#new years day at the mortuary | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

illitfiction · 27 days

Text

AFTER SO LONG part one of two.

JOTARO KUJO ── “ MATURE CONTENT﹕stone ocean timeline. afab reader. slight angst, family trope, possible positive ending. ✶ YOU DIDN'T expect to see him on your way to work, after leaving you and your two girls without saying much.

For as long as you can remember, your life has always been a bizarre journey.

It’s been a long time since you travelled around the globe and all the adventures you’ve gone through. After those memories you’ve made, you decide to settle for a normal life after fighting Dio with your friends that you’ve met along the way. That’s how you met Jotaro Kujo in those long years.

You and Jotaro were still young and had dreams after the battles. It took a while adjusting to normal life, normal routine with remembrances of friends that have passed and hellish fights that no teenagers should ever face. But the two of you manage alright; you went to mortuary school, and Jotaro pursued studying marine biology in the States.

Your feelings for Jotaro, that was once platonic, blossomed into love for him. He also reciprocates your feelings and when you’re both eighteen, the two of you settle to be together. Getting married at aged twenty-one whilst working on both degrees respectively. It wasn’t easy managing different responsibilities in both your life as students, young married couple and parents to two little girls within a short period of time.

You would do anything for your eldest and your youngest. Fight against the world to protect them as your motherly instinct resides in you the moment they were born. Jolyne and Joanna, born a year apart from each other, are your whole world. You raise them both together on your own, and in the beginning of your motherhood, you were okay with the arrangement since Jotaro needed to finish his studies before working on his doctorate.

But after that, Jotaro rarely sticks around.

He only visits you, Jolyne and Joanna sometimes for a few days before he’s off again overseas. Jotaro becomes distant to his family and that’s what you fear the most. This occurrence isn’t good for anyone, and you know that, especially for your girls. They always ask whereabouts about their father, why is Jotaro constantly away and they rarely get to see him. You would take a bullet for your daughters without hesitation, always. It’s heartbreaking to hear it every time from them how upset that their father is rarely in their lives.

And you know deep down that Jotaro would feel something for the family. You know he cares about them and you too, but sadly, he never changed and improved his relationship with the girls and even with you. It created ripples of rocky relationships and you weren’t sure that if it’s something you’re willing to live on most of your life.

Settling for divorce with Jotaro is never easy. Breaking the news to Jolyne and Joanna after that is the most painful thing you had to do. You know that they’re suffering once you broke the news. When their faces crumple into mixtures of anguish and disbelief, you wonder if you’re doing the right thing. You still think of it to this day, sometimes with regrets and sometimes with acceptance.

Despite the rocky few years of the girls’ childhood, your bond with Jolyne and Joanna is unbreakable. The girls are your whole world, watching them grow up together. As a single mother, there are challenges you had to deal with that you did whatever you could. Jolyne gets into fights and trouble, Joanna is so silent you worry about her well-being sometimes. You worry about both your girls most of the time. Without another parental figure besides yourself to be an exemplary role model to them… without Jotaro’s help… you find things on your own just difficult.

You think about Jotaro all the time. After the divorce, things hadn’t been easy. In the earliest beginning of your life as a single mother, you wanted to hate him for leaving. Hated how easily he agreed to sign the divorce settlement and disappear without saying much. Why couldn’t he put his family first before anything else? The two of you have been through a lot together… So why did he leave so easily?

You wonder if it hurt Jotaro as much as it hurt you.

So when an unfamiliar car is parked at the bus stop you frequently wait, and the driver opens the door on the other side, you see him right in front of you. Your heart drops a little.

“We need to talk,” Jotaro’s stoic expression matches the sedate tone of his.

You frown and close your eyes for brief moments, slowly exhaling out through your nose and mouth. The memory stills fresh and though wounds have healed, there are still invisible scars from all that’s happened. He shows up across from you after five years. You dreamt of this moment, but now it leaves an unpleasant taste on your tongue. “I have to go to work.”

Jotaro looks at you; properly looks in your direction when he lifts his head so that the cap no longer hides his eyes. Those stern, green eyes you’ve always remembered. You look into those eyes so many times — in Jotaro and in Jolyne and Joanna — and the resemblance strikes so much. “I’ll drive you to the hospital. We can talk on the way.”

There’s no point arguing with him and you enter Jotaro’s car without saying another word to him. A quiet car ride with him isn’t an ideal start of a long night shift of your workday. The journey feels stretched in the car from your bus stop to the hospital. And when you see the view of a familiar building at the window, the car doesn’t stop and instead, slowly rides by the side of the road in front of the neighbouring shops and buildings. You glare at Jotaro with a raised brow.

“We should eat first, then talk.” He says. “It’s still early.”

It’s only eleven-thirty in the morning. Around this time, you would have an early lunch before starting your work shift starting at one in the afternoon. Jotaro couldn’t have known this, but the lineup of this coincidence is too close for your comfort. You wanted to ask him how he would know about this routine of yours, but decide to withdraw yourself from speaking unnecessarily.

Eating outside is certainly cheaper than eating in the hospital’s cafeteria (despite you working there). You and Jotaro eat lunch at a Japanese restaurant, order something and not long after, the food arrives. The two of you eat in silence and it brings you back memories of your younger days. Memories of eating food together with him surfaces and have your heart aching a little. You eat with him a lot during your college days.

You take a peek of Jotaro through your lashes. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him and although he’s still as aloof and quiet, Jotaro has certainly gone older like you do. You’re both in your early forties with demanding careers. He still wears that cap and long overcoat that’s now eggplant colour instead of black and grey tones. His hair is much shorter and tidier. He’s still a six-foot-five colossal figure, though still large yet is slimmer than you last remembered.

When you look at him, you see that resemblance to Jolyne and Joanna in him again. They are his daughters, after all.

“You said you wanted to talk about something.” You begin, and it’s a sentence longer than you initially wanted to say to him. “So, talk.”

Jotaro stays quiet at that moment, settling down the chopsticks on the table. Digging his hands in his pocket, he leans back in his seat, and you weren’t able to see expression in his eyes. “Did you give the lockets I told you about to Jolyne and Joanna?”

He’s referring to the accessory that the girls have possessed since they were little. You know what’s inside them; a picture of you and him when you were both still young, then a picture of the girls. Jolyne’s locket has a picture of Joanna, whilst Joanna has a picture of Jolyne in hers.

“I send it to the prison centre along with Jolyne’s things. So, she’ll have it.” You said. “Joanna still has hers, though I doubt she carries it all the time.”

Jotaro frowns, “she should start carrying it with her at all times.”

Your forehead creases more, unable to figure out where the conversation is leading to. “What’s the meaning of this, Jotaro? Why are you here?” Why are you bargaining into our lives like this?

Another silence from Jotaro again gives you the hint that he most likely will not tell you his reasons, or at least, what you wish to hear. You give out a hopeless, soft snort and shake your head, looking down at your lap. So much has changed, yet remains quite the same.

Your brain moves like moving gears, trying to figure out Jotaro, understanding him. You have questions you want to ask him. As much as a part of you wants to be angry at him, another part wants you to know from him if he’s doing okay. Jotaro talks when necessary and it’s something that you’ve known for a long time. And you’re no ordinary person and ex-wife; you’ve gone through the same experience as he did. If there’s something dangerous that Jotaro knows and you know, then he must have a reason he doesn’t speak about it.

“Jolyne’s imprisonment was a setup.”

You shoot your head up to look at him. The confession has you on guard and fidgety, but you remain calm to let him explain. “It was all a plan; from the incident with Jolyne’s boyfriend to the judge’s decision at the hearing, it’s all a setup.”

“But why? I don’t…” Your eyes weaver. There must be a bigger picture you’re not insightful of since you, Joanna, and Jolyne live quite a peaceful life. Jolyne’s delinquent behaviour wasn’t to an extreme that she made enemies that could plot everything that fell into place. A set up … if Jolyne had already fallen into someone’s trap plan, then Joanna would meet a similar fate too…

Jotaro looks at you silently, knowing that you’re using your perception to make sense. It’s the thing that he admires about you, but of course, he doesn’t tell you that. Even though you’re more than capable of fighting for your own, he still worries. He thought he severed his ties from fighting enemy Stand Users. But evil never rests, huh? And even when DIO is long gone, other enemies similar to him are still in the shadows.

“So the past is catching up,” he hears you say. “I suppose you have a plan?”

Jotaro only shrugs his shoulders. “Leave this out with me.”

You frown so many times within the past hour today. Provocation rises in you as you glower at him. How does he expect you to sit back knowing that your daughters are in grave danger? “Have you forgotten that I have a Stand?”

To this, White Priestess appears at your side. No one in the restaurant can see the ghostly-like female figure, but only you and Jotaro can. Priestess has respectful abilities of her own with enhancing powers that ties to the seven senses better than humans. You haven’t used her in a fight for a long time after deciding to retire from being a Stand User fighter. You keep quiet about Priestess from Jolyne and Joanna, despite believing that there’s a chance they develop their own Stands in the future. It runs in the Kujo-Joestar bloodline and it also runs in you.

Star Platinum — Jotaro’s Stand — appears beside him. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Star and the Stand is still the same as ever. Priestess and Star look at each other with the same intensity as you and Jotaro are.

“Jotaro, how long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me in the first place?”

“It’s my problem and mine alone,” he says again. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m their mother,”

“And I’m their father,”

“You haven’t really been that long of a figure.”

If Jotaro is shocked by your outburst, his facial expression differs otherwise. He’s stoic, unfazed, and meanwhile, you feel nauseous to your stomach, like bile in your taste buds at what you just said to him. Did you say it stems from your protectiveness over your daughters as their mother? Or did you say it partly because of how easily Jotaro agrees to the divorce, and he’s now coming to your life like you’ve always hoped for? That closure you needed, but a harsh one to be jabbing at him.

Good grief, you imagine that’s what is going through his head right now. You almost want to smile at it.

“I understand that you’re hurt, but this is something I should be the one telling them the truth.” Jotaro speaks up when you look away from him.

You remain quiet and look anywhere else but him. You suppose that this is him redeeming himself and making it right. The thought of it warms your heart a little, knowing that he will always care for those he protects.

Jotaro asks the whereabouts of Joanna and you tell him she’s studying at her college library. “Okay,” he nods. “It’s almost one, I’ll walk you to the hospital.”

You still don’t know what he’s planning, knowing where Joanna is. Your hunch tells you that Jotaro would come for her, and then Jolyne. You don’t think you told him that Joanna is studying biochemistry to be a forensic scientist, but maybe… Joanna would have told him.

The two of you leave the restaurant and walk on the pavement towards the hospital. It’s been a while since you walked side-by-side with Jotaro. The view of the building is at sight, but you don’t feel ready to part away just yet.

“Hey,” Jotaro’s rough and aloff voice catches your attention. When you turn, you see that he’s a few steps away from you. It seems like whatever he needed to say to you has been settled. “I’m sorry for hurting your feelings in those times. Be careful.”

You only nod your head slowly, still unsure of what to say to him. Even when you gaze away from him for a moment, he doesn’t stop looking at you. When you say nothing more to him, he takes the sign to make his leave.

“Jotaro,” you realised what you’ve said. His back is still facing you and you’re thankful that he did, or else he would see your reaction. There’s so many things that you haven’t said to him, so many unresolved closures. You… you miss him. You obviously do. After all, he’s still the man you share your past with, creating Jolyne and Joanna in both your happiest days. Jotaro leads a tough life and… you now understand and accept his reasons for going along with the divorce.

