Trying out the game style while keeping some elements I like about my own

flutter

consequences? of her actions? it’s more likely than you think. nace oneshot, post 2x12, speculative fight and feelings. [read on ao3]

She wakes up disoriented. Her brain adjusts to her surroundings—creaky bed, filtered natural light streaming through plastic curtain panes, and faint smells, all mixing awkwardly with the dull neon sign over Gil’s bed.

Gil’s bed. Right. Now she remembers finding herself outside the Bobbseys’ at midnight, unable to stop herself. It feels like Nick all over again, when she buried her feelings in someone else and begged for a distraction from her own brain. But she keeps seeing Ace on that ledge when she closes her eyes, and can’t bring herself to let the thoughts linger.

The bed is empty, cool to the touch where another body should be. He’s been up for a while then, she thinks. Nancy sits up, straining her eyes against the morning light. Gently, an aroma of coffee and eggs wafts into Gil’s room, and she smiles, realizing he must’ve gotten up to make breakfast.

She pulls on her jeans and boots. Gil hadn’t seemed the type to cook a girl breakfast after a booty call, but maybe she’d misjudged him. She drapes her jacket over her arm and follows her nose to the kitchen.

“That smells gr—oh.” Abruptly, Nancy cuts herself off. It’s not Gil by the stove, but Amanda, who also quickly falls silent halfway through a laugh. At the counter, in his lucky pullover and an unbuttoned flamingo shirt, is Ace, who visibly straightens in his seat when he sees her.

“Uh.” Nancy finishes pulling on her jacket, adjusting her hair around the collar. Her neck feels very hot as she puts the pieces of the scenario together. The three of them, all before 8 am, all at the Bobbseys’s. She flashes Amanda an awkward finger gun. “You’re not Gil.”

Amanda smiles back at her sympathetically. “Sorry,” she replies. She glances down at the eggs sizzling quietly in the pan, and then back to Ace. “But I make a much meaner omelet than him anyway. Want one?”

For a long moment, Nancy just stares back at her. Red alarm sirens are ringing in her thoughts, but she’s still settling with the fact that both she and Ace seemingly slept here. “Is…Gil…here?”

“No. He left, about twenty minutes ago,” Ace says, his voice low. Nancy wonders if he always sounds this grumpy in the morning. “Forgot to mention you were here, though.”

Nancy blinks. “He left? Like—left? Is he coming back?”

Amanda turns off the stove and faces her. “He said he got a freelance gig that he couldn’t pass up. Kind of left in a hurry.” With a slight grimace, Amanda sighs. “Nancy, Gil can be…easily distracted. It makes him forgetful, you know? Of his manners, mostly. He doesn’t mean to be.”

Nodding distractedly, Nancy runs her tongue along her teeth. Of course he runs out the day he was supposed to help her out. After a long moment of Amanda and Ace watching her, he clears his throat. “Why? Did you need him or something?”

Ace’s tone is uncharacteristically harsh, and both she and Amanda turn to look at him. After another awkward beat, Nancy says, “Um. Well, he was supposed to help me run a boat over to this beach for the case I’m working on. It’s kind of…a two man job.”

He looks annoyed, but Amanda just smiles at her. “Well, we can help. Right, Ace? It could be fun. I’ve always wanted to go on one of your mystery adventures with you and Nancy,” she adds. Ace glances between the two of them, looking uncomfortable, but finally nods.

“Sure,” he says slowly, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, we can help.”

“Great,” Amanda says cheerily, and plops the eggs she was cooking onto two plates. “Well, I’m gonna just take a quick shower. You two have these and then we can go!”

She disappears into the back of the trailer, and a few moments later, the sound of running water filters across the room. By the time Nancy glances back at Ace, he’s nearly finished eating the eggs before him, almost as if stuffing his face will keep him from talking to her.

Nancy takes a small bite of the eggs, chewing as painfully slow as she can. “This is good, actually. Maybe Amanda wants Grant’s old job. We still kinda need a line cook.” At the mention of his brother, Ace finally meets her eye. He doesn’t say anything, though—but she notes that he hasn’t left either. Attempting to fill the awkward silence, Nancy pushes on. “You know, I think this is the longest time you’ve been in a room with me since he left.”

“Yeah,” Ace sighs, and averts her look. “I’ve been busy.”

“Really?” She replies, skeptically. “Because it kind of seems like you’ve been avoiding me. Like, I don’t know, you’re mad at me?”

He glances at her again, like he’s considering his words. “Maybe I am.”

Nancy puts down her fork. She’d known this was coming, and hoped it wasn’t. Her hands slide over her face. “I know, I know, this is about the list of names. But…it was an emergency, Ace. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t let you—” She drops her hands from her eyes. “And—and anyway, I fixed it!”

“Yeah, you fixed it with Celia Hudson,” Ace replies curtly, getting to his feet. His voice rises. “You traded the list for letting a murderer get away with killing 12 people on that ship. You didn’t fix anything, Nancy, you just moved it to another place! You made me responsible for you doing—for those 12 lives instead!” 

For a moment, chest heaving, she stares at him. “No,” she says finally, finding a level in her tone. “I made me responsible for the Bonny Scot. Not you. And I will find another way to bring Everett to justice, okay? There’s always another wa—”

“What if there isn’t, Nancy?” He shakes his head, pacing towards her. “Not everything is a puzzle you can just solve, okay? What if he gets away with this and hurts someone else? We know he will. And you’ll get pulled in deeper with the Hudsons. And when that happens—that’s—that’s on me.”

“Then it’s my burden, Ace!” They’re practically shouting now. Dimly, she hopes Amanda can’t hear this through the shower. “You’re right, Ace, okay, I did trade your life for the witnesses and then I traded the witnesses for the Bonny Scot.I made a necessary calculation in a crappy situation. But I did it, not you!”

“For me!” He yells back. She’s not sure she’s ever heard his voice this loud; she wasn’t sure his vocal cords could physically reach this decibel. He exhales, deflating and running his hands through his hair. “It was… a total Slytherin move, Nancy. Okay? Just…admit you didn’t think it through.”

She scoffs, throwing her head back. “Well, that’s rich.”

Hands on his hips, he glowers at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“How many federal databases have you hacked into by now, Ace?” She exclaims, throwing her arms out. “I think I stopped counting after you broke my dad out of prison!”

“That was different,” he mumbles. “That was an—”

“Emergency,” she finishes flatly, raising her eyebrows.

Ace purses his lips, and he finally seems somewhat calmed. “Your dad’s life was in imminent danger. I didn’t risk anyone else in the process. But I told you, Nance, at the paper mill. I told you I didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s life. ”

“Well, I was responsible for yours,” she replies softly, defeated. He stares at her, chest heaving. “And…I told you, I couldn’t lose you.”

He still doesn’t say anything, but a look passes between them. Her heart flutters so madly against her ribcage she’s afraid he might hear it. She’s reminded of that night after the wraith in the woods, when he’d told her something very similar. He didn’t want to lose her, then. She wonders if he’s thinking the same.

There’s a long moment of silence.

Finally, she nods, and her hand finds itself home on his arm. “I’m sorry I made you feel responsible for the Bonny Scot, Ace, I really am. But…even if you’re right, and I can’t find another solution, then…it’s still my fault. Not yours. It’s my problem, my burden, okay? Please, Ace. I can’t have you mad at me. I can’t…focus when you are. I need you on my team.”

When she meets his eye again, his expression has softened. She can tell the fight has gone out of him. Eyebrows knitted, he says, “No.” Her face falls, but then he continues. “I’m a Hero of Horseshoe Bay too, you know. You shouldn’t have to shoulder it all alone.”

“Yeah, well,” she says, before she can plan otherwise, and steps back from him. She lets out a self-deprecating sound from the back of her throat, thinking of how Gil abandoned her the night after her promised to help. She thinks of Owen Marvin, dead because of her. She thinks of Nick, who was right to have ended things with her. Finally, and bitterly, her thoughts jump to how happy Amanda and Ace had seemed before she walked in. “I’m used to alone.”

His face crumples and he opens his mouth, but whatever Ace is about to say, she’ll never know. Amanda has emerged from the back of the trailer, toweling off her damp hair and already dressed. “Okay, I’m ready,” Amanda says, striding towards them. She pulls to a stop after a moment, having picked up on the strange energy lingering in her kitchen.

Ace is still looking at her with an expression she can’t—won’t—name. If she had to try, it might be pity, or a kinder version of it. She inexplicably feels like crying, but swallows it, unwilling to feel weak in front of Ace’s girlfriend.

“Everything okay?” Amanda asks gently, and Nancy can’t help but think, that’s why Ace likes her. She’s sweet. Her heart squeezes again. Don’t think about it.

