2022-05-11 - Neighbour Of The Beast

It has been many nights since Tsinyorri has been hunting. Many, many nights. More than six. Tsinyorri has learned new number. Tsinyorri stretches on soft-warm-fluffy-thing. Couch? It is couch. Tsinyorri likes couch... but... cannot hunt easily from couch. Tsinyorri wants to hunt. Tsinyorri opens window with paws. Tsinyorri has strong paws, best paws. Tsinyorri walks out onto narrow space outside of window, and looks at hunting ground. Tsinyorri could use many narrow spaces and strange metal boxes in windows, and metal tubes called 'pipes' to climb down, and be on the ground very soon... but Mother-Kitten does not like Tsinyorri to leave. Tsinyorri wants to hunt. From inside, Tsinyorri hears drippy-wet-water sounds? Smells strange thing. Big-not-water-bowl thing???

Mother-Kitten has made many angry mouth noises at Tsinyorri for drinking from big bowl. If not for drinking, why have water? Mother-Kitten has not clever ideas. Do not drink from big-not-water-bowl. Do not jump on counters. Counters do not count, Tsinyorri counts! There are six numbers... and there is prey in den. Tiny green things with big pointy ears are climbing out of big-not-water-bowl? Tsinyorri begins to stalk tiny-green-thing. Looks sort of human-shaped but tiny. Dolls? No. Dolls do not move... except when they do.

There are more than six of tiny things. Invading den. Going to Mother-Kitten's room on feet that go squelch squelch. They smell bad. Smell like box where Tsinyorri goes to 'make stinkums'. Humans have many stupid words for shitting. Humans are cute. Tiny-green-things are not. Tsinyorri stalks her new prey, then lets out a fierce roar as she pounces with all four paws. This prey is not stupid. It knows it is dead, and falls to the ground shaking in fear. Its friends shriek and scatter, running back to big-not-water-bowl. It makes wooshing noise as tiny-green-thing begins to speak, stupid words like Mother-Kitten uses, but not like Mother-Kitten or her mate. Former mate? Mother-Kitten has too many mates, Tsinyorri cannot keep track. Tsinyorri swats at tiny-green-thing's face. No claws, but it makes mewling noise like kitten.

Tsinyorri is certain she has not had kittens. Is certain kittens would not be so ugly or smelly, because Tsinyorri is prettiest kitty. Has been told so. Light comes on. Mother-Kitten is home, wearing stupid-foot-stilts and carrying paper bags with soft things inside. Tiny-green-thing tries to scramble away but Tsinyorri puts pressure on it. Mother-Kitten is yelling again, Tsinyorri's least favorite word, 'no'. It means Tsinyorri has been caught doing smart things humans do not think are smart.

"Tsinyorri, let it go! You don't know where it's been, and it smells awful!" Mother-Kitten makes hand waggles at Tsinyorri. Her claws are gray today. Her claws are gray many days. Tsinyorri huffs, and releases prey. Next time, Tsinyorri will hunt deer in park. Bring home deer and leave on Mother-Kitten's nest. Maybe cows. Cows are slow and dumb. Tsinyorri could eat a cow? Tiny-green-thing makes high pitched shriek and runs for big-not-water-bowl. There is a splash, and Mother-Kitten, Purr-dita? sighs and looks down at floor where there are squelchy water puddles.

"Fucking toilet goblins." Mother-Kitten lets out air in huff. "Now I've got to mop and give you a bath." Tsinyorri does not understand 'bath'. Is bath good?

"Well, at least we know you're a good hunter, Tsinyorri." Tsinyorri is not good hunter. Tsinyorri is best hunter.

There are different kinds of cookies-- hundreds of kinds, really, if you get into the minutiae of fillings and flavours. Even beyond that, you've got bar cookies, drop cookies, filled cookies, folded cookies, no-bake cookies, pressed cookies, refrigerator cookies, rolled cookies, sandwich cookies...

There are a lot of kinds of cookies, enough that if you keep writing the word 'cookies' it starts looking like a non-word.

Una bakes a lot of kinds of cookies, though most of them (chocolate-chip, snickerdoodle, peanut butter) are notable for one thing: instead of rolling out dough and making shapes, you simply drop spoonfuls of dough onto the sheet and bake.

That's not always been so.

Una has-- had?-- a collection of cookie cutters. It was a hobby, even when she lived in tiny shared apartments with barely enough room to bake in. She'd pick them up at the thrift shop she worked in, picking them out the moment they came in. A star; a tree; a heart; circles of all sizes; some tentacled monster she couldn't identify; a reindeer.