You shake your head, “it’s nothing. Just be careful.”

Jotaro continues walking away, and for a moment, you stop to watch him go. Emotions are rising in you, but in the end, you hold yourself back and let him be. You have a working day that you have to face through. And as you walk towards the main entrance and watch the glass doors slide open, you’re ready to set in when something stops in your tracks.

You let out a soft gasp and your eyes widened when something warms your left cheek. At the corner of your eye, you swear you see Star Platinum right on the corner of your eye with a gentle “ora ora ” noise before he disappears. You turn around, knowing that Jotaro is still somewhere close by outside.

You’re not sure what it means, but it makes your heart swell and flutter like how you used to feel back when you were younger. Your phone beeps in your coat pocket and when you pull it out, there’s a message notification on your screen. Your heart does another somersault leap.

Jotaro Kujo: I’ll see you around again.

THANK YOU FOR READING! DONATIONS OR GIFTS ARE WELCOME.

#jotaro kujo x reader #jotaro kujo x y/n #jotaro kujo x you #6taro kujo x reader #6taro kujo x y/n #6taro kujo x you #jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo's bizzare adventure imagine #jojo's bizzare adventure stone ocean #jojo's bizzare adventure fanfiction #jjba x reader #jjba part 6 #jjba jotaro #illitfiction ; newest

38 notes · View notes

consult-sherlockholmes · 3 months

Note

Hello, Mr. Holmes! How are you?

So, long story short, I ended up with an optical microscope in my room more or less 4 months ago, with 200 previously made slides (secured in a proper box), and lots of new ones too, for me to prepare myself. I love microbiology (it's one of my hyperfixations, curse my neurodivergency) and now I love it even more (my mother has had to drag me away from the microscope - I named it Wesley - in the middle of the night multiple times now).

After much conversation, I finally convinced my mom to buy me the proper equipment to prepare the slides!

So, I'm sending this ask to you, as I know you also have a microscope and that you use it a lot: what kind of equipment do you recommend me buying (gloves, scalpel blades, tints, etc), while still remembering that all of the stuff needs to stay in my room (properly taken cared of by me, of course)?

For example, I'm unsure if different dyes are used for different smears and specimens due to it's affinity (I've noticed that on 'organic matter' slides, images are usually tinted purple or pink, while on plant-based slides, images are usually tinted green and blue, with a few red structures.) Considering that I don't have access to a mortuary, I will mostly make plant slides. There must be a difference in the dyes then, right?

Sorry for the long text! Hope this isn't too much of a bother.

- a 17-year-old :)

Congratulations on your new light microscope. I do hope you get the best out of it. I am overjoyed that someone else appreciates the art of microscopy and microbiology.

However, you need to be careful to not strain your eyes. It is recommended to take breaks every 15 minutes to close your eyes or focus on something in the distance to reaccommodate your eyes. And get up every 40 minutes, stretch and correct your posture. And it is recommended to not use a microscope more than 5 hours per day. John has to chase me away from my microscope sometimes to take a break when I sit there for hours, my posture like a Caridea.

Concerning equipment, you will obviously need a scalpel or other sharp blade to make very thin slices of your specimen, as thin as possible. And forceps to move your samples (best just get a whole dissection kit it has everything). Obviously slides and coverslips, pipettes for the stains or water, maybe some tubes. A pen to label your slides. In many staining procedures ethanol or acetone is also used. A waste jar to safely dispose of any chemicals, but be careful what you mix. A rack for staining and containers. I would recommend nitrile gloves, some people are sensitive to latex.

The dyes you use depend on the specimen. For example in histological slides of tissues hematoxylin and eosin are most commonly used (short HE-stain). That's what you most likely saw on your slides, it's blue, purple and pink. Hematoxylin is a basic compound extracted and oxidised from the logwood tree (Haematoxylum campechianum), and it stains acidic compounds in the cells (or basophilic because they have an affinity for basic substances). For example nucleic acids like DNA or RNA get stained by hematoxylin because they are basophillic. And where are lots of nucleic acids? In the nucleus and ribosomes, that is why they appear blue to purple in the staining because they bind hematoxylin. Eosin is an acidic compound, and stains basic or acidophilic compounds red or pinkish, like proteins, collagen, cytoplasm, extracellular matrix.

(Ductus epididymidis with HE-stain)

(Tongue HE-stain, pointer marking a ganglion; that is my picture)

Of course there are more specific stains for specific tissues like Golgi's silver staining for neurons.

For plants toluidine blue is often used, high affinity for acidic tissues, and can stain blue to green to purple. It is often combined with safranin, a basic azine, which is probably the red stain you saw. It stains polysaccharides and lignin, woody parts of the plant. Safranin and astrablue is also often combined, astrablue stains non-lignified parts of the plant.

(Ulex europaeus stem; not my pictures I don't have any samples currently, source Atlas of plant and animal histology)

Safranin is also used in bacteriology, in the famous Gram staining. In Gram staining you use crystal violet (blue/purple), Lugol's iodine solution, then wash it with ethanol and add safranin (red) as a counter stain. Bacteria is gram-positive if the crystal violet stays in their thick murein cell wall, can't be washed out with the ethanol and the bacteria stays blue. Gram-negative appear red because of the counterstain.

(Staphyloccocus aureus (violet, gram positive) & Escherichia coli (red, gram negative); not my picture, source Wikipedia)

However, I am not sure whether you have access to any of those substances, if they are too expensive for you or if they are too hazardous if used in your own room for a prolongued time. Of course those substances need to be stored properly, and your own room is probably not a good place, especially for ethanol or acetone. The fumes. I would recommend to ask your biology or chemistry teacher whether they can recommend anything further and where to buy said solutions in your area, and if they can't they are idiots. There are also many useful resources and tutorials on Youtube.

Another fascinating experiment for your microscope, that you can perform without buying any chemicals, is a hay infusion. You put hay into a container filled with water, and let it sit undisturbed for a week in a sunny area but not in direct harsh sunlight. During that time the microorganisms in the hay are reproducing in the solution, feeding on the polysaccharides of the hay. Protozoans also flourish in the hay infusion and eat the bacteria. It might get cloudy and a bit foul smelling (best not do it in your own room if you don't want to sleep next to a rotting smell). When you put a drop of the solution onto a slide and look at it in the microscope, you should see a variety of microorganisms like bacteria (like Bacillus subtilis), amoeba, ciliates, heliozoa, algae et cetera. At different depths of the liquid you should find different kinds of organisms, because of differing oxygen content. However, pathogens can also occur in the hay infusion so handle it carefully and work sterile, wash your hands properly.

And even if you don't work at a morgue you can still get tissue samples to experiment on, after all meat is sold in supermarkets, basically the same as a human body. And at the butchers they even sell organs like chicken hearts, pig kidney, liver, blood et cetera. Or observe your own hair under the microscope.

Which kind of samples and slides were included in your starter kit? Be careful to not leave them lying around in the sunlight, or the stain might fade. Always store them in the proper box.

46 notes · View notes

thosehallowedhalls · 1 month

Text

A Beginning

Book: Crimes of Passion

Pairing: Emma Rose (F!MC), Ruby Webster

Rating: Teen

Word count: 476

Summary: The beginning stages of Detective Rose and Doctor Webster's friendship.

A/N: Day eleven of my 30 days of drabbles. This is another one I want to expand on when the month is over. Prompt: friends from @choicesaprilchallenge24.

One

Emma looks at the body before turning to the medical examiner. "Dr. Webster, what was the cause of death? Your preliminary report said gunshot, but you registered some doubts at the time."

"As it turns out," Dr. Ruby Webster begins, "that was the cause of death, but Mr. Brown would have died regardless. He took a lethal dose of fentanyl some time prior."

"Any way to track down where it comes from?"

"I'm afraid that's your area, Detective..."

"Rose." Emma pushes her hair back and sighs. "Well, it was worth a shot. Thanks, Doctor."

"Any time. I must admit, I'm glad you noticed those doubts in the first place. Officers Holbeck and Morris seemed... less than inclined to do so."

She resists, barely, the urge to roll her eyes. "That's not a surprise. Please let me know if you find something else."

"Will do. I hope you find whoever did this to him."

Emma's eyes harden. "Oh, I will."

Two

"Medical malpractice case," Mafalda announces. "The client wants to prove that her mother's death was a direct result of Dr. Allen's negligence after surgery."

"That might be hard to prove."

"We'll need to consult with a medical examiner. The issue is that my usual guy just retired."

Emma cocks her head. "Actually... I might know someone. Ruby Webster. She works at Astoria Mortuary, I dealt with her a few times when I still worked at the precinct."

"What's she like?"

"Brilliant, perceptive, open-minded. And she seems to really care about justice for a change."

Mafalda nods. "Okay. Reach out to her. If she works out, we might have found our new consultant."

Three

"Dr. Webster!"

She turns to face her. "Detective! It's been a while."

"Yeah, I've..." Emma forces a smile as she holds out her card. "Taken a career detour. I'm with the Ginovesi Detective Agency now."

"That's a surprise. But considering you were waiting for me outside the mortuary, I assume you must have a professional reason to be here?"

"You assume correctly. A 57-year-old woman, perfectly healthy. Died three days after an appendectomy. Her daughter thinks it was malpractice."

"I'm guessing you have more details."

"I do. Any chance you'd be willing to help me out? Detective Ginovesi would reimburse you for your time, of course."

Webster looks at her watch and nods. "I want to help, but do you mind if we do it over coffee? I've been up for 18 hours."

"Sure. I owe you.”

Four

"Interesting place."

"Don't let the appearance fool you," Webster says with a laugh. "Best coffee in the city."

"Oh? I might owe you on more than one front in that case."

"You're a coffee person, too?"

"What other motivation is there to get up in the morning?"

"Exactly! I knew I liked you, Detective."

"Emma."

"Emma, then.” She smiles. “And please, call me Ruby.”

#emma rose #ruby webster #emma and ruby #crimes of passion #playchoices #30 drabbles in 30 days

22 notes · View notes

gvfgal · 3 months

Text

4. Star-Crossed Strangers

Barbarian. Biker!Jake

*18+, Minors DNI!

A/N: Here’s chapter four! As always, enjoy, & leave me your thoughts, comments make me really happy (:

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of death, violence, parental altercations, explicit language, mentions of sex, Jake dancing (it needs a warning)

Jake stood outside of Rex’s front door with the key clutched tightly in his hand, his breathing heavy and labored.All he could do was stare.

It was going on noon. You both had woken up around nine that morning, sharing a small breakfast of toast, eggs, bacon, and coffee before you left into town for a while. It took from that point up until now for him to muster enough courage to go over there, and now, he couldn’t manage to muster enough to go inside.

He thought briefly about turning around and forgetting about the whole thing. Nothing in there was probably worth shit anyways, he could have the whole place demoed and the lot cleared out by the weekend.

It was a solid idea.

Yet, he stuck the key in the knob anyways, remembering you had to jiggle the lock a bit before turning it. The door swung open, and the muggy heat from inside hit Jake so hard he had to turn away briefly. After a few moments he stepped inside, but only a couple steps, leaving the door open behind him.