Exhaling, Ace nods at Amanda, and then back to Nancy. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

She hopes it’s true.

Eddie Kaspbrak deserved better.

Let me start with this. IT, written by Stephen King, made into a movie in 2017 and then another in 2019, about a clown with a big forehead, who likes dining on children, and gets his ass kicked by a group of teenage misfits (and then again when said misfits are just about past their midlife crisis). It's a horror, it's creepy and it's gross, now you see, I don't do horrors. I'm an absolute wuss. I can't even walk into a creepy abandoned building without a plank of wood in my hand for protection, and at least two people on either side of me who would obviously be kidnapped first (and that gives me enough time to scream and run away). Anyway, I don't like horrors. So you can probably guess that there was no way in hell, or earth, that I would be watching something that involved a terrifying monster who drools as much as a bulldog (he should seriously get that checked). No way I was going to read the book, as much as I love reading, and wouldn't even consider the original from the 90s although the 90s rules the movie scene (don't argue, we all know Jurassic Park is the best movie of all time). But the thing was, I have a friend, and he can be very persuading (in the form of pizza and snacks) and also, I'm a huge McAvoy fan, and James Ransone, I've never seen that guy before but well, when I saw him in the trailer, hello handsome. And don't get me started on Bill Hader, man do I fancy that bloke... Anyway I'm going off topic. So blah blah, we end up sitting down one night, with our buffet and many cups of tea, and weirdly, we start watching IT Chapter 2 first, because he wanted to see it since it was new. I go into it with no bloody clue what was going on, who was who, why parents would let their kid out in the rain by themselves, or how nobody noticed a load of bodies leaking out of the sewer. I was asking alot of questions. But, here's the thing. Onto the whole point of this rant. Eddie Kaspbrak. Eddie Spaghetti. Eds. The cute, little, angry man who instantly caught my attention (not just by the fact that Mr Ransone is a handsome S.O.B). From the moment he sped down the road in his posh jeep, yelling at other drivers (I feel your pain Eds) to crashing said posh jeep because he was distracted by a phone call (bad Eddie!) He instantly stole my 28 year old, attracted to dark and handsome older men, heart. Of course, I had no clue about these characters, all I saw was cute, angry man, funny dork with glasses, red headed lady, that guy from New Zealand, man who lasted five seconds, handsome librarian, and Professor X, and of course that clown that lives in the drain. So, as the movie went on, Eddie became my number one (Richie following behind in second). I learnt all about him from my friend, and more about him during the film, and couldn't help but feel sorry for the little bastard. He had a wife that I could tell he didn't love who treated him like doodoo, as a kid his dearest mom was overprotective, controlling and gave him freaking placebos to make him think he was ill (the fuck Mrs K?), that made him so nervous about getting sick and paranoid beyond belief, and I mean, his job wasn't the most exciting. Not to mention he has anxiety worse than a nun in a whore house, and was obviously afraid the most out of the group. And then, AND THEN, the film decides to drop some hints about Richie. Ah, dearest Richie, who has perfect taste in men. He's in love with Eddie. In. Freaking. Love with him. You could tell by the way he was so protective of him, constantly made fun of him (we all know that's how dudes get their crushes attention) and of course, R + E. So, of course, nearing the end of the movie, there's me grinning like an idiot, having the thought of Eddie and Richie getting out of the final fight untouched, Richie declaring his undying love for his Eddie Spaghetti, Eddie admitting his feelings for his Trashmouth, getting a kiss in there, Eds declaring he was divorcing him moth- sorry, wife, and the two walking into the sunset to start a new life together, in a nice cottage in the hills, getting married, having three kids, five dogs, ten cats, and living happily ever after. But then, my hopes and dreams were shattered. Stephen, I'm looking at you. They killed Eddie. THEY KILLED EDDIE! EDDIE! Out of all the FREAKING characters they could have booted off, they chose Eddie the rage monster, the little man with a big personality, the least deserving to freaking die in my opinion. Stephen, how could you? How could you?! Why did he have to die? Why did they have to end his life that way? Why couldn't he have a happy ending like the rest of the Losers? Not including Richie of course. Oh no, they didn't just fuck Eddie over, they also fucked over Richie. Killing the love of his life, right after he saves him, bleeding all over his big ass glasses, calling his name softly, looking at him with his big, brown eyes. Yep, Richie probably went home after the Kissing Bridge and thought about Eddie every damn day of his life. But no, they didn't just kill Eddie, oh no no, they went a step further. They left his body to rot in the sewers. Yes Andy, I'm glaring at you, you evil, evil man. They didn't take the route that Mr King took in his book, or from the original IT movie (yes I watched that later on too) no, Mr A decided to have Eddie die all alone whilst the Losers finished off Pennywise, then have Richie go back and see his dead body, freak out and have hope that they can save him, hug him tight, and not let him go. And then, oh boy, and then, they have Mike and Ben literally FORCE Richie off of Eddie, and DRAG him out of the sewers. WITHOUT EDDIE. I'm sorry Mr Andy, but tell me, how could they, Eddie's best friends, the ones who were always there for him, who they loved and adored, leave Eddie there in the sewers, all alone, in the dark, dirty, graveyard that would have had Eddie crying at the thought? It didn't make ANY sense to me. If Ben and Mike had the strength to drag a struggling, six foot something Richie away from Eddie, then surely they could have picked Eddie up between them, and got him out of there. If I was Richie, I would have decked the lot of them, Losers or not. And that's where I got pretty darn mad. Eddie didn't deserve that shit. For one, he didn't deserve to die. And two, he didn't deserve to be left down there, to slowly decay. He should have been pulled out by his friends, Richie could have had a moment with him, Eddie could have been given a funeral where his friends, and especially Richie could have said goodbye. Then, they'd have had somewere where they could memorialise him, go back and place flowers and silly things like inhalers and red shorts on his headstone, have a get together and remember him and talk to him, somewhere where Richie could always go to, knowing that Eddie was put to rest properly, and somewhere were he could sit and cry to himself, remembering all the fucking good times they had as kids and how god damn hard he fell for the crazy little shit. But, nah, we'll just leave him in the sewers, under a collapsed house, somewhere the Losers wouldn't want to visit again, somewhere they can't have a funeral, can't put Eddie to rest, somewhere that has too many bad memories and would remind everyone of how exactly Eddie lost his life. So yeah, you can say I'm pretty mad about all of that. I know he's a fictional character, but damn, he didn't deserve that shit. Neither did Richie. And to make it worse, when I watched the first movie afterwards, Eddie was just as freaking hilarious, and ridiculous as his older self. Little Eddie was a force to be reckoned with, he was definitely still my favourite even as a kid. The dude who played him, huge kudos to him. How could you not like tiny Eddie? It also showed me a lot more about how Eddie grew up, by that I mean how his mother really did treat him, and boy did I hate the fact that he died even more! So yeah, I may have gone off on one a tad... I couldn't help myself, Eddie Kaspbrak has now got a big place in the fictional character side of my heart. Just goes to show just how much actors can make an impact on people's lives, and how real they make them seem! So, I've said my part, and it's pretty obvious what I think about the ending to Mr Spaghetti's story. Encase you didn't get how I feel about it, it sucked. Eddie Kaspbrak should have lived. Should have had a second chance, especially with Richie! Not all movies follow the ending of books, so why did this one have to? Why did Ben and Redhead get to have a happily ever after and Richie and Eddie didn't? Why didn't they at least make his death meaningful and give him the send off he deserved? In other words, Eddie deserved better. That should be the motto of the movie. That's me signing off, I'm going to go be mad somewhere else, because I'll never get over this movie. I'm a huge fan now, but man, the ending was as bad as Bill's endings. Oh and uh, fuck you Pennywise. Oh, also, if anyone's going to Wales Comic con this Saturday (you should, because James Ransone will be there, I know right, what are the chances?) come say hi. I'll be dressed in a yellow raincoat and green wellies, holding a red balloon... Don't ask why, I just like the colours. See you later, Losers.

The Black Locust

The wind blew and there it was.

Every insect in the forest came alive in that moment, and whatever was said was deafening.

I took a step backward. Maybe two. The trail was narrow, and there was little space to move. Drops of rain began falling steadily yet lightly. If the sky had turned grey before then, I hadn’t noticed. Whimsical tails began to descend from the clouds in peculiar fashion, much like when threatening circulation before a tornado. The temperature had dropped noticeably. I was shivering, but not from the cool air.