They were comforting, somehow: a reminder to herself that, one day, she'd have all the space she wanted to bake in, and not just a crappy, dying oven in a tiny, busy kitchen.

They all came to Gray Harbor with her, lovingly stored in a shopping bag in her new (old, but new to her) kitchen, with its old appliances and extensive bench space. Room to bake in. So much room.

The first cookies she aimed to bake were for Christmas. Gingerbread; nice and simple. She dug through the bag of cutters, searching for the trees, the reindeer, the stars and angels. She luxuriated in her kitchen, that week: so much room! An oven that worked! Hers!

But the gingerbread trees came out with gaping mouths and waving arms.

The angels came out with devil horns and tails.

The stars twinkled... and then died.

The reindeers had teeth.

She threw them all in the trash and put the cutters away. The cutters looked fine. What was wrong with the cookies?

She tried again for Valentines day, but all the hearts were broken.

She tried again for Easter, but the rabbits were undeniably ferocious.

She stopped.

Chocolate chip. Everyone likes chocolate chip, right?

Tetahi taniwha
Kauhoe i te moana
Kohimu i taku taringa
"Kia haere taua
Tipi haere tirotiro
I raro i te moana."

The first time he saw the oversized shark, far out beyond the mouth of the harbour, he thought was just a normal shark, despite its size. Not one of the sirens, with their not-quite-human bodies: an actual shark, hunting in the waves.

The second time, he was less sure. There was something about it: not just its appearance, but the way it lurked so close to Wā Kāinga, as if it were watching him, tracking him through the waves.

After that, it seemed to be there every time, and a memory began to stir-- that rhyme they'd sung when he was a small child, still learning his te reo.

A taniwha? Surely not. Not all the way over the other side of the world; not following him, the way some claimed they had, those hundreds of years ago, when the original canoes arrived from Hawaiki.

It was a nice thought, though.

Perhaps that meant he was where he was supposed to be. Perhaps his voyage across the sea was like the modern equivalent of the voyage from Hawaiki.

And perhaps, yes, it was yet another manifestation of what the people here referred to as the Veil, luring him in and encouraging him to lower his guard.

But as he watched the creature cavort through the waves he felt... at home.

A taniwha and his Wā Kāinga. Why not?

For a long time now, Jules has been a runner. She’s not the fastest or the steadiest or the most accomplished – marathons are right out of the question – but it’s a cheap way to get exercise, and Jules has always loved being outdoors, even in what some people consider crappy weather.

She loves that end-of-the-day release, the endorphins and the gradual relaxation of her body as her feet shift from pavement to trail. It’s a habit that’s as comfortable as a friend, seeing her through personal arguments and work-related stress, a companion to help her process questions and doubts and anger. She sleeps better for it, happily exhausting mind and body.

Soon after coming to Gray Harbor, Jules settled into a routine. Her route goes from Oak and north a few blocks until she reaches the edge of the park by Gray Pond and then hits the paths through Firefly Forest. She’s always happier under the trees, listening to how the birds stir and settle in the dusk.

She’s been warned about the forest, but really, is any single place in Gray Harbor worse than another? It hardly stops her from the rhythm of her evening runs.

This night, Jules left her house on Oak a little later than usual. By the time she’s jogging along the familiar paths, the sun has already set and the woods have settled into stillness.

An owl hoots.

It’s just an owl.

It hoots again, closer, and this time the sound lingers in the dark under the trees. It shifts cadence, turning into a wail.

Jules could swear that something grasps at the hood of her lightweight top as she picks up the pace.

A tree branch bending low over the path, surely.

When the owl hoots again, the cry beneath it is unmistakable.

Little sister, have you come to join us?

Growing up, Jules’ childhood stories weren’t Hansel and Gretel or Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. They were How Raven Captured The Light and Salmon Boy. So when she hears – thinks she hears – a voice trailing after her, she knows the story from whence it came. The Old Ones, the ancestors, who come out at night to snatch the souls of their relatives and carry them into death’s embrace. They're lonely. They want company. Little sister.

The owl hoots again, and this time Jules reflexively makes a warding gesture against the evil omen.

The forest seems to laugh at her when she breaks free of the trees and sprints for home.

Jules runs in the morning, now, and not alone at night.

On Elm Street, children comb the neighborhood, plaintive voices calling Mittens! Mittens, come home! Here kitty! One passes out homemade flyers, where old printer ink has made a dapper tortoiseshell cat look a little faded, grey and tawny instead of black and orange. The oldest, a teenage boy who appears to begrudge the effort but secretly misses his cat, staples MISSING flyers to telephone poles and weathered fence posts.

