTERPRETER.
mentions: Father August, Sam, Wayne, Elise, Others.
location: 975 Parallel Street, Atchison, Kansas. ➞ The Lynch House.
cw: Mentions of blood, Gore.

Calista Hollaway knew the sound of a gunshot intimately. She had seen the injuries that resulted from one, treated men who had been shot and blown up and made unrecognizable beyond the shallow rising of their chest that proved they were alive and feeling each awful pain inflicted on them. Traveling to Vietnam had given her knowledge of war; the troubles and tribulations... and the damage done to the innocent men who fought for an ideal rather than anything of substance. So, yes; she knew exactly what a gunshot sounded like.

The echo of the shotgun through the quiet had her flinching, tipping her head up from where she had been studying a spider trailing across the abandoned countertop.

Their merry band seemed to jump into action, their previous task falling to the wayside as they all seemed to recognize the threat that came with such a sound. While some of the others ran down the road to find a phone to call the police, Cal found herself following after the group headed towards the sound. The run made the sweat glide down her forehead, her breathing even. She had done this before; ran towards the danger instead of falling back. It wasn't smart, but, it was ingrained enough that it was second nature.

The amount of blood the group stumbled upon was not promising. She had fallen behind a little, blame she placed solely on the heels she wore. Coming to a stop, she glanced amongst the group with a frown in place. They were all standing in the garage, blood seeping out onto the soles of their shoes. The casual dismissal of the man had her prickling; but, moving to the side to peer into the doorway resolved any negative emotions.

The man's face was missing. She had seen it before; one did not treat the wounded in a war without some tall tales. However, she could not help but feel empathy towards him. Whatever had occurred, he had been at home — living his life, drinking his morning coffee, just existing. Whatever had occurred, this crime had to be an act of passion. It was illogical to imagine it being anything but with the amount of damage to his face from the shotgun.

"I have to check his pulse." She found herself saying. She was already tying up her long hair to avoid any of the blood from staining her blonde strands. She felt young and foolish, even after handling so much death, to demand such a thing. "I know he's probably already passed; but, perhaps I can pick up on whatever occurred..."

She glanced amongst the rest of the gathered, eyebrows furrowed.

"Is it wise to have all of us gathered around while the killer is still on the loose?" She found herself asking.

coded by archangel_

 

[BELIAL.]

Location: Lynch House & The House Down The Block

Notes: Next GM post will be a timeskip a significant jump in location and time. Feel free to leisurely post for the time being, no order or waiting.

Tags: idalie idiot elytra celadon. mourning star .V1LLAINISM._ erzulie aeneas. cherriesandwine.

LYNCH HOUSE - Father August, Sam, Wayne, Elise, Calista, Richie
CW: Vomit

From the floor above a final shot would ring out, echoing through the aged wood of floorboards and peeling wallpaper. Silence descended over the house, hanging like a cloak over everyone's shoulders. Death with that funny finality to it, seemingly stealing every breath from those who perched in the Lynch house, waiting for someone or something to happen. Before anyone could move towards the second floor, or anywhere really, footsteps would creak above their heads. Slow, off-kilter steps that dragged and scuffed against overturned carpet. The heavy thunk of a gun's butt would hit the floor every so often, at a far more regular beat than the footsteps.

Off to the side of the intersection between the kitchen's door and the entry back to the garage was a small hallway, leading to the rest of the house as well as to the staircase to the second floor. From there the shuffled footsteps would grow louder and clearer, rounding around the corner, and stop at the top of the stairs.

There stood a man, just barely scraping past his boyhood, covered in the blood of his kin. His dark hair was stringy, slick with sweat and plastered to his forehead. He wore a simple buttoned shirt, untucked from his dirtied jeans. He had no shoes on. In his left hand was the offending weapon, a double barreled shotgun, that stood straight as his blood-stained fingers wrapped around the muzzle and held it in place. He was oddly still, seemingly unsettled, for someone who'd just committed a triple homicide. The two other bodies would not be discovered by the group from where they currently stood in the present time.

He suddenly released the gun from his grip, the thing clattering back with the sudden, jarring thud of metal on wood. Doubling over, the boy retched with a hiccupping gag, onto his feet, the ick pooling down a couple of the steps before forming a sticky puddle that dripped onto the lower stairs, seeping into the wood's grain. It was not a regular colour for vomit, but rather something thick and discoloured, blackened and red like his bodily insides had sought to reject themselves. The boy held a hand to his stomach as he emptied the contents of whatever consumed him, gaze finally sweeping down toward the bottom of the stairs.

The group would catch sight of his eyes, most prominent of all.

They were blackened, the sclera shiny and pitch coloured. It seemed to ebb and flow within his gaze, shining as if slickened by tears or moving by itself. Then in the span of a breath they were gone, returned to bloodshot blues. Life seemed to return to him, his body finally heaving and shaking, and he gripped onto the railing of the stairs for some stability as his knees bent and wobbled.

His lip trembled, and it seemed then that he caught sight of the blood on his clothes and the pool that had formed down the stairs into the kitchen.

"I..." He croaked. "I think somethin' terrible's happened. I-I done somethin'... I..."


THE HOUSE DOWN THE BLOCK - Lily, Dorothy, Beaufort

The group who'd opted to run would not have to go far, in considerate fashion of small towns, though the distance would feel like a trek from the desperation of their situation. It was a single story home, white and mottled with the browning of age, with an upkept lawn and a junky, three decades too old, Oldsmobile parked in the driveway. Heading up the small steps to the porch with fervent haste, three knocks would summon the home's owner, but only after a few minutes of waiting.

An elderly woman answered the door, her skin tanned and mottled by age spots and wrinkles, loose and grey hair around her shoulders, and a cigarette between two of her fingers. She wore a seafoam coloured robe, plush and stained in plenty of places, and a pair of orange slippers. Her smile was wide, unaware (or choosing not to acknowledge) the look on anyone's face. From behind her was the blaring television, some gameshow rerun playing with a muffled crackle. An echoing laugh from the audience would seem to carry out onto the street, where the cicadas and their summertime call singed into the heat of the afternoon.

"Can I help you folks? You ain't sellin' anythin' on a Sunday are you? I keep my wallet locked for these reasons, y'see, so I ain't in the business--"

Whoever interrupted her first would make enough of an impression, an eyebrow raising as the rest of her seemed to catch up to what she was hearing.

"Gunshots? Over on Parallel? Jeez, the only people livin' there are the Lynches... Oh... dear." She took a moment, dragging a puff from her cigarette, contemplating what next to do. She extended a hand, waving fingers with shiny pearlescent polish, toward the inside of her home. "Best come inside, y'all. I-I'll... ring the station."

Time didn't seem to be of the essence to the older woman, but she moved as fast as her aged hips could. The phone was hooked near the front door anyhow, spaced on the wall between the entryway and the living room. Her fingers spun, knuckles gnarled as they bobbed against the phone's receiver.

After four rings the line didn't pick up, making her purse her lips together and take another inhale of her cigarette.

"Damn Sundays... Forgive me lord," the woman muttered under her breath, pondering for a moment before nodding and sticking the cigarette back between her lips to ring another number.

The router clicked, dispersed between the gaps in the television when the sound puckered in and out.

"Ray!? Ray, honey? It's Eula, an' there's these folks here, they ain't from town, an' they're sayin' there's been shots in the Lynch house on Parallel... Simon's got a gun, I know I've heard him teachin' his boys to shoot, but he pulled his back a few days ago an' there's no way he's shootin' raccoons in the middle of the day."

Some response on the other end made her garble out a noise from the back of her throat. "--T-That's the thing, hon', no way these folks'd come runnin' if it was somethin' ordinary. They're some kinda city folk, surely. One of 'em looks like Pointdexter, from that Felix the Cat show, y'know; the one Bobby really loves. Anyhow, some Pointdexter and two girls, one's some sorta hippie I think..."

The response on the other line, still not satisfactory to Eula, warranted another garble from her.

"Ray, the station ain't pickin' up. It's a real emergency this time, I gotta feelin'. Please, sugar-- I'd only ring if it was important, y'know this." Her tone was pleading, if a bit misled, biting down hard on the cigarette between her lips. Her gaze flickered to the people she'd let into her house. Even if they were serious, and they seemed to be, if they were trying to pull a fast one on her-- something that hadn't occurred until now-- the arrival of someone with the police would be some relief to her.

After a moment, clearly the persuasions were satisfactory enough, and she exhaled a long drag of both the cigarette and air she'd been holding.

"Thank you Ray, honey. Those kids need someone to check on 'em anyhow..."

Eula hung up after the necessary goodbyes, turning back to the group.

"You kids outta head back to the house, Ray knows where to go and he'll meet you there. Better you gettin' some story in before he goes makin' his own opinion of the situation..." Her gaze hardened, though she remained as cordial as she could be to them. Not that she didn't trust them, but... Well, she figured she wanted them out of her house now.

coded by archangel_

 

[Ha_lfLife]

CAPTAIN NAVARRO ⁠— the law.
tags: BELIAL. erzulie aeneas. ; location: A Sad Trailer on the Outskirts of Atchison, then 975 parallel street ; interactions: BELIAL. aeneas.

Holtzman winds up for a pitch and! aaaaah no … another strike. I gotta tell you, Marty, this is fixin’ to look like another big disappointment for the A’s. Only the third inning and Oakland has already weeded through half its bullpen.