In my visions, it was a snake that I would encounter. A thick black one. It would come upon me suddenly like this, but far less conspicuously. I was conscious of the fact that I was still standing before it in all its inhumanity. Each time I considered how I would react to the snake, I also considered how I would be able to keep myself from fleeing in fear. Now here I was, facing something far more terrifying, and not one fiber of my being demanded I run.

“Why are you here?” I finally whispered.

It didn’t flinch. Cloaked in darkness, I couldn’t make out any of its features, but I could almost see its face through sheer imaginative force. Somehow, I knew it heard me. It understood me. It understood much.

“Do you think you’re the only one?” I asked myself in my own head.

Staying fixated on the being in front of me, I grew immediately suspicious of my question to myself. It was in my head, and in my voice, but the tone was foreign. I quickly realized I was being communicated with telepathically.

“The only what?” I responded audibly, perhaps to ensure that it was by my own accord that I spoke and not the will or whim of this thing in front of me. Without a point of reference by which to identify it, my internal dialogue began referring to it as “the darkness.” That was all it consisted of at this point. The embodiment of darkness. I couldn’t even get a voice with which to identify it. Just a transference of thought that allowed it to stay ambiguous.

It answered me again, but this time in images as opposed to my own voice. I saw women in labor. Women holding just-birthed infants of a peculiar nature. Nothing visible made the babies different, but their fatigued mothers could feel it, and so could I. There was a difference in nature surrounding and inhabiting these infants. Hundreds to thousands of these images flashed through my mind in a matter of seconds.

“But how many of them are standing in front of you at this moment?” I asked the darkness inflicting me with these images. I had no idea what pushed those words out of my mouth. With time to think, I would surely have decided against provoking it with boldness.

Without a motion or sound, the darkness erupted in fury. It remained as still as a statue in front of me, but inside of itself, it had lost control. The light rain quickly escalated, and the wind blew it sideways with great force. I squinted to keep it from pelting my eyes, but with little success. Opening them from a hard blink, I searched for the darkness in front of me, but I could not find its image anywhere in the immediate area. As quickly as it had come, the wind died down, and with it the rain. The darkness was gone.

I had once seen a demon possession and subsequent exorcism twenty-five years prior to this moment.  When I was fifteen years old, I had been sent to a summer camp for juvenile delinquents. Having been caught shoplifting, among other behavioral issues, I was on an impossible trek of trying to fit in with kids that weren’t like me. My dad had exhausted his known options and finally discovered “Camp Awareness.” The next thing I knew I was on my way to a remote location three and a half hours from the safe familiarity of my small hometown. I would be there for a month with roughly three dozen other misfits and derelicts.

When we first pulled in, it seemed like a very desolate and uninviting location. It was just off a rural road, and there were only three unimpressive buildings to behold. The first was a trailer to the left. This was the medical facility for any potential emergencies. I would find out that given the violent nature and background of most of the attendees, this was not all that uncommon. During the next weeks I would witness someone being stabbed with a pitchfork, another individual getting the top part of his ear bitten off, and lastly someone receiving an intentional nine ball to the head from a pool table.

Set a little behind the medical trailer was a larger building that upon further inspection proved to be a former horse stable and exercise area. The grounds the camp sat on had apparently at one time been used as a ranch. Where once animals slept and galloped, activities such as dodgeball among heathens now transpired.

To the right of the entrance was a large square establishment. This was the dining hall. It was here that the only person who expressed a dislike of me put his sentiments on display. Frequently ridiculing me in front of the others, he never missed an opportunity to make me miserable, which often simply consisted of squirting ketchup and mustard on my food. From what I could gather, he was the son of an important person, the art department chair at a university or something like that. He was much taller than I, and there was something about his personality that warned me not to push back.

Each day dragged slowly by. I was the only one there that hadn’t been sent as the result of a court order. The camp had a reputation as being an effective, albeit gentler, alternative to many programs the state had to offer for young perpetrators. Due to the nature of the camp as a rehabilitation center, we were handled rigidly and firmly. Each cuss word resulted in ten pushups, and when attendees got out of hand or unruly, they quickly found several much larger counselors lying on top of them pinning their arms behind their backs. This was more common than not. No one wanted to be there, and we certainly didn’t want our routines and behaviors messed with. Vocal dissent that carried on past an initial warning was a one-way ticket to the sidelines for any activity that we might actually consider “fun.” This could be anything from basketball to canoeing.

My counselor was the largest of them all. Howie had been in the Air Force, and much of his training regimen carried over to the way he handled us. Every morning at 6 a.m. we were outside running laps around our cabin nestled deep in the woods. Howie was stern and forceful, but also compassionate in a guarded way that sometimes unintentionally revealed itself. He once found himself telling us a story about how he had accidentally killed his sister. While driving a boat on a lake as a teen, his sister had protested the speed in which he was traversing the waves. Ignoring her pleas, he turned to see she had fallen out of the boat and was floating motionless in the water. As he jumped in and grabbed her body, his hand sunk into the back of her head. It had hit the propeller of the motor as she fell. For years after, I wondered if he had made that story up or exaggerated it. Early in my adult years, while revisiting the camp experience through research, I would find the validity as I stumbled across a newspaper article recounting her passing.

After we’d been there a couple of weeks, everyone had become somewhat acclimated. It seemed like months, and I would cross the days off on a piece of paper that hung on the wall at the foot of my bed. I was like a prisoner carving marks on the bricks of his cell. Every fifth day went diagonal across the previous four. I had made a few close friends by then, but got along well with everyone except for the art administrator’s son. We passed the days in activities set forth by the camp director. This ranged from swimming in the lake across the road to visiting a prison. The intent behind taking us to places of incarceration was to scare us back into being productive and orderly members of society. For the most part, it hadn’t seemed to be very effective.

One night around this time, halfway through my stay, the director and counselors began to address us after supper. It was at this point that they stepped completely out as being a Christian-run operation. What proceeded was a very lengthy and powerful lesson and testimony, with an invitation at the end to commit one’s life to that faith. Whatever they said during that time was effective, because only about three of the thirty kids didn’t make an outward proclamation in response. I’d had a Baptist upbringing, so these types of situations were all too familiar to me. On a lesser scale, they followed nearly every sermon on every Sunday throughout my youth. I always found them uncomfortable. This night, however, it was a powerful sight to witness from any perspective. Twenty-seven of the roughest kids I’d ever met stood simultaneously to at least express an initial interest in something seemingly intangible.

Later that night, after the lights had been turned out, I lay in the darkness considering the evening’s events. Our old rusty bunkbeds were lined up one beside the other on the outside wall, with a doorway in the middle. My bunk was the next to last one. A partition separated us from another counselor and his group on the other side of the cabin, with an open doorway between us. There was an outside door on their side too, which led directly out to a trail that wound back through the woods toward the main buildings.

I don’t remember exactly what was going on in my mind, but I was staring blankly at a window on that outside wall. Suddenly there appeared an iridescent glowing red face. It came out of nowhere and stayed for no more than a second. Before I could yell, two other kids simultaneously beat me to it.

“Howie!” they exclaimed.

“I just saw a face in the window,” one of them finished.

“I saw it too,” I added.

Clearly annoyed, Howie got up to address us. Given our track record at the camp and all the events that led us there to begin with, it was understandable why he was suspicious of our behavior and claims. Reluctantly he listened, then went to the other side to converse with the second counselor. After a few moments they agreed to take a look around outside. Shortly after Howie left the cabin, a couple of the campers turned their flashlights on, which did not go unnoticed through the window.

“Give them to me,” Howie demanded, walking back in. “Everyone.” Grumbling, we did as we were told. He collected the flashlights one by one and then laid them in a pile on his own bed, which was on the wall across from ours and in the corner down by my end. With a stern warning, he went back outside.

Several minutes went by, and I began to grow restless with anticipation. I knew what I saw. The face had very distinct features and was glowing inhumanly--not like someone was shining a light on it, but a glow that was being generated internally. In addition, the window sat a good height off the floor, and the cabin itself was a foot or more to step up into. There was no gradual appearance of the face. It was there, and then it wasn’t.

The kid in the top bunk in the corner beside me was friendly. He wasn’t terribly bright, but his overall attitude and demeanor more than compensated for his lack of intellect. He and his brother had been brought from a state or two away. Dean was his name, and we got along well.

“Dean, this is crazy, isn’t it,” I whispered into the dark in his general direction. Oddly, there was no answer. I repeated myself louder. “Dean. This is crazy, isn’t it!” Still no answer. I got up and stumbled my way over to Howie’s bed, retrieving a flashlight and turning it on. As I walked up to his bunk, I found him sitting cross legged with his fingers intertwined, save for the index which met each other at his lips. His knees were at about my eye level. Softly he was chanting something I couldn’t make out. Stunned, I stood there holding the light on his face. Several other campers saw what was going on and quietly made their way over, standing bewildered behind me.