In many cases he's just stapling over older MISSING sheets, rain-wrinkled and sun-bleached. Here a dog, there a cat...

On Elm Street, the aged tortoiseshell cat settles into a sunny patch at the roots of an ancient tree. They curl around her like the walls of a bed shaped just to hold her, the ground beneath soft with fallen leaves, seasons upon seasons piled deep. It is warm here, and quiet; the noise of the road is blocked by a tall wooden fence, its slats splintered and warped, all of it now the frame for an enormous honeysuckle vine whose fragrant orange flowers are just beginning to emerge.

Bees drone in the afternoon warmth. A bird chatters in the branches of the tree. A mouse scurries through the nearby grass, pausing when it senses the presence of the cat. But the cat has no care now for mice. She is old, and weary. Winter has settled into her bones and the sun feels so good here, easing the ache with the gentleness of the memories of a thousand fond pettings.

The last thing she hears as she drifts off to sleep is the distant voices of children, calling.

On Elm Street, neighbors gossip at the mailbox.

"Did you hear? Old Mrs. Conway went missing yesterday."

"She did? I thought they put her in a home. Dementia, isn't it?"

"They thought she'd do better in familiar surroundings, but she wandered out the back door after breakfast and they haven't been able to find her."

The Shoalwater Camp and RV Park isn't really supposed to be for long term living. It certainly isn't an ideal place to raise a child... but neither is a converted double decker bus turned into a caravan, now is it? Especially not with one of Alfie's friends staying over. Monroe can faintly hear the pair, downstairs, laughing and playing video games on the little television set up facing the dinette slash spare bed. Benji's a good kid, a bit quiet like Alfie, but as a pair, they bring out the best in each other. Monroe can't help but smile, shifting to put his feet up on the edge of the deck, tucking the worn quilt about himself. The days are getting warm, but the nights are still cool, bordering on cold. The sun has long since set, and the stars are visible in the sky. Not as bright as he's seen out in the middle of nowhere, but vivid and twinkling down on him, relaxing enough to let him drift off for a moment... When he wakes, it's much colder. Something feels off, but Monroe can't quite place it... Benji is standing in front of him, mere inches in front of his face, his dark eyes mirror bright darkness. Monroe tries not to start. Damn, how are kids so bloody creepy?

"What's wrong, love? Are you thirsty? D'you want a glass of water?" Monroe's normally crisp speech is slightly slurred, at the moment, slumber refusing to entirely release its grip.

"Want a glass of water?" Benji asks, a familiar request from Monroe's time with Alfie when he was younger.

"Couldn't find the cups?" Monroe asks, fighting off a yawn.

"Couldn't find the cups." Benji echoes, unblinking, still far too close for comfort.

"Okay. I'll go get a glass of water." Monroe agrees, sleepily, rising and heading toward the door, quilt draped around him like a poncho. He doesn't quite repress the shiver as he heads inside, letting the door swing closed as he steps into the sleeping loft. Alfie's bed is empty, and Monroe tosses the quilt onto his own bed, smiling at memories of his Gran hand sewing it during one particularly chilly winter when he was a bit younger than Alfie is, now. Down the little spiral staircase into the kitchenette slash living room slash dining room slash everything, Monroe notices Alfie and Benji have set the table into its converted position, turning the dining area into a large bed, suitable for the two sleeping kids sprawled across each other in their sleep like a puddle of kittens.

Monroe is halfway through filling a glass from the water filter when he realizes what's bothering him... He begins to count the feet of the kids in bed. Four. He's up the staircase again in a flash, the loft door's lock slamming home, before he's back downstairs, checking the eyes of the children in his care. Bleary eyed and confused, both Alfie and Benji are accounted for. The tap at the rear door of the RV sends Monroe rushing to check all the doors and windows are secured.

"Want a glass of water." says the voice outside the RV, its voice a slurring mockery of Monroe's, higher pitched and childlike.

The Shoalwater Camp and RV Park isn't really supposed to be for long term living.

Many souls are lost at sea. Some through fate, bad luck, personal choice, and many are never seen again. What happens to all of those souls?

A heavy thing to be thinking about on a day like this, but that's where Ariadne's mind is musing as she stands on one of the very farthest ends of the farthest piers jutting out into the bay. It's a day for thinking like this anyhow. The waters of the bay reflect the leaden colors of the clouds above. She's been watching the rifflets of the waves come in for some time now. It's hypnotizing, in a way, to see them roll in and past, sometimes with enough gumption to crest in a lacing of white, and then disappear past the plants of the pier. Her own reflection is a scattered image coherent enough in passing flashing when the water flattens enough.