Now up, batting for the Astros, Roger Metzger. What a season it’s been for Metzger so far. And! oh, ball one. Not a surprise there. *Chuckles* Coach does not look happy about Holtzman right now, we can tell you tha-

With its antenna facing just that exact angle to the northwest on the portable Philips radio, the commentators’ recreation of the game was coming through crystal clear. But even the clarity of their animated dialogue didn’t do much to bother Captain Navarro from his mid-afternoon doze.

He’d nodded off sitting up, arm propped up on the side of a lumpily stuffed recliner, chin resting on balled fist. He wasn’t wearing much except a well-worn pair of white briefs, all he managed to get on following his shower that morning before plunking down with a cup of grainy coffee and the paper. He’d been in the throes of this catnap for the better part of six hours. Only to be interrupted by -

bbbbbbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRIIIIIIIIING

A snore hitched in the back of Ray’s throat, his brows knitting together over still-closed eyes at the jarring call of the telephone on the kitchen wall. Louder, it felt, than a fire bell, it rang once - twice -

Let it. He didn’t have anyone to answer to today anyhow. The sheriff’s captain straightened out, neck stiff to the point of acute pain when he tried to look up or ahead or to the left or the right. The paper fell out of his lap as he pushed himself out of the blue-upholstered and Coors-stained recliner, only having made it to the second page out of eleven.

The third ring. bbbbbbbbbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRIIIIIIIIING

Ray sauntered over to the screen door of his double-wide trailer, past wood-paneled walls underneath geometric yellow and green wallpaper and over linoleum floors, everything slowly seeming to yellow and rot with the absence of a woman’s gentle touch. He whistled halfheartedly as he pushed the metal door off its latch. Sadie was already there, a fat heap on the bare wooden boards of the front porch, waiting unbothered for him to retrieve her. “C’mon Sadie-girl.” The round black lab stood up lazily, her meandering pace as she wandered to the door he’d held ajar not so unlike his own.

He stooped to empty into her bowl a can of indiscriminate mush, advertised by the can as “chicken, grain, liver dog dinner”.

The fourth ring, getting more irritating as the phone announced itself again.

Throwing the empty can in the trash, Ray glowered at the phone on the wall. There always came to mind a simpleminded daydream that maybe, just maybe, if he picked up the discolored plastic receiver that it would be Noelle’s voice on the other side, saying something like: “Ray, baby, oh Ray… I’ve made such a bad mistake. I never should’ve left you. I miss you. The kids miss their daddy. Please, baby, I want to come home. I promise, I’ll tell you everything …”

Four years had been almost enough to rid himself of the fruitless notion. To the point that it didn’t fool him into answering anymore.

The fifth ring, as loud and distracting now, crying out like a cat in heat. Most folks would have the sense to hang up by now. Try again later.

Or, maybe, … now Ray imagined up a new hope for the voice on the other end of the line. Mayhaps it was Sheriff Hoffman saying: “Ray, it’s Hoff. We made such a mistake tellin’ you to stay home. We never should’ve doubted you. That cockroach got what was coming to him. You did the world a service. Can you come back to work, say, today?”

Ray groaned, moving his neck to the left, ear near touching his shoulder blade. His watch said 2:10 pm. After an entire night of sleeplessness, he’d only managed to nod off well into the morning. Unemployment did that. Hours that once had routine and ritual fell into lawlessness. Without a job to rise to in the morning and fall asleep exhausted afterwards, there wasn’t much left to separate days from nights, consciousness from sleep, sobriety from inebriation …

Current employment status aside, Ray was hard-pressed to sleep soundly anyway. The sounds of gurgling and dripping, the outline of that lowlife he’d put down, looming in the corners in the dark, stuck to Ray like a glue trap caught on the bottom of his boot. Down ‘neath everything else, Ray didn’t know how to fathom it; some fancy brains from Harvard of Europe would say it was some internalized manifestation of guilt. But he didn’t feel guilty for what he’d done. No, he was pretty damn sure - if given a chance to start that night over again from the beginning - he’d play it out the same. The kid was better to the world dead. And if he’d made it in one piece to the county jail that night, he’d get off with five, maybe seven years, in Kansas State penitentiary before flying free to do it all again.

The sixth ring.

Ray answered, clearing his throat in a mix of smoker’s phlegm and yeasty beer breath. “This’s Ray.”

It was Eula, who lived down off Parallel and Progress. Well over eighty-years old and who surely hadn’t stopped chattering about somethin’ or other throughout most of them, Eula knew the better part of everyone in Atchison County.

“Miss Eula-” Ray sighed, well enough concealing his disappointment that it wasn’t his boss calling. He leaned back against the laminate countertop, reaching over a batch of empty beer bottles that lined the counter like a carnival ring-toss game, to a carton of Camels lying open. He pulled one from the box with his lips, lighting it with the zippo left next to the counter to light the stove. He then thumbed through the pile of mail he’d barely combed through in the past week aside from bringing it in from the road, settling in for a long conversation. He pulled out a glossy Sports Illustrated from the bottom of the pile, flipping through it unenthusiastically, hoping at least to find a pretty girl or two decorating the center spreads as Eula carried on.

Eula called him personally at least once every few weeks. Nevermind that she lived in the town of Atchison proper and had no business calling the likes of someone from the County Sheriff’s. But Eula had taken a liking to Ray ever since he’d gone in and pulled her grandson out of a flooding storm drain some years back. She called him for just about everything, and he’d had to take a particular discernment to her stories, since she’d inflated anything she had to tell him to the level of nuclear catastrophe. One time it was her cat, who hadn’t come back in after four hours outside on a sunny day. Another, she’d called in a complaint against her neighbors who’d taken to partying on Labor Day after five in the afternoon.

He didn’t mind it, really, not having the heart to be meanspirited towards the old lady. She was surely just feelin’ all sorts of bored and lonesome after her husband’s passing a year or so ago. She even called to wish him a happy Cinco de Mayo every year, though he hadn’t had to heart to tell her he was as much a stranger to his parents’ homeland as she was. So he resorted to this sort ‘o thing - leaning back on the counter, phone cradled in the crook of his shoulder as he flipped through something or other and enjoyed his smoke as she prattled on.

Today she was talking about some drifters from out of town.

Then the Lynches, from Parallel Street. Sure, Ray’d known the family, as he did with all kinds of folks from around here. Two of the Lynch kids were in school the same time as Michael and Lori, his sweetheart’s kids (ex-sweetheart, he reminded himself). Simon Lynch was an upstanding citizen, as far as Ray knew. And like most upstanding citizens in Atchison County in 1973, Simon surely had his fair share of firearms. When he decided to take his oldest out for a shooting lesson wasn’t much for Eula or Ray or anyone else to dictate.

"--T-That's the thing, hon', no way these folks'd come runnin' if it was somethin' ordinary.” Eula countered. “They're some kinda city folk, surely. One of 'em looks like Pointdexter, from that Felix the Cat show, y'know; the one Bobby really loves. Anyhow, some Pointdexter and two girls, one's some sorta hippie I think..."

“I’m sure Simon’s takin’ the proper precautions, Eula…Come on now, you know these city folks, they can get spooked easy. If they came passing through and hear gunshots of the kind I’m not surprised they got worked up and came running.” He paused to take the cigarette from the side of his mouth, tapping its ash on the rim of one of the many nearby amber bottles. “Besides, now I know I’ve told you this before: if you want someone to come take a look you’re gonna have to call the Atchison police department. Sheriff’s department can’t come investigate anything in the town limits without the police askin’ ‘em first. Either way, Eula, I-” Suspended. Pending disciplinary review. Gettin’ raked over the coals. “I ain't on duty this afternoon.”

“Ray, the station ain’t pickin’ up.” Eula interjected anxiously, though this wasn’t unusual for her. “It’s a real emergency this time, I gotta feelin’. Please, sugar – I’d only ring if it was important, y’know this.” Ray sighed, knowing that last line by heart from every conversation he’d had with the old woman that he’d ever had. Yet, the tone that flickered through the receiver today was a little more … how did one put it? Authentic? Fearful? Than it had been when once previously overshadowed by petty gossip.

“Alright, Miss Eula, if it’ll ease your mind, I’ll drive past Simon’s place and take a look. But you keep trying the Police Department. And you’d best put down those cigarettes, Eula - you promised me.” He warned, hearing her inhale dramatically like she did when she was taking a drag.

Ray left Fat Sadie to settle in the recliner, still warm from his body heat, pulling on a worn pair of Wranglers and a denim Western over a discolored white undershirt. He filled the chamber of his department-issued Smith and Wesson Model 19, before sheathing it in the leather holster on his belt. “Back soon, girl…” He muttered to Sadie, as if not totally sold on the fact that he was going to go all the way out the Lynches’ just to appease the overactive imagination of an 88-year-old crow.

He’d tried the radio in the truck a few times on the way down here, turning the channel to the frequency that the Atchison city department claimed, and Eula was right about that too - there was nobody at the switchboard. It was probably that new kid. The one with the shag. He’d probably snuck out on the clock for a coffee or a bite. Ray couldn’t blame the kid. Not really. It wasn’t like much urgent happened in Atchison on a Sunday afternoon, where the most thrilling call anyone had gotten in the past year was for a tractor broken down on the shoulder of the Glacial Hills highway.

By the time his 1967 Chevy longbox rolled to a stop in front of the Lynch home, Ray had finished his cigarette, stubbing it out in a paper Pepsi-printed cup crunched in the driver door’s sleeve compartment with an assortment of Kansas county maps and a midwest states atlas.