���I thought I told you guys no lights!” Howie came storming back into the cabin, making his way toward Dean and me. Getting close enough to reprimand me, he saw what was happening. Slowly he made his way behind and around me, fixated on Dean. Positioning himself directly in front of Dean, he studied him for a moment before deciding to act. Gently, he placed a hand on each of his knees and shook gently, speaking his name. This happened a couple of times before all hell broke loose.

Facing my direction, Dean’s eyes suddenly popped open. He was staring directly at me. There was something missing, or maybe something present in his glare. I couldn’t tell if his eyes were hollow or filled with the unknown, but it was enough to send me staggering back a step or two. From there he turned directly to Howie, their faces inches apart, and began yelling in what I can only describe as a language I’ve never heard. I say language, but I don’t believe the sounds were something that a human could accidentally or even intentionally replicate. It was unearthly sounding, but had a definitive structure and flow to it. He was saying something.

At this, Howie’s body jolted, a backward motion. Even though I didn’t understand at the time what was going on, it wouldn’t have taken much to realize that he was overcome or inhabited by something at that moment. Immediately following this, he began yelling back at Dean in an equally foreign, yet completely different sounding tongue. This went on for a few moments before several of the campers decided they’d had enough. Without any thought, they ran into the pitch black wilderness, escaping whatever was going to happen next. I and two others stayed. While I can’t remember for sure, I always assumed when I retold the story that they were the other two kids that saw the face in the window. We weren’t going out into that long winding trail without giving it more thought. Who knew what else was out there?

After a few more moments, Dean’s body flew off the bed and landed on the ground. Howie and the other counselor converged on him, pinning his arms behind his back. With little to no effort, Dean pushed his arms out, flinging one of the men against the wall and the other across the floor. He was half Howie’s size alone. Scrambling, Dean took off toward the door. Collecting themselves, the counselors got up and drove their bodies into him, pinning his face against a bunk rail on the other side of the cabin from where it had all started. Dean became uncontrollably angry at this point, but they had the leverage. His body was stomach down on the bed and his face lifted against the rail.

Completely terrified and in shock, the two remaining campers and I stood in the doorway on the other side, watching helplessly. Then something ridiculous sounding happened. One of the counselors looked at us and said, “Start chanting na na na boo boo, Jesus loves you.” You could have told me to do or say anything in that moment, and I would have done it. So I did. Dean began screaming as if his flesh were melting. However, it was working, it was, so we kept doing it. His screams escalating, I finally decided that I’d had enough to take my chances outside. Running through the cabin, I raised my hand to push the screen door open to leave, but it wasn’t there. The kids that had run out earlier did so in such panic and terror, they had literally run the door straight off its hinges and onto the ground, stampeding over it.

Other than images of dark trees and my own heavy breathing, I remember very little of the trip back to the front of the camp. As we got near, we noticed a light on in the cafeteria, so that became our destination. Stumbling in, I saw that not only were the kids from my cabin inside, but so were the campers from the cabin on the other side of the woods. The camp director was present and busy fielding demands from scared kids to call their parents. What had been the roughest bunch of teenagers that I’d ever met had quickly become something else. With the help of the other two counselors, the director assured us he would honor our requests, and then the three of them left to see what was going on back in my cabin.

Much time passed before the others finally became irreconcilably stir crazy. One by one they filed out the door and down the country road on which the camp was located. For some reason, I stayed, perhaps because I had no idea where I or they would be going. I was three hours from home, and it was the middle of the night.

Finally, after sitting alone for what felt like an eternity, I decided to leave the safe confines of the cafeteria. There was a light on in the medical trailer and I headed for it. The door was barely open before I noticed Dean sitting to the left, his face buried in his hands. I began to walk backward and pull the door closed.

“It’s ok,” a voice said from inside. Cautiously I pushed the door open further and saw three of the counselors sitting there keeping a watchful eye on him. Howie was among them. Dean slowly lifted his head, his hands keeping their position. I noticed that whatever had been in his eyes was gone. He looked pale. Fatigued. Emotionless.

“He doesn’t remember anything,” Howie informed me.

The rest of the events that happened are hazy, but I do remember that they didn’t let us call our parents. My mother still has the letter I wrote her the following day. More than two decades later and well into adulthood, I still couldn’t look out windows at night. There were other events that transpired at Camp Awareness, but for now we’ll leave that subject alone until it is relevant again.

Years passed, and I underwent many personality transformations. Following my awkward early teenage years, I developed into a decent athlete. I won many events in high school and received awards and scholarships. This thrust me into years of battling narcissism, which I never truly won or overcame willfully. Beyond athleticism, my mind took a more intellectual route in the years following my higher education. I became helplessly philosophic. Books were my obsession, and I consumed them carnivorously. At some point, my interests turned to parapsychology. I was looking for explanations. A series of supernatural and paranormal events had presented themselves to me, and while I couldn’t convince others of my experiences, I knew they were legitimate. One in particular took me from being curious to actively pursuing research and practice.

My maternal grandmother had developed Alzheimer’s disease. I loved the woman dearly. When I was in elementary school, I would stick my finger down my throat until I vomited so I could trick my teacher into thinking I was sick on the days I knew she was coming to visit. This way I could get sent home. She was that important to me. Every minute with her counted.

After sliding for several years into dementia, the decision finally had to be made to put her in assisted living.  By then in my mid-thirties, I went to the home to help decorate her room with my mom and aunt. Both were single and had invested the majority of their time into caring for my grandma until it had gotten to this point. I knew they were struggling with guilt over the situation, but she was beginning to forget who they were. On one occasion, she had gotten up in the night and started to call the police on my mom, thinking she was an intruder.

My grandmother had been at her new home in the care facility for several months when one night I fell asleep on the couch at about 2:30 in the morning. That wasn’t atypical for me, as I had always been a night owl, and didn’t have to work until late afternoon the next day. When I woke, I was slightly disoriented by a dream I’d had involving my grandmother, but I quickly shrugged it off. My dreams were vivid and realistic as a rule, so I got up and a short while later I went to work.

I was standing alone in a room when I received a text from my mom. It wasn’t often that she texted, since she hadn’t had a capable phone for long and was still learning how to use it. Opening the text, I was even more stunned to see it was a picture. She hadn’t to this point used her phone that way, at least that I knew of, and had never sent me a photo before this. It was a picture of my grandmother with a stuffed dog under her arm. Shortly after the picture came through, so did an accompanying text. It said something to the effect of: Rough Night. Mom was up and causing a disturbance. Joan had to be called up there at 4:30.

I could feel the color leave my face as my legs became weak. My heartbeat was audible in my ears as I started furiously communicating with my mother.

The dream I had the night before corresponded with the timeframe when my grandma was causing issues. Joan was my aunt. They had called her up there to help handle the situation.

In my dream the night before, my grandma and I were walking the halls of her assisted living building, our arms linked the way a couple does when walking arm in arm. I was telling her in some unconventional way why she had to be there. It wasn’t like a foreign language, and it wasn’t as simple as metaphors. Going to great lengths, I was somehow helping her understand, because she had lost that ability to listen and discern in real life. We did this for a while, when the next thing I knew we were outside of the building, and I was sitting in the backseat of a car on the passenger side. She was outside, looking at me with her arms crossed. I was telling her that I had to go now, and she nodded as if she understood, but she wasn’t happy about it. The car left; when it eventually came to a stop, I got out and was greeted by my mother. She proceeded to tell me that my grandma and aunt had a rough night. I told her that I had just seen my grandmother and she looked better than I had seen her in years. My mom reiterated her point, and soon after, the dream ended and I awoke.

One of the first things that struck me upon this revelation was the fact that my mom had said in the dream that my aunt had a rough night too. She hadn’t appeared anywhere in my dream, yet in reality she was with my grandmother in the wee hours, trying to calm her down. Additionally, the way Grandma was holding the stuffed dog placed her arm in the same position it was in as we were walking the halls in my dream, arm in arm.

A month or two later, my mom and aunt came to visit for Christmas. My aunt had taken video of the incident with my grandmother and insisted I watch. I was reluctant, simply because the whole thing had freaked me out. Eventually I agreed. You could hear my aunt on the video from behind her phone, asking my grandmother who she was talking to. My grandma never answered her, but I hadn’t up to that point realized she was talking to someone or something that no one could see. The assumption was probably that she was talking to the stuffed dog, but she never looked at it or spoke in its direction. What finally sent me over the edge and into tears was near the end of the video when my grandmother walked over to an empty chair in an otherwise empty hallway. She then proceeded to stand in front of it and take the same posture and body language that she had in my dream when she was standing outside the car.