When had the other silhouette shown up?

She glances over and somehow, doesn't flinch. Just one of the fisherman she's seen now and then.

"You waiting too?" His voice is soft, gruff, and he leaves his nearly burnt-out cigarette in the corner of his seamed mouth as he glances over at her. His is a kind face, sun-wrinkled beneath his newsboy cap. He seems otherwise warm under his weather-proof jacket and rugged workpants.

"Waiting?" Ariadne quirks for brows. "I mean, sure, for the orcas to show up, but there's no guarantee they'll make an appearance. I heard they passed through once."

"They did. It's been a while. They're due," the old fisherman confirms. An inhale and he exhales out streamers of smoke lazily caught on the wind. Ariadne frowns at his hands where they rest on the pier railing. Those hands have seen use: many scars, gnarled knuckles.

"How do you know when they'll show up? Have you been here a while?" she then asks, glancing over at his profile again. The lighting isn't conducive to a good, good look, but the fisherman's expression seems pensive.

"...a while," he eventually decides. "But I've got all the time in the world to wait." A seagull flies overhead, calling out a lonesome cry as a single bird. Ariadne glances up and watches the narrow-winged white shape continue out across the waters. The wind shifts, bringing up the scent of brine and something...sweeter. It sticks in the back of her throat. She swallows carefully and wishes she had a water bottle. "You're a young thing to be waiting."

Again, Ariadne looks over. "I'm recently arrived, sure, new to the area." A slow nod from the fisherman.

"Seems like They don't discriminate," he murmurs. The cherry tip on his cigarette glows brightly, almost like a lighthouse beacon against the drab backdrop of the day. More smoke slithers away into the air.

"I'm sorry? They?" Ariadne asks, straightening up but not entirely out of her lean. The fisherman continues looking out across the waters. He doesn't reply. Instead, he nods. Looking away from him, the marine biologist watches as a sleek, black dorsal fin parts the waters about four dozen yards out. Gleaming, triangular, oddly without the trackable scarring known to all whales, it's clearly the dorsal fin of an orca. Goosebumps fleet over her body. "Oh -- oh my g -- "

Where's the fisherman? She turns and looks down the pier. What -- where --

And she looks back. More than one orca?

Water displaces in vast amounts as a body much larger than a whale curls up and past the end of the pier. One...two...three...four...five...the dorsal fins rise after a flash of black-and-white -- and a gleaming alien-wide eye somehow abyssally-dark marks her presence.

It echoes in her mind as Ariadne breaks away in a tear-streaming run down the length of the pier:

One...day...

Sometimes she still finds sand in her shoes.

Golden sand, from that first -- first? -- Dream: in her house shoes, the felted slippers with their embroidered heels and toes. Under the bed, no matter how often she vacuums. Shouldn't it be gone by now? It's not glitter.

She'll sort her dirty clothes and, after, find granules rattling around the bottom of the bin; she cleans it out each time, the way she cleans out the dryer's lint trap, but there's always more. Not a lot, not enough to fill an hourglass with, except over time.

She'll carry each laundry-load up and down and let herself be wistful for machines on the same floor as her room. It's not hard, it's not even like lugging everything to the laundromat that only used quarters, and there's a benefit to washing clothes without waking her housemates. Still. She can be wistful, she can allow it for that.

(She can tinker with the washer's drum, too, when it needs it.)

But the sand.

It's not glitter; it doesn't glow; it isn't made of diamonds (she's checked) or cat litter and it isn't sea-sand. It's not from around here.

One day she squirmed under the bed with her phone as flashlight, checking whether it was just petrified sawdust (or caused by insects, or a mechanism that periodically doled out bits like pet food or Gretel's crumbs). No luck.

Sometimes it's in the bathroom, and her bare wet soles will find it stepping out of the shower.

She keeps a small jar of it, near the vial of the original but mixed with (kosher) salt.

She's ground it; she's smelled it; she hasn't made coffee with it and served it to her guests.

It isn't Demerara or Muscovado or Turbinado.

It doesn't burn.

Her long, thin fingers through long, dark hair, while her clothes lay crumbled in my bedroom. The way her weight settles neatly into my lap while she wiggles to make the fit better is almost too perfect. As her lips drink in my breath, I squeeze her waist, pull down wantingly, needfully.
Invitingly.