His knees popped as he got out of the truck, the sound overpowered by the rusted screeching of the truck’s driver door creaking open. Ray casually meandered over to the crowd of strangers who’d made it back to the Lynch house. Eula’s descriptions weren’t exaggerated, for once. That one really did look like Poindexter. And the redhead - she really did look like she’d tried about everything powdered and smokeable at least once.

He came closer, his height imposing on its own though his expressing seemed sleepy, tired, unthreatening. The soapy smell of Irish Spring mixing with the remnants of spilt beer and stale smoke. Somethin’ smelled damn awful - reminiscent of a time when a possum had crawled up under his trailer’s porch and died. His long nose wrinkled at the hint of it, but he didn’t find it that unheard of for parts out in the open like this. All sorts of wildlife were bound to travel through and, eventually, drop out for good. Simon surely already was hunting for whatever it was that was causing the stink.

“You folks called the Sheriff’s? Everyone okay?” Ray grunted, bringing his hands to rest on his hips. “You know the Lynches?”

coded by archangel_

 

[BELIAL.]

LILY LOVEDAY
tags: aeneas. erzulie Ha_lfLife ; location: eula house -> back to 975 parallel street ; company: dorothy, beaufort, ray

She ran as fast as she could, at least somewhat elated to see that folks had followed her in turn. She hadn't expected much, not even of herself, but knowing that some had had the sense to hit the streets for help made her feel like she wasn't a coward or a fool. Lily was not one to run for the cops, or really, vie for them at all. An adolescence spent with her fingers wrapped around picket signs and pointing at the offending police, screaming against the government and their show ponies, hadn't exactly primed her to be the most comfortable around said authority. Still, she'd rather sneer at a cop in the direction to go if it meant that whatever had happened in that house next door, if those screams, could be remedied.

For all that she could pretend that sort of thing didn't bother her, there was still that part of her that did care. No amount of life experience could prepare you for thinking you're witnessing some sort of violence, or if there is real violence to be had. For all that Lily had seen, hell, she was sure that maybe the gut feeling was one to listen to.

When they arrived at the first home they saw, just down the block and around the corner, it was an old lady that greeted them. Lily had done her best to hide her disappointment, as well as pure annoyance, having hoped that there was somebody at least a little formidable. Or, even, that just moved faster.

While the old lady went to ring the police, Lily could only stand awkwardly, sweeping her gaze around the room. It was a nicer place, even if the outside was in a bit of disrepair. One could only figure was much for someone older who clearly lived by themselves. Her gaze moved to the other two, offering a mere raise of her brows on hearing the other end of the conversation from the lady-- Eula, so she said.

Of the two that had come along, Lily hadn't talked to much. Beaufort, Pointdexter as the old lady had so kindly labeled, had glasses and that sort of shmuck face that either made her grimace or ignore. Nothing on him, she figured, but she wasn't sure how likely he was to be a lot of fun; going off of pure appearances. The lady, Dorothy, well she was somebody, Lily was sure. Seemed real smart, dressed smart. Still had that bit of country grace to her that Lily could appreciate, being from Tennessee herself.

And then there was herself, and her appearance wasn't one that she tended to overthink. Hippie, or whatever the old lady said, sure. At least she wasn't sweating her ass off making the trip.

The phone call finally ended, someone showing up-- some police, hopefully, even though it seemed any active officers weren't around-- and Lily was keen to get out as much as it seemed Eula didn't want them.

Dorothy seemed to linger, so Lily jutted a thumb to the door.

"Well let's hurry back then, glasses. Time to get our stories straight."

As soon as she hit the porch she was diving for her smokes, lingering a half a step behind Beaufort as they made haste back, sucking on the stick until she could taste the filter on her teeth. Another faint gunshot sounded from inside the home, making Lily's stomach clench. Sweat stuck her eyelids, a wave of hot and cold adrenaline running its rounds through Lily.

'Backup' showed itself by the time they'd settled in front of the house, Lily idly puffing on the last of her cigarette as she gave a quick look back into the Lynch home-- not that she could see or hear much just yet. Hopefully they'd found someone or something.

"Not from here, we're just passin' through," Lily offered honestly to the man's question, now turning to bite on her nails as the cigarette had ended its life beneath the heel of her boot. Taking a half step back, her posture swaying, she squinted up at Ray. She gave a quick look to Beaufort, hoping that he wouldn't spill about the fact that they were tromping through an empty home like proper grifters.

"We're for bible study, you see. Heard the shots, went runnin'. Someone was screamin', you know. Not just idle gunshots." Her lies ran like water, composure unmoving.

She turned to Beaufort and waved a hand. "Some of us went and found some help, others went in the house and checked it out. Seems-- seems the garage door's open. They probably went in."

coded by archangel_

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

Richie ,, Warwick ❜ ─ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 skeptic ─ ❛
tags: idalie celadon. idiot ; location: Lynch House
interactions: father august, anyone that follows him ; notes: he almost frowed up :- {/ TW for dead bodies

Dead men tell no tales, they say.

But Richie, plastered within this state of disgruntled consciousness, with all of the conviction left in his heart, would whole-heartedly disagree.

Lies. Those who know know that it is the dead who speak of all the tales, lay within tragedies carved into their flesh and their bone - their fingernails, their faces, even their teeth; for an eternity of all eternities they rot until all what is left are their haunting whispers. A story.
It was his father’s job to wash away their sorrows, the ferryman to take away all signs of troubled humanity from the pale of their skin, to clean, to purify; Richie was only the mourner watering the plants.

Still, he distinctly remembers the first time he ever laid eyes on a body, unmoving. How little it was, how defenceless, how startling, how serene. It was a dull summer day in June and yet jarring was the boy who looked not much older than he, with eyes carefully drawn shut and hair the colour of fire, his child form drenched in linens that kissed the cold marble floor. He was 9 and his tale, he’d learned, although it hardly began, had ended with polio. His name, he’d also eventually learned, was Thomas.

From then on everything had changed, and nothing had all the same. His life, since that exact moment, had grown crooked with oxymorons and paradoxes. Nothing was real and everything was, he was fine but he also wasn’t. How he’d come to survive such terrible contradictions, how he’d waded through for the last 32 years was a wonder, though feigning ignorance and adequacy certainly helped shoo those prying questions, those worried looks. If he pretended that it didn’t happen then he was OK, he was normal.

But the body never forgets.

No, it is the soul that carries the tale and the body that holds its memory, a map come to life.

But all he can think of looking at himself now, meeting his own surly gaze in the mirror, was
that he had far too many memories spilling out.

Ashen were the borders dancing around his eyes, black like soot, confusing his greens for deep pools of void, unfeeling, unable to. His skin had always held a natural pale tinge to it, but what was merely a lack of sun had greyed into sickness; blue veins making a canvas out of slow decay. He was sick, he first thought, perhaps even naively. Possible stresses from work, the state of the world, the economy- he always blames the economy.

That was, until he began seeing her. Again.

A splash of cold water and then another, to stay awake was torture, to fall asleep was torture. To feel a sensation is for it to be new, resounding, but when you’ve been living in it for the past 6 months? It becomes not a feeling but a cage. He yearns not for slumber but an escape; for this life-long torment to cease. But how?

That’s what they were all here for right? Answers? Different motivations but with the same desire to draw a singular conclusion made for an interesting group, though none that he’d formally conversed with. He hated jackasses, and yet he probably came off as the biggest of them all, with his lack of words or acknowledgment to spare.
A white-casted arm crossed over top of the other and his sleeves rolled up, much of the road trip was spent up in his head, offering a small nod here and there, a few words bordering between cordial and obligatory. He hated jackasses yes, but he wasn’t here to make friends, amicable as that sounded.

Although, maybe a friend or two different from her would do him some good.

Slowly, one by one, the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand, pricking from the familiar static chill that was so signature to her apparition. His blood ran cold. He inhaled.
She was here.

—— —— ——

Coming to Atchison was more or less a gut-punch to the groin. Rows and rows of suburban-style houses, filled with what he could only presume were happy families, left Richie unaccustomed, uncomfortable with the southern heat beating down their backs, dampening their shirts. A city boy forced to reckon with the picket-fenced picturesque; evil festers beneath a well-manicured image, as it always does.

But 975 Parallel Street, unsurprisingly, was a bust. Nothing to be found but rot and more rot and nothing to be done about it. It was a house standing on the foundations of decay, mothballs and dust alone, practically a breeze away from collapsing in on itself. And, in a way, he was happy to get out of that shithole, it made his head feel dizzy. So much for picket fences, he frowned.

Pulling out a smoke from the depths of his back pocket, it was not until he’d brought the flame near to his lips that something - something big happened. At first, he couldn’t register just what it was, but it made his ears ring sharply, deafeningly. It was only after he saw the priest - Father August, bolt in the direction of impending doom, and call the rest to action, did he find himself following earnestly behind them. Tossing the unlit cigarette from his mouth onto a nearby lawn, his heartbeat raged against the thick of his eardrums, adrenaline creating a panicked rhythm deep within his chest. Thump Thump Thump.

He was the slowest out of them, partly out of denial and partly from the exhaustion. But by the time he’d stepped into the death-splattered kitchen, the others were already crowded together, unable to act or possibly, unsure how to. His eyes drifted over the crime scene, feeling the sour bile rise from the depths of his stomach as remnants of flesh and brain coated the walls and the floors. Eyes gouged by the impact of something vile, left like bloody pools dripping onto a sunday dinner.
Yum.

Richie tried his best to abstain himself as he drifted in and out of reality, their voices growing more and more muffled as he stood, unable to tear his gaze away from the horrid picture before him. Except it wasn’t a picture. It was real life.

Suddenly, his head snapped up.