My reality was fractured as a result of this, among other lesser events in my life around this time. In a sense, I was being awakened to things I was unaware of and couldn’t explain. My thirst for knowledge moved from the philosophical and psychological into arenas that I was generally incapable of grasping or understanding, such as physics. I wanted to know if I was in spirit with her at the assisted living, or if she was with me telepathically in my mind and dream. What had happened? How did it happen? Who or what was behind it? Slowly my life began to unravel.

(This is Chapter 1 of the book “The Remote Generation.” To find out what happens next, order it using the link below, or stop in at your local independent bookstore and ask if they carry it.)

https://www.amazon.com/Remote-Generation-Brandon-Dion/dp/1548664359/ref=sr_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1529026756&sr=8-5&keywords=the+remote++generation

Trip Over Love, Part 4

Sorry for the delay, I’m doing my GCSEs right now which means that the posting schedule will be erratic.

I remember my first fight with Ben. I say that like I could forget when it’s burned into my brain. I was out one night celebrating a friend’s birthday and I lost track of time. I’d told him I would be home at midnight to spend the night at his place, but I wound up traipsing back at half one. The moment the door clicked closed, he was standing over me.

“You’re late, darling.”

Something about the look on his face sent chills down my spine. His movements and expression were eerily calm yet I could see the flicker of fury behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry, we got carried away.”

He brushed my cheek, then lowered his hand only to close his fingers around my wrist gently.

“Were you with someone?” his voice remained soft as if he didn’t want anyone to hear even though we were the only ones around.

“No, of course not. I’m with you.” I kept trying to shake off the fear gripping my lungs but it still crept into my words, lining my voice box and closing my throat.

He had reached a whisper now, and his face was inches from mine. “Are you lying to me, dearest?”

“No, I swear to y―”

Without warning, Ben lunged at me, seizing my throat and slamming my body against the wall. I fought for breath and scrabbled at the wall, at his hands, anything. “You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine.” He repeated it over and over as I gagged and gasped under his hands until black spots covered my vision. Finally, he dropped me.

I collapsed in a heap on the floor, sobbing. He clasped my chin and yanked my head up to look him in the eye.

“Don’t forget, you belong to me.”

〜

I smiled my way through most of school as I remembered the night with Sweet Pea. It had been a long time since I’d felt like that, if ever. Even the dreary existence of Riverdale High was alleviated by the thought of spending lunch with him. That is until the River Vixens stepped in.

Ms Peters, the teacher, had not yet arrived when I came in, but the seating plan was on her desk. I groaned audibly after looking at the sheet, I was sat on a table with five of the worst classmates possible: cheerleaders. These girls took ‘Social Studies’ to mean ‘Gossiping’. However, the clash of idle chatter and irritating snickers was cut abruptly when I sat down, replaced with ugly stares.

The nearest - Tia, someone called her - attempted a smile but her eyes still exhibited the same disgust as before. “Honey, you can’t sit here. This table is reserved for the River Vixens,” her eyes flicked towards the tattoo poking out of my collar, “which you obviously aren’t.”

“Thank god,” I muttered, “I was assigned here, Tia. Besides, all the other tables are full.”

“Yeah, because our school is overrun with Southside scum.” It was obvious that she was dropping the whole ‘passive-aggressive’ act. Something flared up inside me. I stood up slowly and looked her dead in the eye, “What did you say to me?”

“I said, Southside sc―”

The penetrating sound of my fist smashing against the wood cut her off. “BE QUIET!”

Shock was plastered onto the cheerleaders’ faces, and I was well aware that everyone around me was now listening with the kind of rapt attention you don’t usually find in a classroom. But I didn’t care. In that moment I was fueled by all the anger and rage that I’d kept inside for so long. “Do you really think that just because you have a nice house and a flashy car that you can insult me and my home? I’m not buying the whole ‘prissy princess’ act. All those snide comments and the snotty facade is just to hide the fact that being a vindictive bitch is all you’ve got! In ten years time, you’ll be stuck in Greendale working in a shitty nail salon and living off daddy’s cash.

“I swear, if you even look my way again I’ll yank that ponytail so hard all you’ll be left with is a burning scalp.”

Silence resonated through the room as I finished my speech. My hands trembled with anger and Tia looked on the verge of tears. Finally, a sharp voice echoed from the doorway: Ms Peters. I hadn’t even noticed her come in.

“Miss Arnett, to the Principal’s office, now!”

〜

After what felt like forever, students began to flood through the school doors and spill out into the parking lot where I was waiting; Sweet Pea had texted earlier asking me to wait. My eyes scanned the crowds until landing on the flannel-covered Serpent. As he strode towards me, he lifted the dog tag off over his head, smiling all the while.

“Congratulations, madam, on being the first Southsider to get a suspension at Riverdale High!”

I stood in mock seriousness as he bowed and placed the tag around my neck as if presenting a medal.

“What about Jughead?”

“Jughead doesn’t count.” Pea straightened and lent on the bike rack next to me.

“Wait, how did you know I was suspended? You weren’t in my class.”

“Are you kidding? The whole school knows! Someone filmed your little freak-out and sent it around.”

I groaned but to be honest I didn’t really care. People saw me get angry, so what? Maybe they’d think twice about confronting me.

“I gotta ask, though. I know that girl was a bitch but was there anything else that set you off? It just seems like a pretty big reaction.”

I moved in front of him. Every rational part of my brain said not to tell him anything but every other part told me the opposite. There was a sense of trust I got around him that I didn’t want to ignore. “I spent a long time believing I was powerless and weak and so when someone rises to me, I don’t really feel like I can back down. Especially this time because the Serpents and the Southside gave me the confidence I needed to go up against someone. It’s my home, and I’m willing to fight for it.”

By this point, Pea had looped his arms around my waist and was looking down at me with a tender stare. Everybody knew how much he too cared about the Southside Serpents and apparently I’d said all the right things.

“I’m the exact same way.”

I pulled him down by his shirt to kiss me, and I could feel the smile dancing on his lips. His arms wrapped tighter around my waist, Even when we broke apart we stayed as close, my head resting on his shoulder.

“You can keep that dog tag, by the way.”

I laughed, “Good because I wasn’t planning on giving it back.”

〜

Pea left his bike, and me my car, in the school parking lot so we could walk home together. We ended up on the road lining Fox Forest, where the sun splintered through the trees and cast lacy shadows everywhere. Every time I breathed in I caught a mixture of the sharp, refreshing smell of the fir trees and Pea’s almond scent. But the peaceful atmosphere was interrupted by the harsh rumble of a car engine. Before either of us had even worked out who was driving, the car zoomed past but swerved round to face us, its tires scraping against the ground.

“Hey, Bulldogs! Look who it is!” A voice called from the driver’s seat. Reggie Mantle. Pea tensed visibly. At least four other guys, all in their uniform of letterman jackets, clambered out of the car, led by Reggie. “I mean, we just wanted to have some fun in Fox Forest when we come across the lowest Serpents there are.”

There’s something about guys that instantly tells you if they’re cocky even before they open their mouth. Whether it’s the way they walk as if nothing could touch them, or the glint of arrogance in their eyes. Either way, Reggie had every mark of an egotistical attitude.

“Shove off, Mantle.”

“It’s a shame you only go for ‘bad boys’, Tootsie.” He leered close and whispered not-so-quietly, “but then again I can be very, very bad.”

Even before I could express my disgust, Pea’s fist connected with Reggie’s face.

Instantly, his posse descended upon Sweet Pea like the pack of dogs they likened themselves to be. I tried dragging them off and throwing a few punches but they barely even looked my way. All were focused on their target.

It had gotten to the point where I was clinging to one’s back in a sort of forced piggy-back when yet another car appeared at the end of the road - this time a distinct Serpent’s.

“Dude, clear out!” one yelled and they scrabbled back, but not before Reggie could give a final threat: “We’re not done jackass.”

〜

Pea hissed, “Ow!”

“Stay still! This what you get for starting a fight when you’re outnumbered.”

“No thank you for defending your honour?”

I smiled. The Serpent in the car had given us a ride back to the trailer park. Pea’s place didn’t have any medical supplies so I suggested coming to mine. “Thank you, Pea. It was very sweet. And I’m almost finished, by the way, so you can stop squirming.” After putting the finishing touches on the bandages I stroked his cheek, gently so as not to disturb the bruise already forming there. “Really, Sweet Pea. Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

I stood, “You can sleep over if you want. I’ve got a double.” before walking away, I leaned into his ear and whispered, “it’s a shame you’re hurt, though, because if you weren’t you definitely wouldn’t be sleeping.”