Greedily she moves her lips from mine, pulling the complaint from my throat even before she places her thin, smug smirk there. Rose lips part as I offer her more, then feel her lips contract as she pulls her breath in to create the suction necessary for her peaked ivory to draw tantalizingly over my raised skin drawn into her hungry maw.

With this taste of me her patience withers. Those spindly fingers curl, clenching long black strands, threatening more pain if I might move and I tense, knowing what will happen next.

There's a deep, risqué gasp, for a moment I worry about the laundry and then I lose myself in the bliss, in her bliss. The momentary pain of her sharp teeth all but meeting forgot at the moment, along with the slurping sounds so heavy and thick in my ear, with a nuance of desperation and hunger I'm come to recognize. Now, that we're secluded like lovers. Her love trickles over my clavicle.
Warm.

The numbness begins in my extremities, feeling before hearing the hard thud of my heartbeats slowly becoming hers. Even as my grip grows weak, hers grows stronger, holding me with new strength while she continues to embrace me and I.
Surrender.

To Her Kiss.

Another test result. Another negative. Everything is working as intended, you're perfectly healthy, Mr Abildgaard, have a pleasant day.

So why does he feel like he was just cheated, for the umptieth time?

Ravn knows the answer to that question, at least. It's because this is the umptieth time he has had some test or other done -- blood tests ad nauseum, ECGs, EEGS, nerve function tests, biopsies, psychological tests, any damn test modern medicine knows and a few it doesn't. They always come back like this: There's nothing wrong. And his skin still hurts.

He lets his head fall back against the pillow of the Vagabond's small seating area below deck. When Dr Brennon's office exploded -- gas leak explosion, sure, fine, whatever -- in response to the doctor trying to heal his condition, it spawned hope. (It also broke both his arms but, eggs, omelettes). If there is something to heal -- enough that the attempt can be denied by whatever entity in the Veil thinks it gets to make these calls, then there is something to be healed. Right?

He recovered from the failed experiment. He went to Seattle -- outside of the thin spot's area of direct influence -- and had the whole range of tests run one more time.

There's nothing wrong. He just hurts. There is no explanation. "Sometimes," the Seattle doctor explained, "Sometimes, Mr Abildgaard, there is no direct reason for neuropathic pain that we can identify: We do not yet fully understand the brain and the nerve system. I can offer you the same medications you've tried in the past -- anticonvulsants such as Gabapentin, decreasing abnormal excitement in the brain. There is no reason to expect you'll experience more effect than you have in the past, though."

He declined. The drugs against neuropathic pain, he's tried all of them. Some of them do take away the pain, but they leave him indifferent, living in a bubble, unable to tell where one day ends and the next begins.

The pain is better.

After all, it only hurts when something or somebody touches him and he doesn't see it coming. Most days he gets by without too many surprise elbows, handshakes, or hugs from well meaning people. And for the days he doesn't, there's whiskey to help him sleep.

He wishes the pain was a monster from the Veil. At least then he could stab it in the face, or ask somebody with the right set of powers to burn its face off.

It’s always slightly damp and mildewy in the Gray Harbor Public Library. No matter what Turner Quinn tries, there’s the faintest scent of mildew. Whether it’s the height of summer or the depths of winter, the odor lingers.

It’s been there since he was a child, and he always assumed it was because the town was too tight on funds to afford to properly handle it...

He’s not so sure now.

It’s not like they don’t clean, using good quality products. There’s even a professional crew that comes in a few times a month, and the librarians clean when they’re not busy with their actual jobs, and every night he works, Turner vacuums the heavy duty industrial carpets after the last of the patrons have left.

But nothing will get rid of the damnable odor.

He’s personally brought in four industrial strength dehumidifiers to run overnight.

They’re wheeled out of the break room and the janitor’s closet, and placed throughout the old building, two on each floor.

Every morning, he empties at least a gallon of water from EACH. Some mornings, the water overflows despite the shut off feature, and spills onto the carpet a little... Which is promptly cleaned and treated to prevent mildew.

But the smell never fades. Not with bleach, not with air fresheners, not with the dehumidifier or the ionizing air filter or even the time one of the older librarians went crazy and made chlorine gas by mixing vinegar and bleach by accident. At least... Turner thinks it was by accident. They had to close the library for days and air it out...

A professional crew even looked around and said they couldn’t find a source. No visible damage, the building must just be unusually humid, so keep up with the dehumidifiers and it’ll fade on its own.

Turner ponders this as he lugs yet another big bucket toward the restroom to dump down the drain.

The water looks clean, perfectly clear, cleaner than the water from the taps. Is someone messing with him at night and filling the tanks, or is it something else?