“We oughta check the rest of the house… If the bastard’s still around here we need to stop him, or save the rest of em, I dunno-”

He announced with the frantic confidence of someone speaking the language for the very first time, still, his intentions were starkly clear.

And then, a final resounding shot.

Hastening his speed into a jagged bolt, Richie left the room 10 times the pace in which he’d entered, leaving no more time to debate over his decision. Thump Thump Thump. The call of heavy footsteps signalled him to a nearby flight of stairs, the bastard was on the second floor.

Haphazardly he began climbing each step, having half a mind to tackle the beast capable enough to do all of this, while the other half spurred thoughts far too fast for his own comprehension.

and then someone - a boy emerged, with a shotgun laced in his hand.

Richie stopped dead in his tracks, halfway up the staircase.

He looked at the gun, and then back up at the kid. Green eyes met pure black and suddenly, Richie was 7 years old again, seeing her for the very first time.

“You…”

Breathlessly, his unbroken arm was raised as if to surrender to the teenager, compel him from taking another shot, from wiping his head clean off of his body.
But before Richie could say anything else to plead his case, the boy doubled over, and with him, released a dark liquid that was abnormal for standard secretion; a thick, gooey vomit pooling down the stairs and dripping slowly onto his shoes. Richie felt the bile in him begin to rise again.

‘"I… I think somethin' terrible's happened. I-I done somethin'... I..."’

He didn’t know what to say or how to say it, but at that moment, Richie believed him, felt the need to protect him from whatever had just happened, maybe even from himself.

“You … You’ve done something alright.” Richie laughed through a nervous exhale, dragging a hand through his hair, wiping the sweat that had collected at his hairline.

“Help is on the way kid, just… don’t move okay? It’ll be alright.”

“… Father?”

His lies, although hardly convincing, were merely for comfort, for saving them from a frenzy of more bullets. Thus he looked for the guidance of someone that talked about nothing but fathers and sons and holy spirits. Where was a father when you needed him?

“I’m guessin’ there’s at least a couple of more bodies up there,”

Richie nodded in the direction of the second floor, past the boy's shoulders, through a careful voice.

“we can’t just stand here and wait.”

The main concern was, whether they run the risk of tainting the soon-to-become crime scene, or risk their lives trying to make conversation with a lunatic. and richie, wanting neither of those options, was perfectly unsure of how to proceed. What was taking those damn folks so long?

coded by archangel_

 

[idiot]

SAM HWA-YOUNG ─ THE VESSEL.
tags: idalie .V1LLAINISM._ celadon. mourning star elytra ; location: kitchen, the lynch house
interactions: the boy ; notes: info here

“…I think somethin’ terrible’s happened. I-I done somethin’…I…”

Was it pity she felt or relief that wasn’t alone in this eternal torment. Sam watched the all-too-familiar black, tar-like substance ooze down the stairs, the culprit belonging to a mere boy. A boy who was at least given the privilege to experience the infamous teenage tears. Sam wondered who his first crush had been, how his parents sat him down to discuss his career opportunities, did he sneak out to parties or have a lazy night with his family watching television. Or was it bitterness she felt?

What did follow was a deadly concoction of guilt and reality of the situation for the boy.

Sam knew from experience that the boy’s life was…gone. Well, the life he once knew. Instead it would begin anew with a chapter of constantly looking over your shoulder and the perpetual fear that you will lose control again. Lose your sense of self — your soul.

Sam wanted to cry. Yet, the tears wouldn’t come. They never did anymore. Sam wondered if she had cried all the tears that one could in their lifetime. Left the same way Rina would treat the leftover orange juice carton in the fridge; squeezing and wringing it dry until every drop was used up and promptly discarded in the bin. Empty and forgotten.

If it wasn’t for the shaking, Sam would of thought the boy had been frozen, immortalised in time, after the unspeakable act.

A new feeling arose, one she hadn’t felt since she was with her little sister. Responsibility. It was a warm feeling but also one that caused the hair on her arms to stand up. Get up there now, only you understand what he is experiencing.

Sam shuffled one foot after the other as though wearing cinder blocks for shoes. Carefully trying to avoid the vomit, Sam noted the floorboards would never be the same. It was a bitch to clean and seemed to permanently stain the wood grain, leaving a constant reminder in Sam’s cramped apartment.

“The…” Sam’s voice almost had the same groan the stairs possessed as the others climbed up after her, ready to see what else the house had to offer. Her voice always surprised her even now. She had forgotten how gravelly, yet nasally her voice had become. Sam’s voice indicated she was coming down with the flu. Yet, the flu in question never left her system.

“The first time,” Sam attempted again, clearing her throat, “…is always the worst.” First time? He didn’t even know what was going on to begin with.

Then again, how does one explain what the two have experienced? Sam recalled her first time, the time in which dirt was compacted under her nail beds, the black goop had stained her bedsheets and by her side was her father’s prized roses—plucked from the carefully maintained garden outside. Little cuts covered her palms, her blood coating the thorns of the roses. Her father never yelled at her but what was worse was the look of disappointment on his face. He loved his roses and Sam destroyed them—or at least she thought she did? She didn’t remember a thing. He never grew roses again.

She settled on the next best thing. The one thing she wished someone could have told a younger her.

“It wasn’t your fault…whatever they say or accuse you of…” Attempting to not peer back towards the mush that had been made of the man’s head, “…it wasn’t you.”

Wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t me. One day she would believe it.

Sam’s gaze dared to meet his, the bloodshot blue eyes meeting her. It made her want to tell him everything. She hadn’t told anyone since her time in the psychiatric facility. The only other person who knew everything and believed her was dead.

This time would be different.

“I—“ Sam’s throat constricted, the invisible hands tightly wound around her scarred throat, drawing out every inch of precious oxygen.

Sam would have panicked if she wasn’t familiar with the silent threat. It was him.

He liked reminding her of his existence. Subtly always prospered above all — to the point she was left wondering it was her paranoia or he was interfering. The paranoia and fear are what he seemed to relish the most. Was it the fear he fed on—what kept him tethered to me?

The whispers started to tune into focus. No attempt to quiet them down was made — it was always pointless.

Sam opted to stand in front of him silently, attempting to have a look of understanding on her face.

I get it. I really do. You are not alone.

I get it too, Sammmmm. You’ll never be alone.

coded by archangel_

 

[idalie]

FATHER AUGUST ⁠— servant of god.
tags: idiot elytra celadon. mourning star .V1LLAINISM._ Ha_lfLife ; location: the lynch house ; interactions: sam, wayne, elise, calista, richie, (potentially ray)

CW: Gore, death

Morbidity mesmerised; sank its maw into a man’s consciousness with flesh blooming and blood running, sticking where it’d reached the Father’s brogues. Heavy red footprints smeared the linoleum like botched newspaper print, blurred about the edges as he’d stepped across the obstruction as though no more than a bag of split mince. There’d been something so intimate about the method of which he’d fallen⁠—body still clutching his hands up to his chest, remnants of the chin lolling to the side, buttoned up in a nice plaid shirt and slacks with specks of motor oil, similarly staining beneath his fingernails.

August glanced past Kelly reaching for a wrench, where Sam stood in neither horror nor fear, to the well-shined bodywork of a tidy little sports car. Passion projects that filled one’s weekend with a peace of mind, until he’d had a firearm directed no more than an inch from his face.

“If we are to measure the practicality between your wrench and a corpse, Mr. Kelly, it’s obvious one of them can take more bullets,” He nodded to the concaved face of what’d once been Simon Lynch, “At least our host has yet to state the obvious.” As if fate to his embittered words, a woman of similar age to the quietest slipped between the group’s standing to face him; earning August’s sterner stare, her concerns echoed by the appearance of a nurse who stooped to take the faceless cadaver’s pulse.

The same gist lingered on everyone’s lips, marching orders expressing worry for the assailant they’d been lucky enough not to meet. A predictable script nearer to blame than it was curiosity

Movement signalled above them, the creaking of floorboards and dragging of feet as reminiscent of some tortured Dickensian ghost. If only he were to rattle the chains of his own forged sin, however, the sheriff's cuffs would do just fine.

It was Warwick who broke the stalemate⁠—pulling himself up the stairs til’ they were blocked by the silhouette of a young man, barely outgrown his boyhood but black-eyed. Irises and sclera melded into pitch, enough to set Kamiński’s pulse to where it struggled in his chest, belying familiarity that’d occurred only once before. Once had been enough.

Vomit and black bile strained between his teeth, shotgun clattering aside as the culprit took to shivering; reassured by those now climbing the staircase in misguided faith. To be guided by any persuasive spirit, inclined to use one to its own ends or be influenced by that of its hosts, had August follow closely behind. Gently manoeuvring around Sam’s form, gaze flickering toward Richie’s inclination to see what else remained⁠—or rather⁠—who else.

The Father’s hand took the boy by the forearm, steering him down with a heavy palm on his far shoulder. “Contra nequítiam et insídias diáboli esto praesídium.” An utterance of the scripture, though the boy made no reaction beside his tremors. Easily led like lamb to slaughter; especially where the sound of a car door slamming resounded from outside would lead one to believe. To sit with knowledge of your father’s corpse only metres away, “You’d better sit and collect yourself for when the law gets here.”

The boy’s features assumed on a look of near-genuine surprise, tears heavy across his bottom-most lashes, "The Devil—I swear⁠—It were the Devil who made me,” Head swivelling toward Sam teetering on the stained steps as if begging her sympathy could reach him there; divided by distance, propped against the hallway wall, "The Devil made me do it. I wouldn't. I wouldn't, y'can't let them think I would—”

coded by archangel_

 

[aeneas.]