Pea clutched his heart and groaned at the sight of my teasing smirk, “I’m not in that much pain…”

“Tempting, but not this time. Goodnight, Pea.”

Masterlist

Part Three

Anglerfish by coffinstuffer

Coyotes will sometimes lure domestic dogs out into the woods by playing with them. A single coyote will approach the dog, ears forward, tail up, acting friendly as can be. It may even roll on its back and expose its belly in a show of submission, to draw the dog into a bout of mock wrestling. Gradually, the games will push farther and farther away from home. Deep into the forest. That’s when the rest of the pack appears. Clusters. The dog’s new friend becomes its executioner as the pack begins to attack.

It’s not uncommon for lonely children to bond with imaginary companions. They invent invisible friends to pass the hours away with. It is considered a typically harmless behavior, as long as the child understands the ultimate difference between fantasy and reality.

I’ve often wondered about the correlation between invisible childhood friends and later mental disturbance. I wonder what the statistics of suicides and disappearances might look like, when juxtaposed against the incidence of imaginary friends and what age someone stopped seeing them.

The first invisible friend I can remember was named Kevin. He was a little boy just like me, if not a few years older. We used to play together on the beaches of Lake Michigan. Building sand castles, collecting rocks and splashing around in the water.

Kevin liked to swim a lot more than I did. He’d dog-paddle out far into the water, giggling and urging me to join him. I tried a few times, but whenever I swam more than ten feet from the shore, my mother would call me back. Kev and I played together almost every week from my early childhood until I was nine and my family moved farther inland.

I didn’t even realize that Kevin wasn’t a corporeal person until years later. I made some offhand comment to my mother about my old lakeside companion. She seemed confused, and said there were never any other children when we went to the lake. I would laugh and talk to myself. But there was no Kevin. At least, not that she ever saw.

Hyenas can mimic human laughter. There is a lot of African folklore about evil spirits that can imitate the voices of loved ones to draw you away from the village.

These stories might have been fairy tales, but they served a very real purpose. The people who survived were the ones who didn’t follow strange sounds in the dark.

I met Polly a few weeks after my family moved into a new house, in an area with dense forests and narrow roads. Rural Michigan might as well be the Canadian tundra. We were farther north than Toronto. Though the summers were pleasant enough, the winters got bitter cold.

I don’t know for a fact that I was the only one who could see Polly, because she only ever came around when I was alone. But once or twice, she seemed to disappear into thin air, which makes me think she wasn’t made of flesh and blood.

Polly was… weird. She made me nervous from the second she walked out of the woods. Maybe it was her bare, dirt-covered feet, or her wide, glassy-eyes. Even at ten years old, I knew that other children weren’t supposed to just appear like that. She shouldn’t have been wandering around in the middle of nowhere without an adult.

She always wore the same thing. A faded, floral dress, with her straw-colored hair in two messy braids. She never offered any explanation of where she came from or where her family lived, beyond just pointing back into the woods. She said they didn’t live far. They had a cabin out there.

I didn’t believe her.

But I was bored. No other children lived within walking distance. So Polly and I would kick a soccer ball around, and climb trees, and play cowboys and pirates. She always wanted me to come to her house. She said she had a lot of fun games there, but I wasn’t allowed to leave the yard.

Polly was predictable, at least. She was always waiting for me after school, regardless of the weather. When it got too cold out, we played up in my attic. I was alarmed by her lack of boots or winter clothing at first. But she always just shrugged and said the temperature didn’t bother her. She did try to get me to come outside with her sometimes. She’d say I didn’t really need a coat either. She said that if you stayed in the snow long enough, you’d stop feeling it.

At the time, I wasn’t certain she was trying to harm me. She was confused, lonely, and desperate for a friend. But at the back of my mind, a nagging voice told me she didn’t have my best interests at heart. So I never did follow her out into the elements without proper protection.

Sirens are an ancient idea. Creatures that take the shape of gorgeous women, or whatever their prey would find most enticing. Creatures that sing so beautifully, they can bewitch any listener. Creatures that are such effective predators, their prey doesn’t notice the trap until their ship has been dashed to bits on the rocky shore and there’s blood in the water.

My family moved just a little outside Detroit when I was about thirteen. I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of stories about what the city is like. What a ghost town it is. I’ve even heard it compared to a post-apocalyptic wasteland. But you have to understand, it was a pretty gradual descent from the 60’s until about 2000. In the early 90’s, it wasn’t in the terrible state it is now.

My parents and I moved into a relatively nice apartment complex. I went to the nearby middle school, and it was fine. I didn’t make friends very fast, but I also wasn’t scared for my life or anything.

Robert introduced himself a few days after we finished unpacking our boxes. He was fifteen. A tall, skinny black kid with a buzzed head and a thousand-watt smile. He said he lived down in one of the basement units, though I never saw it. His father drank a lot, and didn’t like company. We would sometimes hang out at my place, but it was kind of cramped, and my mother was usually home. So Robert and I spent a lot of time on the roof of the building.

It was terribly exciting. I remember the way my heart used to skip and flutter when we stole cigarettes from the corner store, or slipped a forty into our baggy jeans. On cool autumn nights, when Robert and I would lie back on a blanket and look at the stars, my skin would get inexplicably warm. I’d feel strange and fuzzy all over, and it was more than just the watery beer.

He talked to me a lot about how he wanted to be a pilot. He’d always dreamed of joining the Air Force. His dad said it was a stupid idea. They don’t let faggots in the army. I’d never heard that word before. Faggot. It felt heavy, and dirty, and also thrilling in the same way that everything about Robert was. When he cupped my face in his wide hands and pressed our lips together, it was like the hormonal floodgates burst open and I was suddenly hungry in ways I’d never experienced.

I started to suspect Robert was not real when I saw him fall nine stories into a dumpster below, and get up again without so much as a scratch on him. I decided to ignore all better judgment, because I wanted to keep kissing him.

We only lived in that Detroit apartment for about eight months. By the end, I was well and truly in love, and when Robert whispered that there was a way we could stay together–I almost listened. But I didn’t want to step off the roof. I was scared. I knew it would hurt. When I refused, Robert became despondent and disappeared. I didn’t see him at all the last three days I spent in that building.

Versions of skinwalkers and shape shifters appear in most cultures.

It’s a terrifying idea. Being hurt by something that looks like a friend. Danger that seems harmless. Wolves in sheep’s clothing.

I can’t help but wonder if something as old as humanity itself might be the thing these legends sprang from. Perhaps these stories are warnings of some primal memory. A creature that looks like a person, but absolutely isn’t.

After my parents split up, my mother and I went to Ohio. She had a sister there, just a short drive from Columbus. We all lived together in a trailer, along with my five-year-old cousin Becca.

I was sixteen by then, so I was often left to watch Becca after school and on weekends. I didn’t mind it too much. It wasn't like I had other friends. She’d fill in her coloring books while I did homework, then we’d go outside.

There was another little girl next door. Tess. She and Becca loved to run around together, racing up and down the dirt roads, playing tag. Whenever they’d go too far off, too close to the parkway for comfort, I’d call them back. Becca usually listened, but Tess always seemed reluctant. I didn’t think a whole lot of it.

One day, when I was a little too engrossed in reading a comic book and not watching the girls closely, I heard a shriek.

“Tess! Watch out!”

I looked up just in time to see a semi-truck blasting past, not even slowing down as it ran little Tess right over. My jaw dropped. Panic shot through me. Sure, she wasn’t my kid, and I hadn’t even been directly tasked with watching her, but this was still ostensibly my fault.

I was on my feet, ready to run to Mr. Callhun’s house to borrow his phone and call the police.

But Tess was still standing there. Completely unharmed. She skipped off the road, giggling and whispering into Becca’s ear. Becca still looked a bit shell shocked, but smiled and hugged Tess close.

My stomach twisted. It was terrible to see from the outside. One of those things trying to get my baby cousin.

When I got close enough, I grabbed Becca’s wrist and tugged her away. Tess eyed me. Cold and calculating. Unlike any of them had ever looked at me before.

Perhaps I’d gotten too old. The whimsical thinking of childhood had given way to suspicion and fear. Perhaps it could tell that I’d caught onto the game. Perhaps it was angry I could even still see it. Most people my age couldn’t.

“You leave Becca alone,” I said firm as my cracking pubescent voice could muster.

“Or what?” Tess smiled at me. I’d never noticed how sharp her canines were. How mean those overgrown, dirty fingernails looked. I hadn’t taken the time to get a really good look at her until that moment.