Dust particles waltzed in the light streaming in from outside, casting an eerie glow upon the dismal space that held a trove of memories for Jake. Beer bottles adorned the coffee table, keeping company with abandoned cigarettes and an ashtray that had long surpassed its capacity. The worn-out couch and recliner, now cloaked in a thin layer of dust, seemed frozen in time, remnants of a life that had ceased to thrive. Jake had a pretty good feeling that the dust had settled long before Rex's departure.

The hum of the refrigerator drew his attention to the kitchen, where dishes mingled with scattered mail and miscellaneous items, mirroring the disorder on the dining room table. This chaotic scene wasn't new; the absence of a dining room table had been a constant in their lives. His survey continued, revealing old Barbarian memorabilia and pictures adorning the walls, while Rex's helmet, oddly pristine amidst the disarray, occupied the recliner.

As Jake moved toward the helmet, he halted, catching sight of the sizable hole in the wall next to the front door that was left there the night Jaxon died. Time had done nothing to mend it, and clearly Rex was in no rush to patch it up either. A wave of dizziness washed over Jake as he recalled the night that gaping wound had been inflicted, another indelible scar etched into the trailer's history.

10 years earlier…

In a daze, Jake traversed the living room, the weight of disbelief clinging to him like an unseen shadow. The earlier events, so surreal, danced on the periphery of his consciousness. The harsh reality of his best friend's demise, a violent echo in the vastness of the Nevada desert, refused to weave itself into the fabric of his understanding. Even as he accompanied Jaxon's lifeless form to the mortuary, the profound gravity of the situation lingered, yet to fully take root in Jake's shattered sense of reality.

Amidst the muffled voices of Rex and other Barbarians outside the trailer, Jake couldn't decipher the exact words exchanged. Yet, he didn't need clarity; the weight of unspoken truths hung thick in the air. As he paced, the events of that fateful day replayed in his mind, unfurling from the moments preceding their journey to the unforgiving desert.

The memory of Rex's insistence that Jake take a different post gnawed at him. Back then, it seemed a peculiar demand, but now, understanding had become of him, the beacon of light in the abysmal pit of reality.

Refusing to accept what his intuition already grasped, Jake resisted the belief that his father harbored such cruelty. Yet, the inevitable truth loomed over him.

The roar of bikes outside interrupted his contemplation. As Rex entered the trailer, shutting the door behind him, the air thickened, and Jake felt the walls closing in. Eyes locked with his father's, he sought a hint of remorse, a trace of regret in those weathered features.

Regret was there, but it carried an undercurrent Jake couldn't place—a deeper lament, perhaps.

When the distant echoes of engines faded, Jake's voice, heavy with pain, pierced the silence. "You knew, didn't you?"

Rex remained silent, the unspoken confirmation lingering between them like an unbridgeable gap.

"You knew Jaxon and Nicky were walking right into danger. That's why you assigned me as a spotter instead of on post with them."

His father's gaze briefly locked with his, a fleeting expression passing over his face before vanishing into the depths of resolve.

"Jake, there's a code of honor—"

"No bullshit!" Jake erupted, crossing the room with a flash, jabbing a accusatory finger into his father's chest. "You sacrificed my best friend for this damn motorcycle club without giving him a choice!"

Torn between remorse and unyielding pride, Rex swiftly defended his actions. "You want someone to blame? Blame Nicky. He's the dumbass who false-fired and fled!"

"I blame both of you!" Jake thundered, his face flushing with escalating anger.

"All I did was fulfill my duty and lead this club to the best of my ability," Rex asserted firmly, his demeanor holding a defiant edge. "That's all I've ever done."

Jake scoffed, so infuriated that calm had now taken over his body, “leader. Yeah, right. You’re no fucking leader, Rex, you’re a fucking coward. You’re a shit leader just like you’re a shit father.”

Rex's anger reached a boiling point, and in the fevered intensity, he lunged toward Jake. Anticipating the move, Jake retaliated. The two men clashed in a chaotic tussle, more a collision of forces than a refined fist fight. They grappled fiercely, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Finally gaining hold of Jake's shirt, Rex, fueled by his anger, propelled them both into a violent collision with the wall, causing it to crumble behind Jake.

“You watch your mouth talking to me boy,” Rex huffed as he held Jake firmly into the hole behind him, “you remember regardless what you think, I am your leader.”

Everything Jake already knew clicked in that moment. Rex was so caught up in the Barbarian life that he would never be able to see Jake’s pain as his son.

‘I am your leader.’

Not ‘I am your father.’

Jake shrugged himself out of Rex’s hold, to bothered in that moment to grab any of his belongings. With only his wallet in his pocket, he went and grabbed his helmet of the table, along with the keys for his bike.

Rex watched silently as Jake made his way to the door. He knew, for whatever reason, that his son wasn’t just going for a ride to clear his head. He had a feeling he wouldn’t be seeing Jake for a long time after that, but decided he’d grapple with that later.

Instead, on his way out, Rex called behind him, “yeah that’s right, run away when things get rough. Just like your fucking mother.”

Jake slammed the door behind him, and Rex thought that was the end of it. But before he heard the sound of Jake’s bike, he heard the sound of his front window crashing, a large rock tumbling through the opening and rolling to his feet.

“Fuck you!” Jake shouted from outside.

After the shock wore off, Rex ran and opened the front door of his trailer just in time to watch Jake speed out of Cactus Creek for the last time.

That, was one of the very last interactions Jake had with his father. And now he was dead. In that moment something ticked in Jake that set him off completely. He didn’t know if he was more sad, or angry, but he knew he had to let it out.

He lurched forward with a closed fist, placing another hole in the wall next to the one that was left there that fateful day. When he didnt feel any better, he did it again.

He walked over to the coffee table and kicked it, sending its contents flying into the air and scattering about the living room.

“Fuck!” He shouted, “Fuck, fuck fuck, fuck!”

The pictures that once hung on the wall went crashing to the floor as Jake pulled them down one by one, curses flying from his mouth all the while.

He shouted for Jaxon, he shouted for Rex, he shouted for leaving, he shouted for coming back. His rampage continued until he’d exerted all of his energy, falling into one of the dining room chairs out of breath.

He didn’t know how long he was sitting there before you entered the trailer. You looked around cautiously, taking small steps over broken glass and crumbled pieces of dry wall.

“Jake,” you called out softly, making your way over to where he was sat and kneeling in front of him. His head was in his hands, his elbows resting on his lap, “Jake what happened?”

“I’m sorry,” his voice was mumbled, and from the way it sounded he might have been crying. “There’s too many memories here and I- I can’t-”

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay,” you reassured him as you rubbed soothingly along his back, “you dont have to apologize.”

He looked at you then, remnants of tears in his eyes, his face beet red. He then turned to assess the damage he’d done. If the place weren’t already a shithole, he’d probably feel a bit of remorse.

This is what ten years of running from your problems looked like.

You continued rubbing his back in attempts to soothe him, the two of you sitting quietly for a full three minutes, the door of the trailer still hanging wide open.

“Hey,” you said calmly, causing Jake to peer over at you, “why don’t we go home?”

Home.

You stared into his eyes with genuine concern, and you were surprised that he held your gaze for as long as he did.

Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

He stood from the chair and began shuffling towards the door, glancing one more time at the now three holes left in the wall. He was out of the house before you, and you picked up the keys from the floor to lock the door behind you.

There was still a lot you didn’t know about Jake. You didn’t know how deep the pain went when it came to his father, to the Barbarians. But seeing the destruction he’d left in Rex’s house gave you a pretty good idea of how troubled he was in his mind.

Jake was pretty much back to normal by the next day after a night of drinking at the Tavern and a few rounds of mind-blowing sex with you. The two of you never talked about what happened that day, but every time you went outside, you found yourself eyeballing Rex’s trailer, thinking about the mess that laid behind the door.

That Friday morning, you sat outside in a lounge chair, catching early morning rays of sunlight while Jake inspected your beat down car. One of the Barbarians, who conveniently owned a tow truck, lugged it back to your house last night, and now Jake was assessing the damage.

You’d steal glances at him every so often, shamelessly turned on by how sexy Jake looked covered in a bit of sweat and motor oil.

“I don’t know Cherry,” he warned, standing up straight and wiping his hands on a spare rag, “I think this old thing is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Shit,” you sighed, dropping you head in your hands, “how the fuck am I supposed to get to work? I can’t keep depending on Angela for a ride.”

Getting to work was the least of your worries. Having to get a new car was going to set you back months. You couldn’t afford months.

Jake looked empathetic before a light bulb went off. He glanced across the street to Rex’s house. His bike, covered in tarp, and the chocolate brown 2000 Chevy Silverado that Rex hardly ever used.

“That old Chevy in my dad’s driveway,” he pointed it out to you, “I think it just needs a new battery and it should run just fine.”

“You’re just gonna give it to me?”

Jake shrugged, “well, yeah. You know, until you can get something of your own. But it’s no rush or anything.”

You weren’t used to generosity, and definitely not on this scale, a car was no small thing. But you were in no position to turn the offer down, so instead you smiled graciously.

“You’re the best, you know that?”

Jake smiled back at you before lowering the car’s hood, sitting on top of it so that he was positioned directly in front of you.

You stared at one another for a moment before he broke the intensity.

“I wanna take you out, Cherry.”

Your brows drew together causing Jake to chuckle. You weren’t opposed to the idea in the slightest, just simply surprised.

“Not many places to go ‘out’ here.”

Jake reached forward to squeeze your bare ankle, “I’ll figure it out. Just be ready by seven and wear something pretty.” He stood and kissed your forehead again, something he was doing quite often lately, before smoothing a hand over your head, “I gotta go meet with the guys. I’ll be back later, okay?”

You looked up at him, the sun haloing around his head, inspecting the scar on his eyebrow that was finally beginning to fade.

“Okay.”

Jake slid into an empty chair beside Steeljaw just as Ace was calling the meeting into order.

Steeljaw reached down and retrieved an ice cold beer from the cooler by his feet, using the handy bottle opener on the side to remove the lid before handing it to Jake.

“Thanks,” he raised the bottle before taking a sip and focusing on Ace at the front.

“Alright Fellas, I’ll keep this as short as possible so we can all get on with our days. I spoke with some of the men from the EDS and we’ve got a meeting set up with them for tomorrow in Corona. We’ll need to head out pretty early to make it in time.”

There were a few murmurs amongst the crowd, but no one seemed opposed.

“Now there’s no need for all of us to make that trip, so only Sector Ones and Sector Twos will be going. Sectors Three and Four will stay here, hold down the fort till we get back.”

Sectors, for the Barbarians, ranked the level of your membership. Sector One was usually leadership positions, Sector Twos being other long standing members of the club. Sectors Three and Four were the probes and other guys who have yet to really prove themselves.

Jake was a Sector Two, as was Steeljaw, and Madcap, and Ski Ball, and a few other guys Jake was pretty close with. But so was Nicky, unfortunately.

He looked across the room to where Nicky was standing, hardly surprised that Nicky was already scowling over at him. Jake scoffed, shaking his head and facing the front of the room again.

“We should only be gone a couple of days, so make sure you tell your ladies so we have no problems. If I have one more of them coming and bitching at me I don’t know what the hell I’ll do.”

Laughter sounded off in the room, “alright, next order of business…”

The rest of the meeting carried on for only another five minutes before Ace was dismissing them. The men poured out into the Tavern, but Ace caught Jake before he could leave the room.