BEAUFORT HAWTHORNE ─ THE PROFESSOR
tags: BELIAL. erzulie Ha_lfLife ; location: eula house -> back to 975 parallel street
interactions: lily loveday ; dorothy honorè ; ray navarro

Poindexter. He liked the way things were panning out already. From gunfire, a run down the block, frantic knocks at the door, and now light jabs from the locals—Eula specifically, the first trip proved his prior doubts wrong to at least be eventful. Though, Beaufort couldn’t help but dwell in the worries of what could be waiting on the opposite end of the landline. Whoever Ray was in the county’s hierarchy, they seemed apprehensive from how Eula appeared to be bargaining like a losing contestant on the game show she had playing in her living room.

With gunfire comes a scream, with a scream comes a crime scene, with a crime scene comes cops, with cops comes an investigation, with an investigation comes a trial, with a trial comes—

"Well let's hurry back then, glasses. Time to get our stories straight."

Glasses. Two nicknames in one day.

Besides the occasional passes of the saltshaker across diner tables and greetings in motel parking lots, he barely spoke a word to Miss Lily Loveday. A little to blame on their assumed lack of things in common and a lot on how intimidated he is by her. Where she had an unwavering sense of confidence, Beaufort had fret to spare. “Alright then.” Deciding to pick himself up from his stupor by the bootstraps (or in his case, the suspenders) he made his retreat with Miss Loveday with a typical display of the Midwest nice, “Thank you for your time, ma’am.” to Eula and a nod to Dorothy. The journalist had a story brewing with what he’s picked up on from their talks, he admired her dedication and ambitions. Others saw their little gang as an experience, Miss Honorè saw an opportunity.

Beaufort could only hope the opportunity wouldn’t cost anyone their lives. With the eerie silence broken by another gunshot before they hunkered down back at Parallel Street, he feared it was too late of a wish. He found himself with a hand in his pocket, fiddling with the items within the small drawstring pouch inside. Till Death. If he knew then the weight his ring’s engraving held now, he would’ve opted for a better quote. Maybe he should’ve torn a page out of his father’s handbook and gone with “non-refundable”.

Eliza would have had a laugh with it.

As it turned out, “getting their story straight” for the cops was more of Lily creating the story and Beaufort nodding along. Despite the lack of a uniform, with his… active youth of marches and mayhem, Beaufort knew a cop when he saw one. Out of old habit, he crossed his arms in the defensive as who he presumed to be Ray approached, and from the look Miss Loveday shot him, they were on the same page. Or on the same chapter at the very least.

“That’s right officer, just a harmless bible study at the wrong place at the wrong time—or right time.” Lying didn’t come as easily to him as it did with Lily. She swayed without what seemed to be a care in the world as Beaufort juxtaposed in his stiff stance, sparing the slightest of movement to readjust his glasses and nod to Lily’s words. “Our friends aren’t necessarily equipped for this sort of thing.” We have items to fend against the dead, not the living. “But I assume they couldn’t just do nothing as they waited for us. The Lord detests idle hands after all.” Not much a prayer man, he decided to take the words of Father August himself to sell their story as a traveling bible study.

“We may not know the Lynches, but we wanted to make sure they’re alright. So let’s get to it, shall we?”

coded by archangel_

 

[erzulie]

DEVANA ACINDIUS ─ THE SHACKLED
tags: n/a ; location: n/a
interactions: n/a;

She could feel the servant behind her trembling ever so slightly. Shaking hands and combing through her mess of curls with the utmost care. Void-like eyes met lovely greens for a brief second. The woman seated admired them in the soft glow of the candlelight. Her love for precious gemstones kept her gaze focused, and the two of them locked in a staring contest before the emeralds disappeared behind pale lids. A grin appeared behind her fanged mask. She dropped her gaze, instead looking at her own visage. The girl could be no other than could be no older than ten and seven. She was new, unaccustomed to the ways of her mistress and her family, though she had heard the stories.

The silence around them stretched as she lost herself in thought. The invitation had made it to her safely. However, the messenger had an entirely different story. He had arrived at the entrance to their estate—or rather, whatever had taken his form had arrived with the letter in tow. There was no way of knowing what happened to the body, and she could only hope that the animals had gotten to him first before they snatched his form. Despite what some were led to believe, the Acindius Clan were more than brutes. The king’s invitation to board his newest ship had been nothing but thinly veiled threats and strong arming.

Nevertheless, her family had decided that the invitation called for a celebration. Oh they would send off their heir and she would go quietly even. Before long it would come to be known that the king’s subjects were trapped on a ship with her, rather than the other way around. The night before her journey had been quite a revel. They had taken to the forest in a frenzy. Screams, howls, and cackles filled the night air, traveling far off into the wilderness and inviting more to join in their celebration. She had noticed how their numbers grew and the forms that crept from behind the trees. The Acindius family carried on well into the morning before her departure.

coded by archangel_

 

[Ha_lfLife]

CAPTAIN NAVARRO ⁠— the law.
tags: BELIAL. erzulie aeneas. idalie idiot elytra mourning star .V1LLAINISM._ celadon. ; location: 975 parallel street ; interactions: BELIAL. aeneas.

Looking down at the young lady with the copper hair, Ray raised a disbelieving brow at the mention of a communion of Christian souls. Little Miss Lady in front of him stank faintly of incensed herbs and perfumed smoke, and probably subscribed to something a little more… spiritual than the likes of Christians. Witchcraft probably, or some lesser-known creed that was born out of a cult of long-haired men and ayahuasca smoke that grew ripe in the confines of canvas tents. And the other, who pitched in to agree with his companion’s story, seemed more of the scientific type - more focused on the linking hypotheses than investing grand leaps of faith.

“Bible study, huh?” Ray breathed, the abnegation palpable in his tone. He took a few steps to the left of the strangers, letting his knees creak in protest as he squatted down, tilting his head to peer under the garage door, only ajar a foot or two from the ground. Clear as day, there rested the four clean tires and shining rims of the Lynches’ Chrystler, waiting patiently for the family’s next errand or exodus to school.

Ray erected himself, eying the two suspiciously. The Lynches, so far as Ray knew, were simple people with ordinary tastes; Ray couldn’t think of a reason on God’s green earth that the family would’ve called in the likes of a hippie caravan to the likes of their simple, blue-collar home. But rather than bother to grill the members of the “Bible Study” group on the porch again as to their intentions, Ray opted instead to ask Simon himself. He was obviously home.

Ray noted wearily that a second girl - a distinctively pretty thing - came trotting up the road as he meandered back towards the Lynches’ front door, noting that she looked as out of place in dress and urgency as the others did in the city of Atchison and that she surely belonged with them. With a moment of hesitation, he turned his back to all three of them, fist contacting the painted ash door - once, then twice - calling out with an authoritative tone: “Simon? Joanne? It’s Ray Navarro. Sheriff’s Department.”

The silence that served as a response jolted like a quiet static throughout the old Captain’s bones. His right hand instinctively came to rest on the revolver holstered at his waist. He had listened intently for the gruff tone of the man he’d coached Little League games opposite of, or the soprano chimes of the lady who’d always had something to say about the “poisoning of our young children” at town hall summits. When he’d heard nothing in return, Ray tried the door’s bronze handle, not too concerned about matters of the legitimacy of entry or non-entry while off the clock. At the moment, he was nothing more than a concerned neighbor.

With the opening of the door, the stench swept through the threshold like a roiling wave. So putrid was the smell that it’d reminded Ray of a case he’d responded to back in ‘65, the sad situation of a wartorn corn farmer who’d decided to leave and take his wife with him. Their bodies hadn’t been discovered until eleven days after their deaths. The smell was hard to purge from one’s system. The smell of Death Itself.

Ray recoiled, covering his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his denim shirt. He only removed it to call out again, this time his voice more commanding: “Atchison County Sheriff’s Department. Anyone inside, put your hands on your head and stay where you are. NOW!”

Ray pulled out the S&W from his belt, latching back its hammer in anticipation of the worst. Still, he held his finger at the side of the trigger, not yet gripping onto it with the intention of firing. He took a few quiet, cautious steps into the entryway that opened to the Lynches’ modest kitchen and living room. He was met with the startled glances of more strangers, like raccoons caught with their paws grasping at the rims of his trash bins.

A young man with chestnut hair and a matching mustache, tidy and well kept, clothes eccentric, was clutching a wrench as foreignly as a woman with a weed wacker. Behind him stood a shifty brunette with a ghostly pallor and dark under eyes. A blonde (who, if not for the crisis at hand, would’ve well caught Ray’s lonesome and carnal eye) was hunched over in the background, her hand red, the figure underneath her shadow that of … Jesus Christ. It was hard to see the body, but Ray later learned that, due to the nature of the bullet’s caliber and distance, it was nearly impossible to identify the figure from facial recognition alone. Yet, the blue button-up shirt and navy crosshatch tie, and a leathery, middle-aged hand clenching posthumously to the chair’s arm, adorned with a silver wedding band, alerted Ray to the fact that the body was likely Simon’s.

Keeping his gun trained on the man closest to him, Ray took another step forward until the carpeted stairway was in view, revealing another cluster of strangers like fruit flies swarming unwelcomed to the corner of a cupboard.

Ray seriously regretted going in alone, without a confirmation of backup, and silently hoped Eula’d had enough patience to keep trying Atchison PD before the next great tragedy commanded her attention. It was now nine strangers here against him alone. If it was they who’d done that to poor Simon Lynch, Ray wouldn’t stand much of a chance against all of them surrounding him from the front and the side and behind. “Stay right where you are…” he growled a warning, his finger traveling to the metal trigger, holding it steady despite his discomfort, ready to shoot at the least sign of unprompted quickness.