Turner only knows that he doesn’t want that water touching his skin, and he’s taken to wearing nitrile gloves and a water resistant apron as he carries the heavy collectors to dump.

On the plus side, his skinny arms have never been more toned.

You're hungry. You're always hungry, aren't you? They can smell it on you. They know the things you dream about that are better left

(he's on his knees, he's got his mouth full, he's screaming, he's making him scream, there is blood on his knife and the pleasure is unbearable --)

in the dark.

Would anybody think you're such a nice guy if they knew, big hero? Yeah, not so much, huh. Get up. No more dreams for you tonight.

The first hint of it is a breeze where there should be no breeze. The open living room of the apartment has no fan, no vent strong enough to create it, but he can feel it, tickling his ankles, ruffling the hem of the pajama pants he's wearing, rushing past him under the door of his office. The movies always make it look like a gale force, strong enough to blow you through a door, but really, one atmosphere's worth of pressure isn't that big a deal to resist. You stand up under it every day, after all.

The second is the sheer coldness of the door. Almost cold enough to burn on contact, and yet it doesn't, when he lays his hand on the painted wood.

The third, the clincher, is the quality of the silence beyond the door. A silence impossible here where even still air rings with the possibility of sound. A silence he knows, where your heartbeat is thunderous within you, and your breath sounds like waves on the sea.

So, somehow, he knows what he'll see when he opens it, almost reverently. The wind kicks up to a rush, pushing him at the door, but it's still no struggle to resist it. The silvery dust it stirs doesn't fall right, tumbling in ways he's seen so many times on film, but never in person.

There's a pair of them, these figures. The pale suits aren't as bulky as they were in the first generation. Sleeker, less puffy, but the visors still render them anonymous, features concealed behind that familiar golden sheen. He can tell, by the way they go still, that somehow they've seen him and are startled by the sight.

He knows how They work, that if he went through, he'd die, blood boiling in his veins before it froze, his last breath a plume of ice. That it's a taunt of Theirs like dangling a needle in front of a junkie...but that doesn't stop the longing to go, for all his lifelong attempts to mute it, knowing his chance had passed.

It looks so simple, to step over the threshold, though. Just a few inches. An easy step.

One small step for a man...

The house is still standing. Well, some of it is. The concrete foundation and the pipes not rusted into scrap are still there. As well as a pile of jagged, burnt-out timbers that once formed the support frame of the structure. The soot-stained remains seem even more forlorn in the darkness of the evening.

Charity crosses the overgrown yard at the front of the ruins and pauses before the first step that used to lead up to the long, covered porch running along two sides.

“If you go up or down the stairs after dark, you must not stop at the bottom,” Frank Dixon warns the two small children standing in the non-existent doorway. “You keep going and do not stop until you are either on the porch or three steps into the yard. Do you understand? Do you both promise?” There is an edge of worry in his voice. Not quite fear, but something akin to it.

The pair, both with wide green eyes and dark black hair nod in unison. They are dressed in similar fashion, but one wears a pair of pants and the other a knee-length dress. “We promise.” They say simultaneously.

It was nearly a year before the pact was broken. Spring had moved through the warmth of Summer and Fall was almost gone into Winter. The days grew shorter by the moment and what used to be dusk was now past the edge of twilight.

“You remember that evening?” Carter’s voice purrs.

Charity nods, but doesn’t answer. There is no need.

The exact recollection of the identity of the toy has been lost to time. Only that it was new and very dear to her brother. In his haste to be the first one into the house, his toe catches on the edge of the first step. The stumble that follows results in the valuable prize tumbling out of his grasp to land on the grass next to the stairs.

Right in front of the opening that leads into the onyx abyss under the porch.

“Carter!” Charity yells as she watches him recover his balance and then hop off to the side and bend down to retrieve his dropped toy.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” Charity says softly to the air around her. “That’s why it happened.”

Carter’s head whips in her direction, the sound of her voice so different than when he hears it in his mind. It is that unexpected distraction which causes to his outstretched hand to wrap around something other than the fallen toy. Something far more sinister.

Something that twists in his hand and grabs him back.

“You wanted to scold me,” Carter laughs. “Remind me of the promise we made to Dad.”

Charity’s already running toward her brother as his back arches with the force of being pulled forward. Dragged violently toward the dark void beneath the porch. Carter’s eyes are wide, wider than she thinks possible, and his free hand stretches out at her in desperation.

Standing in front of the dilapidated house, Charity closes her eyes. This particular nightmare was the first to return. It’s been the most prevalent as well. In it, she is always a half a step too late in moving. Her arm just an inch too short to reach him. All she can do is scream as her brother, her twin, the other half of her soul disappears into the darkness. Never to be seen again.