“You ready?” He asked him.

Jake response was delayed, “don’t know why I wouldn’t be.”

Ace nodded, though his face held a look of uncertainty. He hesitated, “If it’s too soon I can-”

“Ace,” Jake interjected, his voice clipped, “it’s cool. I’ll be cool. I’ve done it a dozen times before.”

“Okay, okay,” Ace conceded, “I hear ya.”

Silence lingered between them before a smirk crept up on Ace’s face.

“You got time for a few rounds of pool, or do you need to get back to your Cherry Bomb.”

Jake nudged him playfully, shaking his head at his school boy antics, “come on, I’ve been waiting to whoop an old man’s ass in pool all day.”

“Two years living in Genoa and this is my first time coming here.”

Geno’s was Genoa’s only Italian restaurant, and it was just about as fancy as the people in that town could get. It was located in central downtown, situated between a dive bar and a recently closed furniture warehouse. The warm glow of string lights adorning the ceiling casted a warm and inviting ambiance over the modest yet charming space.

Jake grinned at you from across the table, admiring the way the candle flickering on the table lit up your face.

“Yeah, it’s a hidden gem. My mom used to bring me here whenever she was around. Not exactly fancy, but it’s our kind of fancy.”

You returned his smile, noting the way his face seemed to brighten with the memory. Jake seldom delved into discussions about his mother or any personal aspects of his life. It didn't faze you, though; that’d be hypocritical. After all, you had shared very little about your own life with him.

But it was nice to hear the little things.

“That’s really sweet.”

Jake picked up his menu, and you hesitated briefly before offering your own memory to him, “my mom’s favorite restaurant was Applebees.”

He looked up at you with an amused look, followed by a hearty laugh. You liked his laugh, you liked making him laugh. You wanted to do it again.

“She used to make me tell the waiters I was twelve up until I was like fifteen. I think at a certain point they knew but kinda didn’t give a shit anymore.”

His laugh grew louder, but luckily, the place was close to empty.

“That’s good stuff, Cherry,” he sighed, taking a sip from his water to collect himself, “you look beautiful tonight by the way.”

You weren’t one to blush often, but in that moment you did, even if it was only momentarily.

“Thanks. Not so bad yourself,” you played it cool, lifting your chin while Jake smirked at you.

Finally, you picked up the menu and scanned it, “so, what’s good here? Any family favorites?”

“Wellll,” he answered, “Vicky always swore by their lasagna. She said it’s ‘like a warm hug on a plate’. And you can’t go wrong with their garlic knots.”

Your eyes lit up with amusement. “Warm hug on a plate, huh? I’ll take Vicky’s word for it. Lasagna it is.”

The waitress brought out the bottle of Pinot that Jake ordered, pouring you both a glass before setting the bottle on the table. She quickly scribbled down your order and walked away.

Jake raised his glass in your direction, “to you, Cherry.” You raised your glass in return, cocking an eyebrow, “to you, Barbarian Prince.”

Yes, Jake hated that nickname, but coming from you, it wasn’t so bad, he rather liked it.

In the simplicity of that Italian restaurant, with its rustic charm and timeless appeal, Jake and you made room to savor the present while honoring the echoes of the past.

Once dinner and a bottle and a half of wine were finished, you and Jake walked along the streets of downtown Genoa, by no means crowded but still active nonetheless. You were hand in hand, as if you’d been a couple for a long time. Not like two broken strangers who met barely a week ago and some how sort of lived together.

But it was comfortable, it felt right.

As you neared the end of the street, you could hear the sounds of upbeat country music pouring out from a juke joint on the corner. Jake stopped and looked at you, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “you wanna go dancing?”

Your eyes went wide in shock, “really? You don’t strike me as the dancing type.”

Jake feigned fake offense, “Cherry you wound me,” he began dragging you across the street in the direction of the music, “now I have no choice but to show you just how much of the dancing type I am.”

You resisted his tug, but it was no match to his adamancy, “Jake, that place is full of nothing but old people.”

He looked back at you and sent you a goofy wink, “all the better. Come on Cherry, the night is young.”

The first place you stopped was the bar, ordering two double shots of whiskey each, knocking them back before hitting the dance floor.

You were right, it was nothing but old people, and Jake was right too; all the better. They seemed to be a lively bunch, everyone hitting the dance floor at some point during the night. Couples glided and twirled around, dancing close to one another and never slowing down. You and Jake blended right in, laughing and joking the entire time as you guys tore up the dance floor right along with them.

Jake was indeed a pretty good dancer. He led with ease, and every so often he’d roll his hips into yours, and the old ladies around you seemed to be more affected by it than you were. Of course the alcohol in his system was making him a little more confident than normal, but that’s what made it more entertaining.

Though you loved dancing, you weren’t the greatest at it, but that night you couldn’t care less. This was the most fun you’d had in a long time, and in that rundown juke joint surrounded by people twice your senior, you felt like you could let go.

Spending time with Jake had a way of making you feel like that, you were starting to enjoy it.

As you continued to dance, Jake broke away from you and began dancing on his own, shimmying to the music. Once again, all of the woman in the room were distracted, some of them cat-calling him from across the bar. You were doubled over with laughter in the middle of the dance floor as people continued to shuffle around you.

“Don’t you ever,” Jake shouted to you over the music, “say I’m not the dancing type every again.”

He pulled you back into his arms as you continued to laugh, feeling the alcohol’s full effects.

“Come on,” Jake chuckled, “it’s getting late, let’s head out.”

You checked your phone and were surprised to see that you guys had been there for over two hours.

“Okay,” you purred as you hugged him close, “let’s go home. I want you to show m some of those moves again.”

You and Jake went at it for hours when you got home, both of you trying to fuck the alcohol out of you system. It pretty much worked, but it left you both feeling drained, your sweat-slick bodies tangled between one another and the sheets.

Mötley Crüe droned lowly in the background as Jake ran his hands through your tousled hair.

“I have to go to New Mexico in the morning with the club.”

You didn’t answer right away, letting his words sink in before turning to gaze at him.

“How long are you gonna be gone?”

“No more than a couple days. It’s quick business.”

Nodding, you began tracing along one of his tattoos as silence lingered again.

“We haven’t spent a day apart since you got here,” you teased a bit, causing Jake to chortle. But you looked back up at him then, more serious in your expression, “why do I feel like I’m gonna miss you?”

As he did often, Jake leaned down and kissed your forehead, “I know, Cherry. I think I’m gonna miss you too.”

You nestled closer too him, and he welcomed you in, giving you a squeeze, “I’ll bring you something back, how does that sound? Something to let you know I was thinking about you.”

A smile crept up on your face then, and you didn’t bother trying to hide it. It was true, that after everything that’s taken place over the past week, you still didn’t really know Jake, nor did he, you.

But for some reason, there seemed to be an understanding that neither of you cared about that. What you had right now worked for the both of you. You were wounded in your own ways, and you brought each other comfort, it was as simple as that.

So you decided not to argue, instead you leaned into the bliss of it, “alright.”

Jake grinned at you, “alright Cherry.”

Taglist: @edgingthedarkness @earthgrlsreasy

#greta van fleet #gvf #greta van fic #greta van fleet smut #jake gvf #greta van smut #greta van fleet fic #jake kiszka #jake kiszka fic #greta van fleet fan fiction #jake kiszka smut #jake greta van fleet #greta van angst #greta van fluff #gvf fanfiction

31 notes · View notes

profanepurity · 1 year

Note

I stg you’re gonna make me cry with secondo trying his best to be a decent dad despite being busy as papa

I’m so happy you caught that part of the fic!

When I tell you Secondo would never put his baby girl down if he could. Not only is he terrified of losing Bellamy like he almost lost Diana, he’s so afraid of being like how Nihil was to him. The first few years of Bellamy’s life Secondo is nearly breaking himself. Papa did everything he physically could to at least see her and hold her once a day.

Sister Diana had to return to her duties earlier than either of them wanted to, which meant a lot of juggling with Bellamy. Diana often worked very late shifts in the mortuary, along with her other obligations as a sister of sin, and Secondo was constantly busy as Papa.

Secondo knew he only needed to ask one of his brothers, or even Omega to care for her for a night and they would, but Papa stubbornly refused that option unless he absolutely had to exercise it, especially when faced with having to ask Primo. While his older brother was of course amazing with Bellamy, Secondo was well aware that Primo had cared for him alone at a very young age, along with Terzo, pretty much their entirely childhoods. His brother was forced to mature and give up that part of his life for them. It didn’t matter how many times Primo would attempt to convince him that it was fine, the guilt of having to ask Primo to sacrifice his time again for his own daughter cut too deep. It’s hard to remain a stoic Papa when you look at your aged brother holding your new born daughter, and you start to wonder how much longer he’s going to be around for you….

But don’t worry, whenever it’s sad, tired old man hours at 2 am finishing paper work with Bellamy in his arms, there’s always the presence of the unholy mother near by. Lilith is the only being other than Diana that Secondo will allow to help with his daughter without any fight. Not that Papa has much of a say when it comes to Lilith.

She’s always there to offer reassurance 🖤

174 notes · View notes

its-a-snood-silly · 9 months

Text

Wenclair Headcanon 🖤🩷

Wednesday realizes her feelings. Pt. 2

Enid’s POV

I can feel my mouth hanging open, but honestly, I don’t care. THE Wednesday Addams just confessed her feelings for me. My brain feels like it’s spinning with a million thoughts, yet is completely blank all at the same time. My chest feels tight and my cheeks feel hot.

Say something, Enid. Anything.

Why can I not form words right now?

“It would be nice if you could say something right now, Enid.” Wednesday says in a tone that’s way too quiet for her usual demeanor. I’d almost go as far as to say she’s showing some shyness right now.

God, she’s probably feeling totes vulnerable right now, say something you spineless furball!

“I- um… I like you too Wednesday. I have for awhile. I just didn’t ever think you’d feel the same way towards me, so.. I buried it and told myself that I can just work it out with Ajax, but… You’re the only person that truly stays on my mind-“

Really Sinclair, freak-a-zoid much?

“Wait- I uh mean… Um…. I mean, I-“ My palm flies up to my forehead in shame. I can tell I’m nervous from how fast I’m talking. She’s totally going to be weirded out.

“You’re the only thing that stays on my mind as well.” her voice says, her tone a bit more confident this time. I can feel myself blushing. The atmosphere around us feels as though it softens, and just as I sense myself moving closer towards her, the bathroom door flies open. Wednesday instinctively jumps back a couple feet, and I can feel my heart racing as I turn around to see who came in. “What on earth is taking so long? What is going on in here?” Professor Lavinia questions.

Omg… How long have we been in here? Class for sure ended a long time ago.

Before I can even form a sentence, Wednesday has already started. “You’ll have to excuse us, Professor. We got carried away in a debate against the effectiveness of being burned at the stake versus hanged. I’m sure you understand, being a history buff yourself,” she says. Professor Lavinia’s jaw clenches, and in that moment I swear you could visually see her pupils narrow. “Watch it, Miss Addams. Inappropriate wasting of time when you should be in class is not a great way to start off the new school year. You both missed the entirety of the orientation presentation. Go on off to where you’re supposed to be. Now!” Lavinia scolds. I lower my head and follow shortly behind Wednesday on the way out. While we’re walking, a sudden wave of euphoria washes over me, and I can’t help but to add a skip in my walk.