Then, the sound of a tenth voice came down the stairs with an echoing tone of mourning, more familiar to Ray’s ears. The tone and cadence of the words sounded eerily similar to that of their owner’s father: “The Devil - I swear - It were the Devil who made me. The Devil made me do it. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t. Y’can’t let them think I would -”

Gun still trained on the man on the ground floor, Ray’s eyes trailed up the green carpeted stairs to a silhouette looming at the top, framed in the threshold like a screenprinted shadow. The Lynches’ oldest stood trembling like a rain-drenched kitten catching cold, blood splattered all over his face and clothes like they were a Jackson Pollock canvas. The boy’s position, the angle of the blood, the self-directed confession all left little to question about the boy’s role in what had passed. He’d done it, corroborated by those haunting last few words of his testimony. Jesus Christ, he’d done it.

What was his name? Ray slowly lowered the Model 19 from Wayne, not turning it to the oldest Lynch boy, seeing he was currently unarmed. Ray was usually good with names, a talent that’d won him over with many of the community’s naysayers upon in his entry into the ranks of Atchison county’s finest with his darker skin and thick, silken hair. Alan. Alan Lynch. Eighteen or nineteen or thereabouts, having graduated in the past few years without much trouble. No deep red flags raised to signal that he’d do something like this to his daddy.

“Raise your hands where I can see them, son.” Ray’s voice softened at the kid, despite the blood that had splattered against his face. “Where’s your mother?” Ray was equally as concerned, in fact more concerned, about his siblings - he had a brother and some sisters - but he at least wanted to start somewhere. He lowered his gun and raised his left hand as in a truce - a silent promise that he wouldn’t shoot him so long as things stayed calm.

“My mother’s—,” His voice hardened with an emptied stare before a gentle tremble overtook him and his raised hands. He lowered his head. “I dunno, sir.”

“Is she like your daddy down here?” Ray followed his last inquiry, putting his gun back in the holster at his waist in an attempt to look unintimidating.

From where the kid sat on the stairs he could see enough into the kitchen, enough of the blood, to paint his face bone white. His lower lip continued to quiver, voice struggling to come out. “N-an-an-No, sir. I don’t… I dunno. I didn’t… see her. I—.”

“That’s alright…” Ray placated. “Can I join you up there? ‘S that okay?”

When Alan gave him a defeated nod, Ray cautiously crept up stairs, shouldering past the others frozen there. He put a surprisingly steady hand on the young man’s shoulder. Ray chanced a look in either direction down the upstairs hallway and, like a pearl solidifying in an oyster’s core, Ray’s dread solidified as he caught sight of a second body - one socked foot lying limp through one of the bedroom doorways. He urged the distraught young man to stand and, taking his arm firmly but with a sympathetic gentleness, led Alan downstairs.

He tried not to question where all of these strange folks had come from and how they ended up directly at a murder scene in this little corner of Kansas, instead making sure the boy made it safely outside to his truck. Insisting Alan sit in his backseat, Ray didn’t bother to try cuff the kid, who seemed too far in his own head to try running or pulling a weapon or hotwiring the truck to escape. After a good fifteen minutes, to Ray’s immense relief, a city police car rolled to a lazy stop behind his own truck. The deputy who Ray had suspected was assigned the Sunday duty emerged and Ray briefed him on the situation inside: “Y’might need to call for some backup. And an ambulance. And the uh …” he glanced back to Alan a few feet away and lowered his voice. “The coroner.”

coded by archangel_

 

[celadon.]

ELISE ADAMS
ISAIAH 45:20
tags: idiot , .V1LLAINISM._ , idalie , Ha_lfLife , BELIAL.
location: the lynch house
company: august, ray, richie, sam, wayne, cal, others

At first, Elise could not see the body for the crowd.

Sober as she thought she might be there was a very drugged notion that winked from the very back of her mind then - maybe they were the body. Those people standing there its constituent parts. They’d die there holding hands like hippies at a bonfire. So stupid. They went looking for spirits and now -

Yeah, so Father August put all his weight on one foot to let the nurse move by and that’s when she saw it. Head all bowled out with buckshot. Wrists wrung to its chest in tandem. And Elise had to push vomit back down her dry throat though the sight made her very silly and hysterical inside at that same time, because she’d found those spirits that they’d all been looking for. They were all there. Unable to examine any of it too closely her vision bounded backwards in a big conceptual leap and she saw that, really, the thing on the floor was a funeral mask. That’s it. It was the lid on the coffin of at least ten or twelve of her dead friends. Apartment carpets in Santa Monica, no one around them sitting up while they struggled to breathe. And below them the men and sisters at Bicoastal and how they’d gotten sick and beaten on each other and how one had heaved some great stone at the other's skull across the exercise yard. The burials. She helped dig the holes. They never talked of them and they were never reported.

And when Warwick forced his way past with a brutish knock to her shoulder he was a boy on a mission, heading for their father’s altar. Knowing what would happen. Something in her wanted to reach out to him, dig her fingers in, pull him back. She almost called him his name. But instead of a voice there was a sound like ripping-away, like a gasp at a shirt being ripped.

Everyone was scattered between the kitchen and the other room though in turns they began advancing. Towards something. And when Elise peered around the corner to see what it was, she was thrown a distance closer to the hour and the minute by it. Boy streaking black blood down the front of his shirt and pants. It could not be anyone else. It could not be anything else except the Devil, the Devil she’d met in the night this or that time, and he did not exist in memory. He couldn’t. What of her mind he brushed against, it shrieked and sparked aflame. She could not carry him with her. He was something standing outside, always a stranger. And he was there. Already. The first, no, the second house they’d gone through, out of however many houses and spirits they’d expected to come to know.

Then it was just a boy. The boy was crying and with Sam, the young dogged one she couldn’t not like, and then with August, who was normally too handsome to be holy but right now had a warlike focus in his face that made him look older and more serious than Elise would’ve thought he was. Then there was a man with a cop gun and a cop walk and normal man clothes, which wouldn’t have been an oddity to anyone else, yet which hit Elise then as something entirely unbelievable. Then Lily (ugh, thank God) and Beaufort and Dorothy. None of them totally believable. Nothing here was. Faces, not believable.

Nurse covered in -

Not believable. Though if she drew within too short a step to, no, this isn’t happening? Then those booms from the shotgun would travel through her again, sound waves bleeding forward through time, and she would clench at their command, at their reminder. They were her heartbeat.

And she was just there, shocked dumb, like a bad party guest, letting everything happen. Unable to do anything, act independently. Too small to even understand. For some reason. "For some reason." Simple as it would've been for anyone else, it irritated her too much for her to make sense of it. Or forgive it. Beneath the skin.

The not-a-cop led the boy out, and likewise Elise went four stairs up to take Sam’s hand and lead her down as well. It was Sunday, day of ceremony and worship, so there was still really no one out on the street. Not an old overalled man watering flowers, nobody. Emptiness and just a sole cop car coming to the curb with its lights off as they emerged. The sun that washed it all was no comfort. It was nearly a taunt now. She sat herself down on the front steps and beckoned Sam to join her.

Taking this rough half-empty pack of cigarettes out of her rear jeans pocket Elise offered it out to Sam, her forehead pressed mark-hard against the butt of her other hand. Staring, eyes low, at the not-a-cop and pumping her lungs manually now, her voice shaking, almost laughter, humiliated: “You don’t have to take one. Just, fuckin', being nice.”

coded by archangel_

 

[BELIAL.]

Location: Nick and Ruth's Family Diner, Atchison, Kansas

Notes: The tables are separated for ease of conversation, but everyone is still in hearing/talking vicinity.

Tags: idalie idiot elytra celadon. mourning star .V1LLAINISM._ erzulie aeneas. Ha_lfLife

CW: Descriptions of violence, gun violence, corpses

Atchison would be forever changed after those three gunshots rang out in the midday heat. It took a few more rings for Eula to get ahold of someone at the police station, but by then Alan would be well on his way to lockup. Once the rest of the cops were dispatched out to the Lynch house, the unlikely crew would be ushered out and told to stand near the police vehicles, far from the crime scene.

The police who entered were shocked, pressing hands to their noses and mouths to shield their horror and their involuntary gagging. While the corpses had only been in the house for less than an hour by now, the summer heat had accelerated the stink by now.

Simon Lynch, a man in his mid-fourties, was wheeled out on a stretcher once the ambulance finally came, thin white sheet covering the scattered remnants of his face that jostled and fell whenever a rock hit the gurney’s wheels. The sheet turned red not too long after it was pressed to the caved in, red mass of his head. He would be declared the first one to have died.

Upstairs, past the abandoned murder weapon, in one of the first doorways to a bedroom was the sprawled out form of Charlotte Lynch, Simon’s second youngest, nineteen years old. Her yellow blouse was stained, bleeding out from a massive haemorrhage from a gunshot to the chest. One leg twisted behind her, and her arms were bent at an awkward angle near her head. It was almost like she’d been walking out of the room, to see what happened, before her life was cut short. Her face, with delicate and pixie-like features, was obscured by dark brown hair that fanned over her face and onto the floor. Her wide eyes stared into the nothing, mouth agape in a silent and final scream.