When their fingers entwine, Charity lets herself drop to the grass, skinning one bare knee on a small rock hidden beneath the green blades. Holding onto Carter with both hands, she slams her feet against the frame of the steps and pulls. For a moment, there is a stalemate. The forces pulling on opposite sides of the boy reaching an eerie sort of equilibrium. Cater half in and half out of the shadows.

Then she feels her legs starting to give, tiny child knees buckling as the force pulling increases.

“I was going with you. Come hell or high water, I was going into that darkness with you.” She smiles a tiny sad smile. “Always together. No matter what.”

Carter screams, in her ears and in her mind … and Charity screams back. The flash that follows is blinding. As if someone under the porch has taken a picture with one of those old-fashioned cameras with the magnesium lighting. Then a third scream joins the other two, this one more a screech of agony from a mouth that is far from human, and the smell of burnt, but rotting, meat wafts out from beneath the porch. Charity tumbles backward as Carter’s arm is freed, and the pair scramble across the grass to put at several feet between themselves and the opening.

When they look back, a pair of furious red eyes stares back at them.

“We never told Mom and Dad,” Carter says in an amused tone. “I think they knew, though. They had to. The way we burst through the door afterward. The way we took to jumping down the last two steps every time we left the house. They had to know something happened.”

Charity nods in agreement. Then, the faintest trace of a something brushes across her bare ankle. Something damp and scaly and dangerous. Squatting, she peers through the narrow opening between the steps.

“You came back,” the red eyes staring at her hisses in a sinisterly pleased tone. “Came back home.”

Charity doesn’t flinch, or look away. The thing under the destroyed house doesn’t frighten her anymore. Its unspoken threats are hollow now. Worthless as tears in rain. She lost the fight for her brother many times over in her nightmares, but she won the only time it actually mattered.

“Yes, we have come home.”

”Hey. Hey, you. Hey. Hey. Hey. Hey.”

He wakes slowly. Not from a dream, thankfully… He had been resting deeply, for once, so it takes him a moment to realize that something is wrong.

“Hey, you. Hey. Listen. Hey. Hey. Hey.”

The lights are out. Cold dread clutches at his chest, and he suddenly finds it hard to breath. He stares into the pitch blackness inside the converted van, widening his eyes in vain hope that he might catch some scrap of light. Something to prove that the whispering voice is outside the locked windows. But no, not a single photon illuminates the space. He reaches out with a sense other than sight. A feeling that is not 'feeling' so much as simply knowing. He calls it finding, for lack of a better word.

Familiar shapes make themselves known in an otherwise empty space. He doesn’t find any presence, but that doesn’t mean much. He can’t ‘find' the Things that watch from the shadows, either, but he knows they are watching. They’re always watching.

”Hey. I’m talking to you. Hey. HEY. HEY. HEY.”

He ignores the voice’s demand. Heart pounding, he stretches his senses beyond the walls of his small van. The days have long passed since he needed to see in order to ‘find’. And find he does. He finds the gravel under the van’s tires, teeming with tiny creatures scurrying about their secret night missions. He finds the line where gravel turns to grass, eventually intersecting with the road that forms the main loop of the RV park. He finds the electrical cable running from a retrofitted port in the side of the van, snaking along the ground to the electric post.

“Hey. Quit that. I’m talking to you. Hey. Hey. I SAID HEY.”

He finds the breakers and finds the problem. His fingers flick in the dark, and a corresponding switch flips on the breaker panel.

Lights flash to life, illuminating the interior of the van in a brilliant white glow. The A/C rigged on the back door grumbles reluctantly to life, belching musty cool air into the interior. A fan overhead exhausts any excess humidity before it can build up inside.

He holds his breath and listens for what feels like an eternity, but the voice does not speak again. Finally, groaning, he rolls over and pulls the covers over his head.

He doesn’t go back to sleep.

The costotome makes a very particular noise as it clips. In the hollow silence of a morgue, it can echo in an almost distracting way. Or in this case, in a way that causes the eyes of the woman on the table to launch upwards in surprise. This isn't right. The angle isn't right. Why is she looking up?

"There's no use struggling. You already know that. You always try, and you always fail. Honestly, it's ridiculous." Clip. Clip. The thoracic cavity houses so many of the vital organs, it's safer to use the costotome than a normal bone saw, you see. Or, at least that seems to be the thought here. The voice is correct, no matter how hard Ava struggles, she can't seem to force her body to move. The only thing that she can do is to lay there and stare up into the glaring light above her and feel the hollow shake in her body with each clip until the last of her chest has been snapped apart and then pried open. There is no pain. There is never pain. Only the sensation of a hand digging around inside of chest, gripping and prodding.