“Sooo…. Where are you off to next?” I ask Wednesday, hoping our schedules for this year line up. She glances at me, and then moves her eyes back to the hallway in front of us. “The main office. I have a meeting with advisory to decide on a focused major,” Wednesday replies. I can’t read her tone this time. “Oh-em-gee, you should totes go for Mortuary Science. It just screams Wednesday so perfectly!” I squeal. Wednesday’s jaw tightens. “Enid, please. Can you take it down a notch?” she says, colder infliction this time. “Sorry.. You’re right. Just kind of feeling giddy. You know, after everything that…. Nevermind. Anyways- Good luck at your meeting roomie! I’ll catch you later!” I say, leaving her with a wink. I notice the slightest upturn in her lips. It makes my stomach flutter. As I turn the other way, I catch a glimpse of Yoko and hurry to catch up with her.

“Hey Yoko! First day going great for you too?” I greet, hoping my manneurisms aren’t more enthusiastic than usual. “Oh, as great as lectures, first-day homework assignments and moody outcasts can be. You’re in a good mood. What’s happening in Enid-ville?” Yoko immediately questions.

Oh hell. Am I THAT obvious?

An uncontrollable smile spreads across my face. “It’s been quite a first day, for sure.”

(aaah i don’t know if this is good, it was a bit more challenging writing from enid’s pov! hope u like, more to come xx)

#wenclair #wednesday series #wednesday netflix #enid x wednesday #wednesday x enid #netflix wednesday #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #emma myers #jenna ortega

85 notes · View notes

hometoursandotherstuff · 2 years

Photo

I was so taken by those stairs that Jay-Works submitted this morning, that I just felt that the house was something special. Never have I been attracted to any other death stairs. Coincidentally, I was browsing thru one of my favorite online mag’s this afternoon, “The Wealden Times,” and lo and behold, there it was!

Alistair Hendy, the owner, is a chef, writer and photographer. After five years of painstaking restoration he has succeeded in returning his 16th century merchant’s house in Hastings Old Town, UK, to its pared-back Tudor glory.

He calls it the Christmas House b/c he opens it to the public in December. Entering the house straight into the drawing room, its sizeable inglenook, stone floor and wood paneled walls stand out.

Alastair brought his log store inside, so there’s a plentiful supply of bone-dry logs to stoke the open fires.

In rooms where candle light isn’t enough, he installed simple lighting in the form of adjustable pendants.

The shutters are rarely open b/c Alastair doesn’t like to see the modern street. Sunlight illuminates wisps of smoke that swirl from the open fires.

After peeling back centuries of updating, it has a pared down, utilitarian look and even the fixtures and fittings look as they might have when they were first installed.

Previous owners actually did more harm than good, modernizing in a pedestrian and thoughtless way, adding carpets and curtains and other urbane fixtures and fripperies. “It’s been more of a re-creation than a restoration project,” says Alastair.

Mod cons like plumbing and lighting are cunningly concealed out of sight in the rest of the house, but hints of modern-day living and appliances can be seen in the kitchen.

Alastair’s remarkable and imaginative conversion of the kitchen area, which was once a little tv room.

Alastair is also trained in theater and costume design so all the additions are meticulously executed, like the set of an elaborate production.

You can see where the floor has been lowered and the ‘new’ stair carefully slotted into an original beam.

The kitchen and dining room are situated in the rear wing of the house that was used as a mortuary, right up until the 1950s.

And, here they are- the stairs.

This is the pretty room we glimpsed from the stairs.

Alistair’s vision and hard work have gone into creating a house so interesting and atmospheric that it’s turned into a tourist attraction.

The Xmas decorations are subtle and understated, and also have a European feel.

The main bedroom has a raised bed enclosed by wood paneling and shutters.

The bathroom furnishings are from many different countries and periods, but they all share the same raw simplicity.

In the attic bathroom, is an original bathtub lined with lead. Its sheer weight meant that the floor had to be reinforced to safely support it.

A trap door in attic bedroom floor opens to reveal the room below.

https://priceless-magazines.com/interiors/the-christmas-house/

#16th cen. house restoration #historic tudor UK #16th cen. architecture #christmas house #long post

292 notes · View notes

sireditsalot4 · 4 months

Text

A cry for help CH 3

Summary: It’s a boring day at the mortuary.

Zelda Spellman x Fem!Reader

A/N: Again, if any grammar mistakes I apologize.

Looking out the kitchen window, you watch Sabrina and her friends along with a couple of academy students hang about talking and catching up on their lives. After all it was a Friday, but for you it was just a regular day. Boring day, at that fact.

“Why don’t you go out there, love?” Hilda asks. “Make some new friends.” You shrug, still looking out. “I don’t know, it’s just I’m not a part of them so it’ll feel weird…forget it.” Turning away from the window, you look at what Hilda is doing and see her grabbing fresh lemons, “Need help?” You start to grab the lemons and grab the cutting board. “Oh, thank you dear. Nice slices,” She instructions. You hear high heels coming towards the kitchen and a second later Zelda appears in view.

“What are you two up to?”

“Making lemonade for the kids. Want to help?” Hilda holds up a lemon to Zelda, who makes a face in return. “I’ll pass. I actually want to talk to Y/N for a second. Do you have a second?” You stop what you’re doing and look up. “Oh, okay.” Grabbing the lemon and knife from you, Hilda waves you off towards Zelda. “Off you go, dear.”

Following Zelda into the living room you watch her grab two brandy glasses from her stash she has in the middle of the hallway and pour herself and you a drink. Walking back to you she holds out the now half full glass. “Come. Sit.” You follow and sit across from her in the chair. She sits down and places her feet on the little foot rest she has. “So, what did you want to talk about?”

“I actually want to tell you that I admire you, you came a long way in such a short time. I knew witches who went through what you did and they would keep it with them for weeks, sometimes years, but you-you are different,” You feel a blush spread across your cheeks. Zelda raises her glass to her lips and takes a sip and you do the same before looking at the fire that is behind you. From the corner of your eye you see Zelda lean forward towards you which brings your attention back to her and she leans in with a look in her eyes.

“You are a remarkable woman, Y/n. Truly,” This time you didn’t break eye contact with her. You glance down at her lips that part slightly and your mouth goes dry-

“Aunties!”

Sabrina’s voice sounds from the entrance, along with her friends. Quickly pulling apart and standing, you place your glass down and Zelda stays sitting, calm. Hilda comes out of the kitchen with fresh lemonade and the teens run up and each take one. “I should go wash up for work tomorrow. It was nice talking to you Zelda. Maybe we should…do it again sometime?” The ginger nods. “Anytime.” With that you wave at Sabrina and everyone and make your exit to your room.

“What were you and Y/N talking about?” Hilda asks handing out cups.

“Nothing of importance to you, sister,” Zelda responds, getting up, annoyance in her voice. She walks past Hilda and grabs a cup for herself.

#chillingadventuresofsabrina #chaos #zelda spellman #zelda spellman x reader

40 notes · View notes

sometimesbrave · 4 months

Text

read chapter 1: here, chapter 2: here, chapter 3: here

warnings: dead bodies

June 1986

***

"The death of me was so quiet

No friends and family allowed

Only my murderer, you, and the priest

Who told you to go to Hell"

- doomsday by Lizzy McAlpine

***

Today was the one year anniversary of Raja Mannar's reign in Khansaar. As a gift to their king, a Mannar Dhora delivered the Khansaar court the good news: Dhaara Shouryanga Raisaar's wife and son are dead.

They were both found in Odisha. They were captured to bring back to Khansaar. But they both had tried to escape again, so, they were beaten so much their faces were brutally disfigured and eventually they died. Raja Mannar had planned to hang the bodies outside Khansaar court, but he was advised against it, as it may instigate a few rebels. After seeing the two bloody corpses, he was finally at peace. This chapter has finally come to an end. No rightful claims to the throne remained. The throne of Khansaar belonged to him and him alone.

When Varadha received this news, his soul left his body. He felt as though he was observing himself from the outside. Then he heard someone screaming very loudly. Then he realised it was him. He had actually fallen to the floor, screaming his guts out while Baba hugged him to try and calm him down. Baachi was peering at his brother through the door, not understanding what to do.

After a few hours, Varadha went to the hospital to see the bodies against Baba's wishes. The most important thing now was to make sure the death rites were done properly. It was the least Varadha could do. He can deal with his grief another day. Today he had to be responsible. When he was about to enter the mortuary, Baba took him aside.

"Varadha, whatever you see in there, must be between us. You cannot get shocked. You must accept the truth that Deva and his mother are gone, forever."

Varadha nodded his head. He entered the mortuary and saw two bodies covered in white sheets. He asked the helper to lift the sheets.

The helper looked at Baba concerned, "Sir, I don't think that's a good idea."

Varadha would not budge from his position.

"I am ordering you to lift the face covering. I will not ask again."

The helper relented and lifted the covers off both the bodies.

Varadha did not recognise the faces. There was nothing recognisable. They were so beaten. The eyes and lips were swollen while the scalp was ripped in a few places on both of them. Varadha's hands shook as he approached the bodies. He stood beside the boy's body and began to cry. He fell on his body and started weeping hysterically. Baba tried to pull him away from the body when Varadha noticed something. The bruise Deva got after his fight with Rudra's pahalwan….the electric wire shocked him. The bruise spanned from his arm to his neck and it was no longer there.

This was not Deva.

Varadha looked at Baba in disbelief.

Varadha was about to speak when Baba interrupted him, "Varadha, you are just in shock. We should get you home as soon as possible and plan for the death rites. We have to honour your friend and his mother. We must leave now."

As soon as Varadha and Baba reached home, Varadha hugged him.

"That is not Deva and Amma", he choked.

"No, they are not.", Baba admitted,

"They are just dead bodies of couple of poor strangers who will be buried in a strange land."

"But why?!", Varadha asked in disbelief.

"Because you are not the only person who cares about Deva and his mother. There are few powerful people in Khansaar who want them to be left alone"

"Who are they? Is it a Mannar Dhora?!"

"I also don't know alright. Just be grateful that this worked out in your favour. The most important thing for you to remember is that Deva and his mother are dead to Khansaar. So, your behaviour must not raise any suspicions.", Baba warned.

Though Varadha was overjoyed that Deva and Amma are not dead, he was sad that these strangers' bodies were mutilated and not given to their rightful family. The least he could do was provide them a proper funeral.

Thus, Raja Mannar believed that, on June 27th 1986, Deva Shouryaanga Raisaar and his mother's pyres were lit by his traitorous son, Varadharaja Mannar.

****

tags: @deadloverscity @ghostdriftexistence @sambaridli @rambheem-is-real @sinistergooseberries @vardhamannartitties, @moonnpaww @literariyumi @sana2410 @varadevaficrecs

#salaar #varadharaja mannar

18 notes · View notes

blueiskewl · 7 months

Text

1,000-Year-Old Crusader Sword and Cemetery Found in Finland

Researchers identified eight burials, but they say the graveyard may hold dozens—or even hundreds—waiting to be discovered.

Archaeologists in Finland have unearthed a graveyard, an iron sword and other artifacts that date back roughly 1,000 years.