The final body lay down the hall a bit, at the intersection between two more bedrooms and a bathroom. Benjamin Lynch, Charlotte’s twin brother. He was facedown, knees bent as he slumped forward. The back of his head bore the entry wounds of the gun, and a pool and puddle of viscera and blood formed a halo around the dead. He wore his pyjamas. He’d been sick that day, kept in his room all morning until the noises had begun.

The noises had ended with him.

What the police didn’t expect, however, beyond the three dead bodies of regular Atchison citizens, were the two living survivors.

Movement in one of the ground floor rooms had alerted one of the officers, and with a gun drawn they’d made their way over. Coming out of the living room, untouched by the horrors, were the petrified faces of Joanne and Edith Lynch. Joanne, Simon’s wife, held her daughter tightly in her arms, as if she was physically unable to let go. Little Edith, only about six as of April, had red eyes rubbed raw by her fists.

”I-Is it over?” Joanne asked the officer with a quiet breath, labouring even to speak. ”Did you get him? Did you get that bastard?”


After due questioning of each member, spending their requested time in a tiny room at the Atchison police department, they were carefully and sternly told not to leave the city anytime soon by the police chief, Howard Jackson. The clock had made its way several times around itself, winding and winding until it was 9 o’clock by the time everyone could regroup.

The sun had already begun to go down, though with summer’s late start did the evening still feel like afternoon. Cicadas had begun their evening chirp, accented by the odd cricket that could be cleanly heard as the day’s cacophony winded to an end.

By now, as well, most of the city’s vicinity had heard what happened. They knew, as well, that drifters were the ones to report it. Not that it didn’t sit well for most of the city, but some of the older folks would hold their disdain quietly behind narrowed eyes. A tragedy was all anyone could say about it. Just a tragedy.

Father August excused himself from the group after they exited the police station, remarking that he’d wanted to talk to the local church for any sort of insight on the family. It was clear in the man’s eyes that he knew that there was something afoot, something beyond petty murder, and he’d go and see what he could stir up on his own.

For now, the group made their way across the street from the station to a local diner. Nick and Ruth’s, a teal and silver establishment with a curved roof and plastered signs on the window advertising Sunday specials during 11-3, and their new summertime cake in rotation. A lemon cream. An Atchison favourite! The floors were black and white tile, the seats that sort of plastic top with a robin's egg top to them. The menus were still the same from when the diner had first opened thirty years ago, but at least the food kept itself up to date.

What to do now? What was there to do?

A round of coffees, for one. One booth wouldn’t handle the group of 8, and thus they are split as follows in two neighbouring booths:

LILY SAM BEAUFORT WAYNE

RICHIE ELISE CALISTA DOROTHY

Consider this the calm before the storm. Collect your eggs, get your ducks in a row; discuss what to do next.

coded by archangel_

 

[elytra]

WAYNE KELLY ─ THE ARCHIVIST.
tags: BELIAL. , idiot , aeneas. ; location: Nick and Ruth's Family Diner
interactions: Lily, Sam, Beaufort; notes: N/A

No matter what people said, there wasn't anything like diner food.

A milkshake glass was carefully set down in front of him with a barely audible tink!, followed by a plate with a tuna melt on it. Real classic food, hometown America to its core. Didn't matter where you went, there'd be a diner, and in that diner would be all the classic fares. It was like a little slice of home while you were traveling. If there was anything they all needed right now, it was a bit of comfort.

"Thanks a million, sweetheart. This looks fantastic." Wayne told the waitress, flashing a lopsided grin.

Maybe it wasn't the time for niceties or acting so relaxed. Hell, they'd just been at the scene of a crime gruesome enough to send anyone running. That said, Wayne didn't see any point in wallowing. Wouldn't do anyone any good to mope about, not when they had a job to do.

Did he believe, really, in the supernatural? No. Tried his damndest to, but it never stuck. But that boy didn't go about murdering a bunch of folk for no reason, so clearly there was something going on, and he didn't believe in coincidences either. There was something about that house they'd gone to that just didn't sit right with him. The fact they just happened to be right down the road when a murder happened? That was fishy, well and truly.

Thinking on that made ignoring the blood and guts from earlier far easier. He wasn't an easily queasy man, but when you saw a guys insides become his outsides and teeth imbed in his own flesh, that was enough to make anyone a bit sick. He'd never gotten seen what his folks looked like after their deaths; if it were anything like that, he didn't think he wanted to. In a way, he was lucky he didn't get a look at his family before they were put to rest. Those poor women left alive would have their last memories of their loved ones be the gore rather than something happy.

He grimaced, the image of the man on the floor flashing before his eyes briefly, before he tried to drown it out with other things. He took a drink of the shake, leaning back in the booth. The exhaustion was starting to set in at that point. People swore up and down about coffee, but it'd never worked for him. Sugar, however, worked wonders. Besides, you could never go wrong with a shake.

After he collected himself, he looked to his companions, offering up a smile. Not a bright one, and sure as fuck not cheerful, but a smile nonetheless. Between the action and the questioning, they hadn't had time to talk. He had no idea how any of them were feeling, but for those at the house? He could guess the answer was 'not great'. And maybe that meant he should avoid the topic, try to get them all to ease up a bit, but he didn't like waiting and he didn't like not knowing, so he hoped they could forgive him for getting to the point.

"Now, I'm sure this ain't a great topic, but I'm gonna address the elephant in the room." He began, idly poking at the cherry in his drink with his straw. "Something was wrong with that boy. Devil or not, he wasn't right, and I say that with as much kindness in my heart as I can in this situation."

That was a bit of a lie. It was hard to have sympathy after what they'd witnessed. Maybe he'd have some down the line, when they knew what had happened, but right now? No sir, he couldn't find it in him.

"And the fact it happened to all go down when we were in that creepy old house...I ain't saying it's linked, but it's a little weird, yea? Either we got bad luck, or there some sort of connection I'm not seeing."

He took a moment to take a bite of his food, then wiped his face with a napkin. No need to be a glutton, even if he was starved.

"I'm goin' back to 975 Parallel." He finally said, leaning back in his seat once more with his arms crossed, sighing. "Any of y'all are free to come along with me, but something about that place rubs me the wrong way, and I intend to find out just what that is."

coded by archangel_

 

[idiot]

SAM HWA-YOUNG ─ THE VESSEL.
tags: BELIAL. aeneas. elytra ; location: the diner
interactions: wayne, lily & beaufort ; notes: info here

Sweatbox was what the cop called it when she overheard him at fourteen; toes barely brushing up against the floor and blood still staining her hands. It didn’t take her long to figure out why it was named such. Barely the size of a bathroom and without any sort of ventilation, it left the air stagnant and held any smell that exceeded from the human body. A singular metal table and two measly chairs filled the cramped space. Heat radiated from the hanging light above, a bulb that seemed to rival the sun.

The room was not much different from the one she found herself in now.

“Ya might wanna to speak up, miss.” The podgy deputy had a similar moustache to Wayne — yet his crept over his upper lip, slimy tongue licking at the beads of sweat it collected.

Sam sat in the chair opposite him, her finger twirling the loose cigarette that Elise had given her. Maybe she would light it up after escaping the police station. Despite her predicament, Sam had never turned to drugs or alcohol. Then again, Oscar had, when he had taken over or so it appeared when she woke with a throbbing headache and bottles littering the floor.

The deputy didn’t respect their precious air, puffing a cigar and purposely blowing the smoke into her face. A yellow tinge was visible between his fat fingers.

Sam was somewhat thankful for the putrid smell it wafted, almost concealing the smell of death that radiated off her own. She didn’t always smell like this but he had progressed over the past few years. Sam had thought about talking to a doctor about it but what would that achieve? Unless a chapter of demonic possession was written in those hefty medical books.

“I don’t take ya as one of God’s children—is all. So your friend’s little story of bible study is unlikely. Especially in these parts, I know all of the churchgoers in Atchison.” He wasn’t wrong. Sam used to pray after the accident. She would kneel at the end of her bed in her childhood bedroom, praying that God would take whatever was inside of her out before she hurt someone but God never answered her.

He never helped her.

Instead she did go on to hurt someone—someone she loved so dearly. So politely, fuck God. She swore she heard a grumbling laugh in her head at the thought. Or was she being paranoid again?

That was answered swiftly—

Tell him. Come on—you know you want to. I promise I won’t stop you. Well, this time.

Sam visibly winced which caused the deputy to perk up, ash dotting the table. Sam surmised he was just toying with her, he wasn’t stupid to do anything in a confined, locked room. Especially a police station.

Even if Sam wanted to, what was the point? What do you think got you sent to the facility in the first place? No one ever understood apart from Samir. She wished he was here with her now, he had a way of getting her out of trouble with the orderlies and doctors. He also told the best jokes she had heard, even if some of them were corny, they always cheered her up.

But Samir was gone.

Oscar had made sure of that.

After another half-an-hour of silence, the deputy gave up and let a tired Sam leave the interrogation room, pulling in another one of the group.

Now they sat in diner across the road from the station. The diner was somewhat reminiscent to one she frequented with her family back in California. Well, apart from the aged and dated look it shared with it’s neighbours. Feeling somewhat reminiscent, Sam asked the waitress for a Strawberry thickshake that came with a swirl of whipped cream and even a cherry on top. It brought a small smile to her face at the childhood memories.

When asked about food, Sam shook her head, she didn’t eat much anymore. No matter how much she ate, she still felt sluggish and tired. Her frame showed that, with her ribs being visible underneath her skin. Thankfully, the more baggy attire she wore would hide her malnourished body from the world and stop the questions that inevitability followed.