“I’ll hurt you.”

“Adam!” Becca began trying to struggle out of my grasp. Obviously embarrassed.

Tess had started to back away, still smiling. She probably knew I couldn’t do anything to her. But maybe I’d get someone who could. A priest or a rabbi or something.

“Becca.” I kneeled down to be at her eye level. “Look at me. Tess isn’t real, OK? Real people can’t get run over by a truck and live.”

“Let me go!” Becca wailed, pushing at my hand ineffectually, trying to squirm free.

“Becca. Please. It’s important. You can’t play by the road with Tess anymore. She wants to hurt you.”

Becca broke down into ugly tears. Face bright red. Windpipes constricting to form unholy shrieks. I sighed, picked her up and carried her back to the trailer. She cried herself out and fell asleep on the couch.

When her mother got home that night, I told her Becca was playing way too close to the road and wouldn’t listen when I said it was dangerous. I hoped that was enough to warrant keeping her inside for a while.

It wasn’t more than a few weeks before Becca stopped talking about Tess. When I asked, she said that Tess had gone away. I took comfort in the fact that I hadn’t seen her around either.

Anglerfish are grotesque creatures. Ugly, with long fangs and dull eyes. But in the depths of oceanic trenches, they can hide in the shadows. The only visible part of them is the glowing ball of light that sprouts from an antenna at the top of their head.

They advertise salvation, the only source of illumination in the pits of despair. But any creature that takes the bait meets a sticky end.

I still see them every now and then. Little old ladies begging for help across a busy street, right when the light is about to change. Pretty strangers at bars who are far too aggressive in urging me to have another drink. Lonely hitchhikers that ask to travel to places the GPS will never find. But don’t worry. They know the way.

I’m not sure what they are. I can’t be the only one who notices them. After all, most of us had the ability at one point. We just grew out of it. Perhaps we shed it as a survival mechanism.

Perhaps I’m one in a million. A kid who got stuck with a genetic allele that should have been bred out generations ago. Perhaps my existence is purposeful, and I’m a new evolution when it comes to defending ourselves against the strange and bitter unknown.

I can only say one thing for sure. Keep a close eye on your children when they start to tell you about their new invisible friend. Chances are, that friend is not friendly at all.

and maybe we knew it all along

sequel to i don’t love you but i’d love to

this one won’t make as much sense if you haven’t read it!

rating: pg-13 pairing: yoongi/everyone, ot7, mostly yoonmin word count: 2950 warnings: discussion of homelessness and hunger

five times yoongi and jimin were probably dating and one time they definitely were

1.

Jin doesn’t like to keep score. He never calculates. Give and take is not an equal exchange.  

Taehyung turns pity into scraps and presents them as if they’re gold and Hoseok works every few nights heaving boxes between trailers in a loading dock and stashes a crisp large bill into Jin’s pocket when no one is looking and Namjoon talks pretty to anyone who comes sniffing around until they leave his family alone. Jimin is gentle and bright and gives them hope even when he can’t provide anything else. Yoongi has the bark and the bite and gives his body, all that he has, to keep them safe. Jungkook has nothing to offer but a cocky façade and a sheepish smile.  

Jin gets cash where he can and manages food more nights than he doesn’t and brings clothes and blankets and snags an old battery radio and he spends every minute of his life providing for and thinking of nothing but his boys. As far as he’s concerned, they’re all on equal footing.  

He doesn’t keep score, but he notices. When he’s giving more than he’s taking, more than is offered, more than there is to have, he knows.

It comes as a surprise when he realizes he’s getting more than he’s giving.

Jungkook comes home hollering and posturing more than usual, overcompensating to hide how shaken he is. Soon after, Yoongi struggles into the train car, deep bruising on his face and a heavier limp than usual. His body sags and his eyes, even the one not swollen shut, flutters.  

Naturally, presumptuously, Jin makes room in his nest of blankets and opens his arms and gives up on his vague dreams of going to sleep before midnight. It’s the unspoken but agreed upon order of things. Yoongi protects his boys. Jin dotes on him.

Only, Yoongi doesn’t slide into his respective place tucked entirely against Jin’s side. Yoongi doesn’t even look at Jin. Across the car, Yoongi sinks to the ground half a foot in front of Jimin and Jimin pulls him the rest of the way in until they’re so seamlessly entangled in one another that Jin can’t tell whose limbs are whose. No one else in the car seems to notice but Jin is transfixed.  

Jimin’s gentle fingers ghost over new bruises and mouths move with voices too low to be heard and Yoongi presses his forehead against the crook of Jimin’s neck and his body relaxes so entirely Jin forgets what it’s like to see Yoongi tensed and ready for a fight. He watches them for longer than he has any reason too, after Taehyung has wormed his way into the spot meant for Yoongi and started chattering about some book he read at the library that day.

The new inequality of their relationship settles beneath Jin’s ribs uncomfortably but Jimin kisses the top of Yoongi’s head so gingerly and Jin just barely sees the edge of Yoongi’s mouth pull up into a sleepy smile and he finds, even with the weight of it in his chest, he doesn’t care.  

2.

Hoseok isn’t hurt the first time Yoongi covers his playful grin with a harsh hand and shakes his head against Hoseok’s sultry offer for “some fun” one late afternoon when he was feeling a little worthless and a lot bored. It’s not unlike Yoongi to say no. Yoongi’s wavering mood towards Hoseok’s kisses is the reason he always asks first.  

He’s not hurt because Yoongi says no as often as he says yes. Yoongi may not be selective towards partners but he prefers a certain mood. How many people he’s already been with that day. Who’s around to see. He won’t kiss Hoseok the way Hoseok likes in front of Jungkook or Jin, but most days it’s fine in front of Namjoon or Taehyung. Jimin’s seen them once for a sure but Hoseok hasn’t had a chance to figure out where he falls in Yoongi’s lists. Yoongi doesn’t like to kiss Hoseok when he can tell Hoseok just thinks it’ll make him feel better – says he can’t be the one to solve all Hoseok’s problems, that he wouldn’t be able to if he tried. He won’t kiss Hoseok if it’s too soon after Hoseok has brought home money or food.  

So, Hoseok isn’t hurt. Sure, Yoongi hasn’t worked in a couple days and it’s only the two of them loitering around a secluded patch of tracks and Hoseok’s in as good a mood as ever and Yoongi is teasing him good naturedly and smiling in that cute little way he has like he’s worried he’s not doing it right. But Yoongi has his reasons and Hoseok has nothing if not respect.  

Hoseok doesn’t feel the sting of it the next four times either. It’s been a while, a few weeks, and he feels himself itching for affection. For the warmth of it, the closeness, the feeling of skin on his to replace the grime of being unwanted by everyone else. For how Yoongi will touch him ever so softly, like he might break, like he deserves to be nothing but treasured.  

Actually, Hoseok never feels anything but mild disappointment from Yoongi’s continued refusal to kiss him until it turns from simple rejection to being replaced entirely.  

He’s definitely not supposed to see, coming across them in a too long walk in the woods surrounding the abandoned train stop, kicking at underbrush and passing time until he can go and worm his way into a temporary night job for no questions, quick cash. Yoongi is easily recognizable, Hoseok intimately familiar with his slim frame and the ridges of bones in his back and the messy hair at the nape of his neck. Less recognizable, at first, is the hand tugging fingers through those tangles and the leg hooked around one of Yoongi’s thighs as he hovers over another person.  

When Hoseok and Yoongi kiss, Hoseok’s in charge. Yoongi is gentle hands and smooth movement, pliant under Hoseok, controlling only when he decides he’s had enough and slips out of Hoseok’s grasp. Here, Yoongi is hard, pressing down into his partner. Yoongi is leading, the body below him following every movement and a surge of jealousy so strong cuts through Hoseok's chest he almost thinks maybe all that time spent wrapped up in Min Yoongi meant more to him than he claimed.  

It wavers, when Hoseok starts to convince himself Yoongi might just be working. Then, the power dynamic shifts and the bodies roll and someone suddenly familiar comes out on top. If Hoseok didn't recognize him from the mess of brown hair, sticking in all directions the same way it does every morning, the high, melodic laugh that follows the new positioning would be a dead giveaway.  

The envy comes back two-fold as the heavy understanding that Hoseok has been replaced by his new best friend, Park Jimin, settles in. After several minutes of debating, Hoseok finally decides to leave them be, stalking away to the fading sound of happy laughter.  

There's an irritated tirade running on loop in the back of his mind, feet falling heavier and heavier the further he gets, the angrier he gets. He scoffs to himself, thinking there he is, replaced by some younger, prettier boy. Momentarily, he's not thinking about the fact that it's Jimin, he's just mad and jealous and more than anything else, there's a rough, desperate ache. It's too familiar – the feeling of being unlovable. That little voice that reminds him, really, no one will ever want him. Not when someone better comes along.