Over the summer, a landowner stumbled upon the site when he was installing geothermal pipes on his property in the small town of Salo. After a rainy day, he noticed something strange sticking out of the ground and decided to investigate. He pulled out a rusty but intact iron sword with a bent blade, a straight hilt and an oval pommel. The landowner alerted Juha Ruohonen, an archaeologist at Finland’s University of Turku, who called in Sanna Saunaluoma, an archaeologist at the Turku Museum Center.

Thinking the site would yield more discoveries, the researchers decided to continue excavating. And they were right: They found human bones, clothing remnants and something they suspect to be a wooden coffin.

They also uncovered an elaborately decorated leather belt, which a statement from the University of Turku described as “remarkable,” per Google Translate. Attached to the partially preserved leather, they found 30 square bronze rings and cross-shaped pendants, as well as a buckle, strap dividers and several animal head buckles.

They say all of these artifacts belonged to one grave, which is particularly interesting because “archaeological textiles related to men’s graves are very rare,” per the statement.

As they continued to scour the area, they discovered eight graves, which they suspect are part of a much larger mortuary cemetery. All told, the researchers say the site could hold dozens—or even hundreds—of graves. The burials discovered so far appear to follow Christian customs.

Radiocarbon dating is currently underway. The researchers suspect the bones and artifacts date to between 1050 and 1150 C.E., a period they call the Crusader era.

During this time, the Swedes supposedly brought Christianity to Finland in an event known as the First Swedish Crusade. However, “no corroborating archaeological data” exists for this event, which first appears in written records in the late 13th century, writes Heritage Daily. “Academics debate whether this crusade actually took place.” The discoveries could help shed new light on this mysterious period in Finland’s religious history.

The graves and artifacts were found beside a medieval stone church, which experts thought had been established in the 15th century. However, the new finds suggest there was a “much earlier church organization” in the area than they previously assumed, per the statement.

“The observation can be considered very significant from a research point of view, as mortuary cemeteries from the time of the Crusades are clearly less known in Finland than cremation cemeteries that preceded them in time,” per the statement. “So far, this is also the only confirmed burial burial dating to the end of the Iron Age from the Salon or Uskelanjoki valley.”

Looking ahead, the researchers say they will continue working at the site and analyzing their discoveries until at least 2024.

By Sarah Kuta.

#1000-Year-Old Crusader Sword and Cemetery Found in Finland #Salo Finland #ancient grave #ancient tomb #ancient sword #ancient artifacts #archeology #archeolgst #history #history news #ancient history #ancient culture #ancient civilizations #iron age #crusader period

25 notes · View notes

modelartist-demri · 7 months

Text

NEW ENTRY ON MY BLOG!

On October 29, 1996, Demri passed away of acute intoxication caused by the combined effects of opiate, meprobamate, and butalbital when she was only 27.

Demri and Layne in the Spring of 1990 by Krista Kay.

Her last few years, since around Thanksgiving 1993, her health began taking a turn for the worse. She told her mother she had been having fevers in excess of a hundred degrees. Austin told Demri the next time it happened, she should go to the hospital. The first of many hospitalizations happened shortly after. “She came in to the hospital for the first time at the end of November of ‘93. She was in until January of ‘94. She got out and was back in in March of ‘94 and at that time put on life support,” Austin recalled. “When she would be in, she would come in to the emergency room. They would admit her up into a medicine floor; then she’d go from the medicine floor to the Intensive Care Unit and life support, and then she wouldn’t die. So she’d go back to the medicine floor – she’d be on IV and antibiotics for a month. This went on and on and on. She had her lungs operated on twice. She had her heart operated on twice [she had a heart valve repaired and another replaced and the pacemaker implanted age 26]. She suffered miserably.” [1]

Jacque: “She was very sick in the end. She’d had open heart surgery and had nerve damage to her feet which were mostly numb. She had no body fat at all, and was cold all the time. Often the car’s heater would be on full blast, even on a nice day, everyone would be sweating and she’d be shivering and wearing a sweater.” [2]

According to Amber Ferrano, Dave Navarro was the one who brought up the endocarditis . They had the doctors check and found it on the back of Demri’s heart valve.

Demri with Dave Navarro ca. 1994 in a medical facility.

Amber Ferrano: “Dave was my go-to person as someone who had kicked to help Layne and Demri when various things came up with them regarding drugs because they had used with him in the past when Jane’s Addiction came through town and now clean. Dave was their inspiration. He was in AA, and though they didn’t believe in AA they loved him, he was non-jugemental and kind. They really wanted to show him they could get clean. Bob Timmins helped too. They thought if lifers could get clean because of him there was hope.

Dave was the one who brought up the endocarditis, asking if that is what she had. It was the first time we heard of it. All those times in the hospital. They ended up finding it on the back of her heart valve.”

While in the ICU, Austin said Demri was conscious but intubated – she had a tube inserted down her throat to help her breathe, which she despised. She would tell her mother, “I hate being fucking intubated. I can’t talk, and these people come and they ask me these fucking questions, and I can’t fucking talk, and I feel like a fucking fish in a fucking fishbowl.” She communicated by writing on a small blackboard with a piece of chalk. [1]

Despite the multiple hospitalizations and brushes with death, Demri continued using drugs. She had seemingly accepted that her addiction was going to kill her.

Amber Ferrano: “I brought mortuary books in to Demri at the hospital when Layne got back from New York in April of 1996. I, of course, shocked Demri and said I thought we could go coffin shopping. Of course when Layne got there she told on me. When she first saw them she was balling saying she didn’t want to die. Layne talked about all the issues. I said you have to be clean to fix those issues and they get less and less. The thing with them was people waiting outside their home with drugs as a way to befriend them or mailing it to them. It killed Layne when he got letters about people using. He didn’t write to glorify it, it was cathartic to work his way through it."

Barbara Dearaujo: “She was in and out of the hospital for months at a time before she actually passed away. I would go visit her and she had all the nurses going crazy. She put up all her drawings and flowers all over the walls and did things she wasn’t supposed to do like take off with her IV and go out and smoke. She was a wild child... My heart goes out to her mom. She was a good mother and she tried so hard to help Demri, but Demri was her own woman and she lived in the extreme always. She was a broken child. Grasping for something to relieve some deep pain that no one but her knew.”

One of the last photos of Demri alive, as far as her mum knew. Demri and her mum Kathleen on September 1996. Kathleen sent this photo to Memories of Demri instagram (no longer exists).

Donald John: “I was very close with Demri Parrott, knew her during her last year of life. I met her at the hospital through a friend and became very close to her. I used to visit her a lot while in the hospital, and we had some very deep spiritual conversations about everything, including her relationship with Layne from the start to the end. She even gave me a pair of sunglasses that was his. I used to read books to her and let her borrow a lot of my books, especially art books, to keep her busy. I used to hold her while she cried and watched her while she slept. I used to go outside with her when she wanted to smoke and when she was feeling better to walk, and met her mother. I even got to check out her mother’s home which had a lot of pictures of Demri of her modeling days and stuff. Sometimes on her breaks she would come to my apartment that was like 5 min walk away from the hospital. She would come over and we would do heroin together and paint pictures with my art supplies, sitting Indian style on the floor listening to music. Then when she was released from the hospital she stayed with me for a while in my place and even slept in the same bed with me, we never had sexual relations but were deep friends and something more. She and Layne at the time were pretty much over even though he visited her while in the hospital. Sometimes we would cuddle in bed and she was so skinny. When she would leave to do her errands around town she would sometimes come back with gifts, like one time I got a cool wallet from her and a necklace with an angel on it – at the time I had my first tattoo of an angel on my forearm. When me and Demri first met I was just smoking heroin, then I started shooting and when she found out she was very upset. Time had passed and I saw her frequently. Then I found out about her death.” [2]

The other of the last photos of Demri alive, as far as her mum knew. Demri and her mum Kathleen on September 1996. Kathleen sent this photo to Memories of Demri instagram (no longer exists).

Ryan Kalsbeck:“Demri was staying for a bit with me at my old apartment off 45th and Lake City Way, we had been friends for years by this point but her addiction was sad for me to see. We had long serious conversations about a lot of things. Personal, to say the least. But she always carried her Leather Modeling Portfolio with her everywhere she would go or where she was staying, but she made me promise to please hold on to this portfolio for her and don’t let anyone around it or in it and she would eventually have a solid place to bring it to and for safe keeping. I never let one picture wander off into anyone ever. I promised Demri I would guard it and I knew how important this was to her fading life. She was so afraid of loosing this or someone stealing it, probably swiping rare as f*ck photos of her and Layne, stacks of the two in different vintage clothing. But I had her portfolio in my possession for at least 1 year, and one day like normal she left my apartment and I was still sleeping. Said, ‘I’ll see you at the Off Ramp later tonight.’ I wasn’t surprised to not run into her that night, and this was one of the last times of her disappearing, no one hearing from her for months at a time. But she always popped up at someone’s place eventually. The story is deep, and thick, and personal for me to speak of.”

Terri Brannon: “Last time I saw her, I went over to Carolina Court to say goodbye because I was moving back to Arkansas. I had a very sad feeling when I hugged her. I knew in my heart I’d never see her again. She was so full of life back then. A wild gypsy child. Reminded me of myself many years before. It’s been years and years, but you never forget Demri. She is unforgettable.” [2]

Demri's graveyard at Miller-Woodlawn Memorial Park, Bremerton, Washington, USA

During her final days, Demri was staying with an older man named Tom, the father of a friend of hers, at his place in Bothell. According to Amber Ferrano, he was a drug dealer, Demri was staying with him because he had klonopin so she wouldn’t have seizures. Demri had lived something of a nomadic existence, staying with different people for periods of a few days to a few weeks at a time. Toward the end of her life, it became very difficult for her to find a place to stay.

On the afternoon of October 28, 1996, Tom drove Demri into Seattle. She told him she wanted a few things from a Fred Meyer grocery store. When he arrived at the store, Demri was unconscious, and he couldn’t wake her. He went into the store to pick up her things, leaving the car engine running so she wouldn’t get cold. He came out of the store, drove home, and still couldn’t wake her. He left her in the car unconscious so he could do his laundry. He eventually realized something was seriously wrong.

Demri was eventually brought in to the emergency room at Evergreen Hospital in Kirkland at 7:30 P.M. – two and a half hours after she first lost consciousness. Her mother got a phone call from the hospital, telling her Demri was there.

Kathleen asked the doctors if Demri could hear her. The doctors told her they thought she could. She clutched Demri’s hand and said, “Dem, if you have a choice to stay or to go, you don’t have to stay for me anymore.” During previous hospitalizations, she had always told her to fight, to to survive. This time was different. [1]

Jack Plasky: “The first time I met Layne was when he came by my studio after Demri passed. We hung out for about six or seven hours. We went through Demri’s pictures. We did not talk much, it was more like sharing with me his pain. He was not a rock god that day, just a regular person who wanted to share the loss with each other. We had a very strong bond based on our love and caring for Demri, and her feelings for us. I got a strong true feeling from him when he looked at Demri’s pictures, that life held nothing for him anymore.”

Ariel Layton: “Demri used to spend a lot of time with my girlfriend, Jana. She actually passed away in my friend Tom’s truck. I also ended up couch-surfing at Buddah’s around the same time as Layne shortly after she passed. He had photos of her everywhere, it was very sad.”

Kathleen Austin: “Derek loved Dem so much and nothing she did would ever change that. He spoke at her funeral, ‘If my sister got on the ferry in Seattle, she knew everyone on the boat by the time it reached Bremerton’.”