She let Lily have the window seat, sitting in the aisle with Wayne and Beaufort across from them. The rest of the group sat in another booth. Sam liked Lily, she liked the way she was able to move like the wind. A free spirit, Sam would call her. In another life, she would strip all of her responsibilities and follow Lily hand-in-hand anywhere. Maybe they would even be friends?

Beaufort seemed nice enough but shared the same guarded nature as her. He always held doors open for her which she appreciated. Unfortunately she kept her distance with most of the group as she did with everyone in her life.

Well, since the accident.

As for Wayne, she hadn’t spoken to him but did know he owns a record shop. If they ever get to go past it she hopes he will let her record over some of his tracks he had in his inventory for her music player. They all showed up at the house before the police showed up and dragged the poor boy away. Sam was relieved to hear there were survivors but wondered if they would look at him the same way her mother did when she saw the blood on her hands. The look was imprinted in her memory, as though branded into her eyelids and when she closed her eyes to sleep she would see her face staring back in horror.

Sam listened to Wayne yammer, the man believing that they—or rather the house they were sent to, had something to do with the Lynch murders. He wanted to go back to that house, the one that smelt of decay and death.

“I’ll come.” Sam simply muttered without much thought. Her mind was already made up when she saw the boy’s eyes; full of desperation yet understanding that he didn’t do this. That something, or someone, made him do this. The Devil, he called it.

Was Oscar much different — the two choosing to name the same thing inside of them differently. Maybe when she was younger she would of called Oscar the Devil, but even he wouldn’t do something as cruel as this.

Just like Sam, that boy had no one to defend him and was sure his story alone wouldn’t absolve him of what he did to his family. Maybe she could find something at that house that could help his case in some capacity.

Maybe he wasn’t doomed like me yet.

coded by archangel_

 

[BELIAL.]

LILY LOVEDAY
tags: elytra idiot aeneas. ; location: nick and ruth's family diner ; company: table 1- beaufort, wayne, sam

At least Glasses-- Beaufort, she reminded herself with newfound respect-- had gone along with her little white lie. Not that it'd mattered much, seeing as in due time a blood covered boy, a man nearly if she could see the bits of growing facial hair that swept across his trembling lower jaw when he passed, was taken out by the cop that they'd met outside.

She'd already forgotten his name.

Lily should have figured that lying to one cop would either mean lying to the rest or ditching the story altogether, and considering that it was only her and Beaufort that were aware of the bible study plans, she figured the latter would be best. Deal with the consequences later. Call it stress. Still, when they were eventually carted off for questioning at the police station, she'd already been in a less than enthused mood. Her nose itched for a line, something to focus on while they were asking so many, so many, repetitive questions. Or a puff of something, anything. The nicotine come down had made her skin crawl with irritation.

At least, by the time they'd all escaped the cops clutches, there was a fancy little all-night diner across the way. She hadn't even noticed her stomach rumbling, the last thing she'd eaten being a gas station snack and a bottle of coca cola, but now it felt like a full force fist to the gut. Finishing a quick cigarette puff before entering after the group, snuffing out the embers with the heel of her boots, Lily took in the quaint little diner. Taking the seat closest to the window, not as if she'd thought about asking in the first place, she was granted it with an acknowledged nod.

She ordered a coffee, dropping in at least 4 creams and three packets of sugar, and a slice of cherry pie. Still a bit firm and cold from the bakery case, it came out fast and she didn't complain.

Before she could really enjoy her food, already coming to terms with the silence hanging over the two tables, Wayne went ahead and spoke up. She looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, eyebrows furrowed as she listened.

He wanted to go back to 975 Parallel. The shit box that had held nothing. Even Sam was saying she'd go. It was enough to make Lily scoff, trying to make eyes with Beaufort in the hopes he'd back her up again; or better, had enough sense to be just as against the idea.

"No offense," Lily said to Wayne, poking at her pie with her fork. She did, as well, mean full offense. "But that's some type of lost cause you're preachin', pretty boy. I'm inclined to believe there's nothin' at 975 Parallel. The old guy was obviously misled, and we're just unfortunately witness to a family bein' slaughtered. Sometimes shit happens."

She leaned back, folding her arms over her chest. "If there wasn't anythin' there the first time, who's to say there's gonna be anythin' of note the second time? The ghost was just camera shy? Some kinda scaredy cat ghost?"

The notion of a scared ghost did make her smile, at least a little bit. She look to Sam and Wayne, shaking her head.

"But whatever. Do what you two will, and whoever's dumb enough to go tracin' old steps. I... I'm eatin' my pie. Then I'm goin' back to the motel. Then I'm gonna try and forget that we got cops breathin' down our neck now."

Lily wasn't one to appear afraid of cops, by any means, but she didn't wanna risk getting locked up again. Interacting with one and then some was at her yearly quota for police encounters. She wasn't looking to try and beat any personal records.

coded by archangel_

 

[mourning star]

CALISTA 'C A L' HOLLOWAY.
THE INTERPRETER.
mentions: Richie, Elise, Dorothy.
location: Atchison, Kansas. ➞ Nick and Ruth's Family Diner.
cw: Mentions of blood.

The stench of death stuck with Calista throughout the entire day. She had been immobile when the officer had come through the door, struck mute at the sight of such a young man walking from the room to announce the deaths had all been done by his hands. Truly a shock, a tragedy, which it seems all these things ever were. When she had crouched before the man, knowing beyond a doubt that he had already passed, she had meant to feel him. To see if he had passed beyond the veil already, detached from his body so she could see just a glimpse of his emotions. It had been nothing but cooling skin and stick bits of brain matter that had left rust-colored patterns in her white stockings.

The police had been kind enough after she had mentioned she was a nurse. They had questioned her attending to the first man who had clearly already passed before attempting to help any survivors. She had merely stated she had never been in a situation such as the one at the Lynch home—a truth she had felt deep in her core. Discovering that the young girl had been struck through the chest had been brought; a sliver of guilt filled her, wondering if she had run up those stairs in time, stopped the bleeding... perhaps the woman might have another daughter to grieve with.

Calista sighed as she stepped out of the bathroom stall.

Her steps were muted as she crossed the faded tile, washing her hands. Deep blue eyes lifted, taking in the dark circles beneath her eyes with a frown. Despite her background, she found herself fatigued. The policemen had been kind enough to offer her some clothing from the lost-and-found while they had been at the station, keeping her blood-covered dress and stockings behind as potential 'evidence'. Her borrowed jeans and borrowed shirt made her feel different, out of her comfort zone just as much as dealing with the police as if she were a wanted criminal.

She glanced up at the mirror, brushing some strands back to reveal crusted blood droplets. Her fingers skimmed over her cheek, her frown deepening in concern. With a calm, unwavering hand, she began to wash away the remaining blood droplets.

It took her a long moment before she could declare her reflection as adequate.

With another sigh, Calista left the washroom and returned to her table. It seemed the group had split off into two; the other four were deep into conversation while three of the others in the group sat, a touch quieter. She approached the table, glancing about the tabletop before sliding into some available seating. She immediately reached out for a napkin, twisting it between her fingers as a means of soothing herself.

"Has anyone ordered anything yet?" She murmured, her voice soft.

Like a Godsend, the waitress appeared before the table.

The woman was a touch older, with crow's feet and her dark brunette hair pulled into a bun. Her gaze was a touch scathing as she glanced around at the four of them.

"Can I get ya kids anythin'? Or, are y'all waitin' for somethin'?" Her voice was a touch deep, raspy like only an avid smoker's voice seemed to be.

Calista sat up straighter, offering the woman a smile. ""Do y'all happen to have sweet tea?"

Her Texan accent shone through as she asked, blinking curiously as the waitress seemed to soften slightly.

"Sure do." The older woman tipped her head, writing it down in sloppy cursive. She looked up to the rest of the table, seemingly still in a jovial mood. "Anythin' else I can get ya?"

coded by archangel_

 

[erzulie]

DOROTHY HONORÈ ─ THE WRITER
tags: mourning star , celadon. , .V1LLAINISM._ ; location: nick and ruth’s family diner
interactions: table 2; calista , richie, elise

The soft sound of paper against the pen could be heard from table two. With thick brows furrowed and lips caught between teeth, Dorothy was fully engrossed in her notepad. Her conversation with Eula was written down before she could forget any detail. Dorothy needed to keep track if she planned on putting the pieces together. Without context the information was like that of any troubled family. There were pieces missing from the puzzle and since the group was unable to leave the city, she would spend her time finding the rest.

Distantly she could hear someone speaking at her table but she said nothing. It was only when her writing was finished did she raise her head to meet pretty blue eyes. “Ah…it was Calista right?” She thought to herself. Dorothy offered her a gentle smile. The hint of a southern drawl caught her attention, Texan is she remembered from their introductions. The waitress was on them shortly after Calista and spoke. It was then that Dorothy’s stomach decided to make itself known.

“How’re you tonight ma’am? I’ll just have a grilled cheeseburger and a sprite.” Her tone was polite, words spoken clearly and properly just as her mama had taught her. Dorothy quieted down until the waitress had taken everyone’s orders and left. She looked at each of the people seated with her with a serious expression. “So, I was able to interview a local woman. She gave me some info but it’s pretty surface level stuff so far.”

“The family lost their matriarch a few years back. The daddy didn’t seem too sad about it however. Either it’s true that everyone grieves differently or there’s something more there. The oldest has been tense ever since his daddy remarried.” Dorothy sighed and shook her head. “Like I said, it isn’t much. I’m thinking that I could find more answers if I do some digging myself…maybe head back to the house to see if there’s something worth noting.”

coded by archangel_