"Let us see how much damage you've done." The feeling of something ripping out of her forces a breath expelled before her own heart is thrust in front of her eyes, shriveled and frail. "Look at this. Look at this garbage. See what you've done to it? Ugh, this is why nobody loves you, you know that, right?" The heart is tossed back into the open chest cavity with a sound of disgust as the sound of clipped heels approach closer towards Ava's head. "Useless. You're only good for one thing, and that's healing. Without that, they won't need us any more."

A hand reaches through the glaring light to grip Ava's chin and jerk it out of the brightness, only to turn her eyes towards-- herself. "Stop fucking up."

Ava wakes with a start, leaning over the autopsy table where she was doing paperwork. She wheels backwards for a moment to catch her breath, eying the table. "No more napping in here."

It's late... or is it early? and Perdita is now cursing herself for deciding walking to the bar, then to a gentleman friend's home. She could call an Uber, sure, but let's be honest, that's almost as sure a way to get attacked in this town as walking alone at night in a skimpy outfit, Which... of course it's skimpy, have you met Perdita? The higher the heels, the closer to God and all. A cute midriff shirt that perpetually hangs off one shoulder or the other, a black bag slung across her body to discourage muggers, a waist chain, tiny denim shorts and black stilettos that any sane person wouldn't even have worn, let alone worn for the walk of 'shame' back home.

Besides, it's not like it's a long walk, just a leisurely stroll home. A good third of the street lamps are burnt out or on their way to dying as she makes her way down town, heels tak-tak-tak'ing on the sidewalk as she moves. There's always a faint feeling of unease on the streets of Gray Harbor at night, no matter who you are. Like someone, or something, is watching from the shadows.

In the distance up ahead, Perdita spots a lone figure standing beneath one of the flickering sodium vapor street lights, a silhouette of darkness within the pool of light. At this distance, it's hard to make out the details, but are those... balloons?

Dita turns down another road, simply seeking to avoid the strange figure. It's probably just a drunk party goer, like her, out enjoying the night air after an evening of questionable choices. As she rounds the block... the figure is there, still six or seven blocks away, standing perfectly still. He would have had to run to reach his position, but Perdita didn't hear the pounding of footsteps...

The light flickers again, and the figure is illuminated a bit better.

Thin red hair, frizzed out in haphazard curls in a horseshoe shape around its ghostly white head, which tapers up to a cone with a comically tiny fez perched on the point. This point is echoed with the way its ears are drawn out into twisted pointy nubs...

And those are, in fact, balloons held in its elongated, spindly fingers. Its eyes, impossibly large, are two black shadows in the light, but almost seem to be gleaming with the same intense yellow of the street lights... And clutched in one hand, a sign that reads, simply...

>😁 FREE HUGS 😁

scrawled in a bold, childlike hand. Its garb is garishly colorful, with a blue ruffled collar, red and white striped pants and bright yellow patches sewn onto the fabric. The oversized shoes squeak comically as it takes a step out of the light, toward Perdita, seemingly disappearing into the shadows. And then another squeak. Another. Another.

Rapid squeaking, like a dog going wild with a new chew toy, only far more nefarious. It would be hilarious, if not for the horrifying implication. It crosses the distance between one streetlight and the next in just a couple of seconds, quickly approaching her in a comical pantomime of someone sneaking... but it's impossibly fast.

There's no time to call out for help, no time to chuck the heels, there's only time to run. And so she does, moving with a surety in her step as she leaps into action, turning tail and running back the way she came, down the residential street, chased by something out of a nightmare, the squeaks gaining on her with every frantic step.

When she slams against her companion's door and begins pounding, he opens the door, sleepy, confused.

"Want to go again?" he asks, smirking, clearly thinking he's a stud.

"Move!" Comes the panicked reply. He's shoved sideways, the door slammed behind the petite Latina as she leans against it, breathing hard. Locks are secured. Noticing her terror, the young man moves to comfort her, wrapping her in his arms.

"Hey, hey, you're safe... Do you need me to drive you home?" he asks, comfortingly. He's clearly regretting not offering in the first place. "...did you tie a balloon to the door, Dita?" the young man asks, after a couple seconds, confused as he peers out the three glass panels in the door, seeing the bobbing shape.

Perdita Leontes doesn't sleep, that night. She's already seen what her dreams will hold.