Clay: “Demri, it’s been 13 years [March, 2009] since you went to be with Jesus and I still miss you so much sweetie. I’m so glad we got to share all the time with each other before you left us. When we prayed and talked about Heaven and The Lord, it still makes me think about how I look forward to seeing you again and being with you forever. I hope all the world knows you are with Christ now and your faith in Him, so they can have the same hope we shared. I’ll always treasure your Bible your grandma gave me, until we are together again. Love you always, Clay.”

Brochure from Demri’s memorial service, which was held on November 2, 1996. Shared by Marisi Sojit and posted by “Comunidad Alice in Chains Chile” Facebook group. Found via Instagram: memoriesofdemri (no longer exists)

Carolyn Hart Gutierrez: “She was one of the most amazingly trusting, compassionate, openhearted persons I’ve ever known, albeit briefly. We went to the same high school, and she was a friend of my younger sister. I have often thought about her over the years. It broke my heart to hear that she was gone from this Earth. I always imagined that she grew up and became a happy little momma who would teach her children to believe in magic and that if you wish on a star your wish will come true, and to dance in the rain. That’s what I believe. Demri may be gone, but she is never forgotten.” [2]

Krisha Augerot: "She was like the sweetest, cutest, tiny hippie chick – just adorable and gorgeous. Never would I have ever imagined what happened to her happening".

Mara Whelan: “My dear soul sister, she extracted the truly beautiful parts of my soul and made me unafraid. She brought light into the depths of darkness from within. She loved all my ugliness and glorified my uniqueness.

Demri and I lived together, slept together as sister spoons, hitchhiked all up and down the coast and back and forth to Seattle from Everett a million times. We lived in Seattle together in multiple places. When we didn’t live together, even when the drugs came into play, we never lost each other.

She was the most beautiful soul that ever existed. What I would do to feel her hand in mine again.”

Barbara Dearaujo: “Demri was an artist herself, a model and someone who could always make you laugh. She was the type of person who when she entered a room full of people all eyes would be on her. She sucked the energy from the room and then blasted it back out at you and made you laugh and smile. She was so different than everyone else and everyone knew it who met her. Geeky, funny, caring, talented and unique girl who could of owned the world if she had not got caught up in what was going on around her. She was a star in her own right.”

*All the information has been collected from the "Memories of Demri" document shared on google drive*

Sources cited:

[1] Alice in Chains: The Untold Story by David de Sola

[2] Instagram: memoriesofdemri (no longer exists)

*VERY SPECIAL THANKS TO LITTLE QUEENIES AND MEMORIES OF DEMRI*

Some great Demri sites you MUST check:

Little Queenies tumblr blog - Demri info

Little Queenies' collection of Demri's photos hosted at Google Photos

Memories of Demri document hosted on Google Drive

Videos of Demri hosted on Google Drive

World of Demri on Instagram

World of Demri substack blog

Demri L. Parrott on facebook

Demri L. Parrott on Instagram

Demri Lara Parrott on Instagram

Demri Parrott Legacy on Instagram

Beautiful Demri Blogspot

#demri parrott #demri lara parrott #demri parrott murphy #demriparrott #demri lara parrott murphy #demri murphy #demri lara murphy #links #1996 #rip #gone but not forgotten #gone but never forgotten #gone too soon #memories #like #join #follow #subscribe

25 notes · View notes

spinef0ryou · 1 year

Text

Interview with Ville Valo in Metal Hammer magazine, words by Alexander Milas. Transcript under the cut

It’s a gloomy November evening in London and inside the crystalline bowels of the Universal Music tower there are dark goings-on under a winter moon. An arcane gathering of power-brokers, decision makers, and tastemakers, has convened to hear the first, dulcet tones of a new record in its entirety - a lyrical and melodious exsanguination called Neon Noir. Less an album, the subject of tonight’s attention is more like a swan song played in reverse or a departed loved one’s voice playing in the wind. We’ll get to that.

There are no robes here, such vestigial ornaments long since done away with to provide anonymity on public transportation, but the importance of these proceedings is in no way diminished. This is how the music industry in all its mysterious dealings determines where and when its various powers are to be invoked - an Illuminati-like network of aligned hands is this rogues' gallery of journalists, label managers and festival promoters. Even the helmswoman of the gazette you hold in your verv hands can be seen lurking in the shadows.

At the centre of the dim chamber stands a lone, flat-capped figure, his chiselled visage peculiarly, vampirically unchanged by the many years since he first graced the cover of an international publication such as this, and let it be said that he was never a stranger to these folios.

If anything can be said of Ville Valo's appearance it's that he could teach anyone half his age a thing or two about self-presentation - and, for the record, they'd be 23 at time of publication. Svelte, casually besuited and elegantly understated in his attire - all different hues of black, obviously - he's been affably chatting with the gathered conclave with such fluidity and confidence that anyone would think it's something he does every day, and anyone who knows his incongruous penchant for reclusiveness when off the stage would suspect that maybe he's changed since we saw him last.

For the record, he does not, and he has not. Ten long years have passed since His Infernal Majesty's final release, the career summation that was 2013's Tears On Tape, and it has been five years since Him played their final note on the second of two sold-out nights at the London Roundhouse in December of 2017. Their concluding song was the aptly chosen, syrupy dirge of When Love And Death Embrace, and the mortuary pallor of its refrains couldn't have been better matched to the forlorn mood of that distinctly funereal moment.

For many, it was a farewell to one of life's few constants: Him were less like a band and more like a comforting gothic world to those who fell prey to its blackened enchantments, and as if further affirmation is needed, no one in the field of music has since emerged to even remotely fill the heartagram-shaped hole left in Ville's wake. As the lights in the venue went up to reveal no shortage of streaked mascara, it would have been impossible to surmise whether we'd ever hear from Ville again - such was the finality of that tour and the deathly vibe of that night.

More desolate still was the long silence that ensued after the 26-year adventure he spearheaded under an iconic banner designed by his own hand. Eight records, ten million sales and countless fans getting heartagram tattoos of variable quality were the tallies of Ville's musical ledger.It was over. Him was dead. Their founder was gone. And then, quietly, headless blooms began to flank his headstone.

First came the news that he was blowing off the cobwebs to undertake a tour of Finland to record and perform songs by the late, beloved Finnish singer-songwriter Rauli 'Badding' Somerjoki, with Somerjoki's old band, Agents. The project smashed the charts in Finland before they eventually disbanded.

More silence followed until March 2020, when an unheralded EP was released under a new banner, VV complete with an updated reimagining of the famed heartagram. A portent of what was to come, Gothica Fennica Vol. 1 was far from alien to anyone familiar with Him's long-established sound, but it also bore the hallmarks of a songwriter unbound by the restraints of collaboration or co-writing. As the world smouldered, it was a hopeful omen that perhaps not everything had been lost to the pandemic.

We retreat from the listening session to a quieter room to shine to shine a neon light on the story of the rebirth and toil that followed, a res-erection-

Ville shoots a look as if to say, 'You're not gonna write that, are you?' Well…

“‘Promo tours are like Bullet-point for my Valentine.”

Ville has sunk into his armchair, a body deflated. We've just been talking about the sometimes less-than-rock'n'roll demands of album promotion, and how while just 10 years have passed since Him's final release, a lifetime of change in the industry's inner workings has followed. It's Thursday and Ville's already done the rounds in Berlin this week, plus a big photo session, too - rumour has it that a smoke machine for a cover shoot triggered a confrontation with security here yesterday. Whoever the photographer was that bolted the door shut so the shoot could continue remains a mystery at the time of going to press.

But despite Ville's tiredness after two days of media-based pokes and prods and his first international flight in five years, he's still exhibiting a remarkably playful way with words: the product of voracious reading and self-confessed Anglophilia that can make it easy to forget this is his second language, although as we'll soon discover there are some words that resist translation.

We're reflecting on how many times he's appeared in the pages of Metal Hammer. I produce a photo from many years gone by, taken by Mick Hutson. It's Ville, looking like a goth deer caught in headlights, sitting in the back of a limo between the late Dimebag Darrell and Mötley Crüe's Nikki Sixx on his way to the Metal Hammer Golden God awards. He smirks.

"It was a playground, wasn't it?" he says of the Ville of yore. "Oh my god, that was a weird one. I remember Dimebag - he'd been up all night, and there's me stuck in the middle. I gave my Golden God award to Zakk Wylde's daughter. He told me she was a huge fan and I'd had a sip too many, so…”

And let it be said that by the time Him went stratospheric - a runway stretching between 2000's Razorblade Romance and 2003's definitive Love Metal - there were few publications that weren't peppering their pages with images of Ville. photogenic but, more importantly, hilarious, his wry and dismissive self-regard tempered the styled polish of his many covershoots. In a time when emo was king, Ville brought something current but gleefully out of step with fashion, musical and otherwise, but he persevered because, arguably, beyond the music he possessed that rare quality that escapes so many whose trade is on the road and in music studios. He was interesting, and Him and their legion of fans were their own movement. For a time, if you ever stood at the back of one of their sold-out shows, it looked something like Beatlemania directed by Tim Burton.

“What would you say to yourself back then?” He smiles and takes a moment before replying.

“It isn't a horror movie thing, but my oldest self has whispered to my younger self many times. You know, I could have done stuff way wiser in the sense of trying to become more successful in terms of money, listening to record companies or whatnot, because people had a damn hard time trying to figure out what we were all about. I wouldn't do anything differently because then I wouldn't be here - that's the beauty of it."

And, tracing the course of what Ville did, what he's doing now, there's little to suggest that anything has changed in terms of his resistance to the common methods of self-promotion. In a time of compulsive micro-blogging and algorithm-feeding content, the official 'Heartagram' Instagram account posts at roughly the same rate as the Vatican. Be it about the preservation of mystery or a refusal to play the game, let it never be said that he didn't do it his way.

“I’m a slow learner. I only learned about the eggplant emoji yesterday! But as for those whispers, it's something to do with the nonlinearity of time," he continues. "I had some foresight to the pandemic, though, and found myself a house with a photography studio which I turned into a music studio. It's one big room that enabled me to spread around all the weird pieces of kit from all eras - sort of my creative central. During the pandemic, that's all I did. There was no rhyme or reason, I just thought it was time to move on and do something different. It could have been my older self whispering to my younger self in the middle of the night, like, 'Now's a good time. You'll understand it better in a few years.' So yeah, it could be one of those things."

We notice a white wall in the corridor is covered in dozens of Sharpie signatures from fellow artists who’ve passed through. Some are small, while pop groups Bastille and Westlife have gone big with huge cubital letters. Unimpressed, Ville reaches for a glow-in-the-dark V sticker from his breast pocket and wryly sticks it up at the top. Always a rebel.

Was it hard to decide which direction to go in after Him?

“Musically, I'm a pair of bell-bottoms," he says. "If you want to follow hits, you're always going to be too late. Music and art is essential for my wellbeing, it's the air that I breathe - it's natural for me, but at times I've felt like a human among the lizard people, an infiltrator from another galaxy. The only thing I can do is the thing I can do."