It's dampened, just barely, by the memory of Yoongi's bright, delighted laughter. Hoseok doesn't think he's heard anything like it before.

3.

Namjoon's feeling especially bored and, though he'd never admit it out loud, lonely. It seems like the universe is finally cutting him a break, offering the perfect gift to make up for the cards he was dealt when he sees them, by chance, his two favorite boys. There, only one hundred feet away, are Jimin and Yoongi. It's a rare sight to see Min Yoongi out in the town, particularly in the early afternoon. The strangeness of it makes it feel even more like fate.  

Something stops Namjoon, though, just as he's about to call out to them.  

Even from a distance, he can see the two of them quite clearly. They're huddled close together, bodies touching at the shoulder and the hip. Yoongi has his arm slung loosely across Jimin's back, his other hand stuffed deep into the torn pocket of the ratty coat he recently traded Jungkook his newer one for. At his side, Jimin is using his two free hands to spoon whatever they've bought out of a small cup alternatively into Yoongi's mouth and his own.  

Namjoon isn't mad, that the two of them are eating together. All of them eat what they can, when they can. That's the thing about desperation; you take what you can get. However you can get it. Everyone does it. Except Yoongi.  

Yoongi doesn't eat without sharing with everyone. If he gets food, he'll cart it around until he's surrounded by his brothers in their makeshift home. He'll let every other boy have a bite before he even thinks about taking one.  

It seems like something private, somehow, and Namjoon doesn't think he should interrupt. That doesn't stop him from watching, though, following slowly enough to remain undetected after they finish their snack and start to wander further down the street. The entire time, they stay pressed together, bodies always touching.  

A few blocks later, Jimin says something Namjoon is too distant to hear, and disappears into one of the stores they're passing. Yoongi stays outside, breathing warmth into his cupped hands while he waits patiently, and Namjoon starts to feel a little weird about his behavior.  

He's getting ready to cross the street, to make himself known, when Jimin reappears, this time holding a wide, dark green, knit scarf. Yoongi, loudly, whines a protest that dies as quickly as it starts when Jimin starts to wind it around Yoongi's neck.  

Still across the street, Namjoon watches as Jimin finishes, giving the ends of the scarf a quick yank before dropping his hands to his sides. Immediately, Yoongi ruins the work, tugging it down away from his mouth. Yoongi, head whipping to the side briefly to gauge how many people may be looking, cups Jimin's jaw in his hands and pulls him into a short kiss. When they part, Namjoon can just barely make out Yoongi's expression.

It's not the pride he's accustomed to. It's not the vague indifference he gives the rest of the boys. It's shy and pleased and warm.  

Namjoon smiles softly to himself, a little less bored, still lonely, and turns to walk back the way he came.  

4.  

The first time Jimin ends up intruding on Taehyung's nightly cuddle with Yoongi, the ones that they do not, under any circumstances, talk about, he's been staying with them for exactly eight nights and disappearing during the days and he stays, clutching Taehyung's arm, a full body away from Yoongi.

The second time is two weeks later and Jimin has stopped pretending like he doesn't belong. Taehyung falls asleep with his head on Yoongi's shoulder and his legs tangled in Jimin's. He wakes up rolled half on top of Jimin, Yoongi turned towards them so his knee touches Jimin's.  

Times three, four and five are all in a row – when Taehyung gets the flu – and he sleeps sandwiches comfortably between Yoongi and Jimin for three blissfully warm nights.

There's a long period, a few months, probably. Taehyung would know if he paid more attention to the passing of time. On the streets, the weeks kind of run together and they're lucky if he knows the day. Jimin, intentionally or not, ends up asleep across the car. Sometimes he's piled in with the other boys while Yoongi and Taehyung detangle themselves only to huddle in together. Sometimes Jimin detachess himself from the pack, especially in the warmer months, taking up a private corner.  

The sixth time is months after Jimin was dragged in, sick and scared and alone, by Yoongi and adopted whole heartedly into their found family. Just like the other times, the two of them start the night on opposite sides of Taehyung, touching him but not each other. Somewhere in the middle of the night, Jimin reaches across Taehyung to grab a fistful of Yoongi's threadbare t-shirt, but Taehyung doesn't mention it in the morning.  

And, if, during the eleventh time, Taehyung wakes up to find that Yoongi has settled in behind him in the middle of the night and he and Jimin have their hands clasped, tight and desperate, across his chest, he doesn't bring that up either.

Sometime around the twenty third time, Taehyung is demoted to the outskirts of the group. He'll alternate, in a pattern that seems random but is silently dictated by Yoongi, clinging to the free side of Yoongi's body while Jimin sleeps tucked up against the other and stretching out on Jimin's shoulder while Yoongi monopolizes the rest of him.  

Eventually, Taehyung loses count. It starts to seem a lot less like Jimin is interrupting him and Yoongi and more like he's the one intruding on them.  

5.  

It's a warm summer day. By some stroke of luck, they've eaten well for three days in a row. All seven of them are, for possibly the first time, healthy and full. There's even some snacks left, for later when the hunger inevitably returns, so no one is desperately searching for the next meal.  

The sun is bright and Jungkook, young and filled with food and robbed of a happy childhood, is filled with giddy, reckless energy. Fortunately for him, Taehyung and Jimin are almost equally childish and more than ready to appease him, and the three of them are chasing each other pointlessly. They run in wide, aimless circles, taking time to enjoy the weather and their quiet bellies and life. The other boys watch on, everyone just happy that everyone else is happy. It's one of the best mornings they've had in a long time.  

One by one, though, they start to leave the group. First Namjoon has to go to some show he thinks he might get paid for, if he does well enough. Then Jin, somberly, sighs that no food will last forever and wanders off to find something to do that might earn him some money.  

Hoseok, too, already has a job lined up for the day. When he calls back for Taehyung to come and help him, ruining their game, Jungkook helps Jimin clamber up to the top of the sun-warmed car.  

He kicks his legs, a little obnoxiously, against the metal wall. Yoongi, the last one left on the ground, looks up at him. He expects to be met with a glare and stills, but Yoongi only smiles at them. It's a special kind of smile, one he doesn't wear often.  

Yoongi tells them he has to leave too, and shakes his head when Jimin offers to come too.  

"Someone should stay with Jungkook," Yoongi decides, walking backwards away from them, "who knows what he'd do if we left him alone."  

Scowling, Jungkook elbows Jimin in the ribs when he laughs a little too hard and calls back, "I'm not a baby!"

Yoongi just laughs, too, still watching them. As he turns to look where he's walking, he says, "I love you."

Jungkook knows that Yoongi loves all six members of the pack, but he also knows that he has a special way of showing it to each of them. Jungkook, as far as he knows, is the only one Yoongi actually says it to. It seems only natural to assume it was meant for him, and he replies, "I love you too!"

Without looking back, Yoongi yells, "I was talking to Jimin."  

+ 1.

"Hey, Jimin," Jungkook calls as soon as Jimin appears at the tree line, approaching the little circle he, Hoseok, Namjoon and Taehyung are sitting in. They aren't sure where Jin is, and Yoongi was still asleep when they all came home, so they were waiting for everyone in a little pack, fifty feet from the train car. He waits until Jimin is closer to continue, no longer shouting, "settle a bet for us."  

"What is it?"  

"How long have you and Yoongi been dating?" Taehyung asks.  

The effect is instantaneous. An embarrassed flush burns across Jimin's cheeks almost as soon as Taehyung says the word "dating". There's a soft, surprised intake of breath before Jimin starts to sputter, voice uncomfortably loud, "DATING? Who's... dating... me and Yoongi? No... there's no..."

Jungkook interrupts, lips set in a sly smirk, "See, Taehyung thinks it's been at least a year, but Hoseok says it's definitely only been three months. Namjoon said it's somewhere between four and five, but I think it's been nine."

Namjoon mumbles that Jungkook isn't even basing his off anything, he just keeps randomly picking numbers, but no one pays him any attention as Jimin face colors even darker and he waves his hands frantically against their accusations, "Really, no one's dati-."

A voice cuts in a second time, slow and indifferent, pulling everyone's attention away from Jimin and his red face and his stammered lying, "You're all wrong, actually."  

Yoongi stands with his arms crossed, leaning against the half-open door of the train car. He's looking at his pack of idiot brothers instead of his boyfriend. Despite their confident teasing, Jungkook chokes on air and Taehyung's eyes widen at the admission.  

"It's been seven months."