Of course, it raises the question of how VV and indeed Neon Noir came about. That Ville has always presided over every detail of his music is no secret - there's never been a doubt as to whose vision it all was, and the ending of Him is just as important as the beginning we're here to discuss. As anyone who's seen the end of a relationship will know, the signs of impending demise can appear long before the cracks emerge, and the conclusion of Him was no different. To paraphrase a singer named BB on the prologue to VV, the thrill was gone...

"Expiration is funny when it comes to bands," he says matter-of-factly. Whatever wounds may have been inflicted, they have long since closed, and he's at ease when prompted on what went down.

"It didn't happen overnight - we'd started having trouble after Tears On Tape. Gas (Lipstick] had left the band and we found a new drummer, which was fantastic for a time, but we just couldn't find it in ourselves - a new album. We started working on ideas, but they didn't sound very good. The adult way to approach things is that if it's something you really do love, you have to love them enough to let them go when the right moment comes. The spark was no longer there, so timing-wise, it was good - I wouldn't have minded it to happen a little earlier because now I see the end of my own career in the distance. I never wanted it to feel like a job. You'll see bands touring where it quite clearly is. Something so central needs to be full of passion and laughter and joy and tears - dramatic, like a pint of milk."

Dairy funny. Have you been in touch with the guys since then, we ask?

"I haven't been in touch with Gas in more than 10 years," comes the reply. "And Linde [Mikko 'Linde' Lindström, guitarist] is quite a solitary fellow who's not a big talker anyway. But Mige [Mikko 'Mige' Paananen, bassist] was a bit of a Rick Rubin on the album. He was like this weird guru that came by every three months and gave me a stamp of approval, like, 'Yeah, this is fine.' He's one of my earliest childhood friends and one of my best mates still, so we keep in touch - that's rare. It's been 35 years or something..."

It was that relationship that provided something of the lifeline that Ville needed. He describes the feeling after Him's final show as something akin to phantom limb syndrome, where amputees report sensation in appendages that are no longer there.

"I felt like an outsider, an outcast," he says. "[I felt like] I didn't understand myself, and that the world doesn't understand me or that I didn't belong. It's a profound feeling, you know, to existentially feel that you don't understand the world or your place in it. Funnily enough, how I got through that was writing. The pandemic really painted everyone into a corner. I wasn't suicidal, but there was a tinge of depression as well, not seeing tomorrow or the worth of the day after tomorrow. People reacted in different ways. I forced myself back to music, and music gave me the gift of song once again. I was able to pull off a couple of Sabbath rip-offs, so that made me feel better. That was a big deal."

Ville will go on to animatedly recount how the loss of purpose and trajectory coupled with the worldwide shutdown was in some sense the perfect reset post-Him, and while he hit a very low ebb, it was precisely the kind of downtime he needed and hadn't had since Him's formation when he was just a teen.

"There was no scheduling, nobody to communicate with about what I was working on, so it was very unfiltered intuition, straight to tape or whatever recording medium, and I found myself having goosebumps like I'd never had before. Well..." his eyes impishly go to the ceiling, "musically, at least. I'm scared of stuff being really repetitive - it's nice to enjoy a binge watch on Netflix, but you're never gonna get the time back. That doesn't mean, 'Don't do it! But enjoy the now, take advantage of the time. That's what we'll be doing when we go on tour with the band next year, challenging myself to do lots of things and not step into a sort of zombified existence. People are so distracted…”

At the beginning of the Divine Comedy, the main character - Dante Alighieri's Pilgrim - wrote of finding himself in a dark wood halfway through the walk of life; the straight path, lost. It was a roundabout way of describing the confusion that can come with middle age, but in his mid-4os and with the deep shadows and brilliant highlights of an illustrious career in the rear-view mirror, I wonder aloud if the same could be said of the current predicament.

Dante's come up because, as is often the case with Ville, the subjects of language and literature are never far away. I ask him to elaborate on that tinge of depression he's mentioned, and he says one thing. and lets it hang in the air: "Kaiho."

Sorry?

"Kai-ho," he says again, slowly. It's a Finnish word, he explains, that defies direct translation but describes the twist of emotions he was detangling in the wake of a lifetime on the road and in the limelight. "It isn't a negative feeling. It's a bittersweet reverie. I think Finnish people find it profoundly positive as well, because it also means that you have lived, you have loved and that you experience things that actually make a difference, at least to you personally, hopefully, for the people around you."

Did you struggle?

"I had a month where I didn't get out of bed," he states.

"Around that long, at least. I was pretty worried about it. I forced myself up and back to music through conversations with mates, you know, getting my spirits up a bit, but it was a weird feeling. It's not like you can't get up. You just don't want to get up. You don't want to do anything and you can't really do anything: just super-tired, some form of post-traumatic stress after all the years. It could be that it took a while for it to hit, and it coincided with a pandemic. I wasn't able to do anything, so my body and my mind told me to get the sleep I missed back in the day. Thankfully I slept it off, but life doesn't get any easier. It's getting more complicated, more bittersweet - a tough combo. A pint half full, half empty…”

Of course, the wrought-iron melody of Neon Noir's various paeans to love and loss wouldn't seem correct if they came from a place of emotional buoyancy, but if the slump Ville describes really was just making up for lost sleep-time, he's making no bones about his desire to get back to work.

"I'm not thinking about the end, but what I do realise is that, thinking in logical terms, it's going to be really weird if I'm 60 and still in it, which means that I have less than that in terms of album cycles. It starts to get a bit scary because I've done music all my life, but then again, thinking like that makes me smile."

So how does a 46-year-old's vision of love change from, say, a 20-year-old's?

"Well, maybe we haven't had that 'one true love' in the traditional sense in Shakespearean drama: the overwhelming one that takes over everything. You can't compare relationships and you shouldn't - different times, different people, different chemistry, different reasons. Music is still at its best when it's a soundtrack to important events."

So how does Neon Noir reflect your own life?

"It's very sincere - it encapsulates things. The indecisiveness on whether I belong to the camp of Black Sabbath or Depeche Mode, the constant struggle with good and evil. Run Away From The Sun is the first song I wrote and I didn't know if I had a song in me at all, but I had to start from somewhere. I had all these ideas. I started to do it and follow my intuition. I wasn't in a rush, I had no deadlines - I didn't even know if I was going to continue, and that was the most fruitful ground, because it felt real and unadulterated by pressure…”

As new as it all is for Ville, there are some things that have remained unchanged, or perhaps present is a better word. The heartagram was, after all, the gothic bat-signal of the early 00’s onward...

"It was everything Him stood for," he says. "I just wiggled that one line and realised it has my initials, and that was the reason I called the project VV, and I liked that it had a 'V for Victory' kinda vibe to it, and visually it had the traditional aspect to it, a current iteration of the same idea. It's symbolic, because I didn't want to force myself to take a completely different route musically. I'm not an actor, and Him all happened very organically. I was finding my voice, or whatever you want to call it, through Type O and Black Sabbath back then, and I still am."

From the mood in the room it's a welcome return indeed. It seems that for the first time in a lifetime he's found his path -with the help of a little neon to hold back the darkness.

LIGHTS OUT

Ville Valo reveals the dark secrets behind new album Neon Noir

01: ECHOLOCATE YOUR LOVE

"I was enjoying a documentary on the navigational skills of bats and imagined their nocturnal courting calls bouncing eerily between the walls of the abyss in a gothic ping pong-fashion. To make sure I was communicating this musical vision clearly, I included a cowbell in the middle eight, just because whenever one can, one should."

02: RUN AWAY FROM THE SUN

"The light at the end of the tunnel can sometimes shine so bright it’s scary, and my running-away skills have been highly developed over the years by sweeping most of my issues under the carpet. There are also a few church bell samples ringing among all the 80s-inspired synth sequences, only to make sure the ever-fickle balance between good and evil doesn't err on the side of Skywalker."

03: NEON NOIR

“ A cheerful memento mori if there ever was one, and my first guitar solo on record. The working title was 'Vangelis Halen' and I think I managed to get fairly close in marrying the claustrophobic beauty of Blade Runner with the reckless abandon of VH, in a sort of funeral-car-crash-in-slow-motion-type setting.”

04: LOVELETTING

“ An ode to the setting sun and a tale of dancing on the razor's edge between holding on and letting go. A moribundle of joy in a patchouli garden, with handclaps."

05: THE FOREVERLOST

"The Finnish tourism board should definitely include ‘Nyctophile Shangri-La' as a tagline promoting Finland from now on instead of the worn-out Santanic slogans of yore. A menace-à-trois between Andrew Eldritch, Jaz Coleman and Peter Hook.”

06: BABY LACRIMARIUM

“Quite a traditional love song written by someone who takes the Poe in poetry a wee bit too seriously. A study on blocked tear ducts and The Cure."

07: SALUTE THE SANGUINE

"None of the ways out are easy, so taking the road less travelled is always the preferred method. 'If I could only say the same about the music,’ mutters the little Devil on my shoulder."

08: IN TRENODIA

"A world-building exercise at its bleakest, 'Trenodia' representing a highly modified utopia lit by every shade of blue, with a suitably melancholy soundtrack played at the wrong speed."

09: HEARTFUL OF GHOSTS

"Heartful Of Ghosts is essentially a heart-wrenching tale of paranormal love and supernatural betrayal. Sonically, this lies somewhere between a lava lamp and acupuncture... with fangs.”

10: SATURNINE SATURNÁLIA

"Saturnine Saturnalia is romantic doom and gloom at its very finest, and probably the most Sabbathian moment there is on the album. I dug out my Excalibur - the deranged fuzz pedal and vintage army flask-combo that Mige of Him built me many a moon ago - and tended to my tinnitus with gusto.”

11: ZENER SOLITAIRE

"Imagine if this was Phil Spector's ghost reinterpreting Goblin's soundtrack for Dario Argento's movie Suspiria in glorious lo-fi."

12: VERTIGO EYES

"When you meet someone whose eyes are as hypnotic as watching the Vertigo logo spinning on your turntable, you're either in love or your drink has been spiked. This is a nod to the ghosts of the past, present and future, and a suitably hallucinatory way to end the record."

#ville valo #him #his infernal majesty #neon noir #interview #interviews

78 notes · View notes

sacrivn · 4 months

Text

LAS VILES; AN OVERVIEW

Sacrilegious takes place in a city called Las Viles, which resides on, and takes up the whole of, a fictional island of New York that became its own independent land over time. It consists of four districts, holds its own form of government, and provides many opportunities of employment for many of the residents to make less than legal money.

HISTORY

The island was bought by a man named Nikolai Ives, a man who had a concerning desire to rule over a population in an authoritarian government. He came from a wealthy background, so with money that he stole from his relatives he built the foundation of a civilization on an island far from mainlands. He spread the word of said civilization and promoted people to come move into the island under his "guidance." Many were intrigued and began to move into Las Viles, including his wife, son, and his son's friend who was staying with them at the time.

As years passed, the city grew in establishments and grew a population of around 20,000 people. Nikolai led as a sort of dictator figure on the island with a board of government officials to do the little tasks for him but all the power remained on him. He established a book of law similar to the United States minus all the characteristics that allow people to overthrow their leader because then people could boot him out of office. He was also a major dick. He made coming onto the island and getting residency simple, but traveling and moving out became nearly impossible.

One day, Nikolai became deathly sick and needed to find someone new to put into power in his place. He had two options as he had two people help him in his rule; his son and his son's friends. His son, Creon, was a people's person who was reckless but had passion. The friend, Baxter, helped make many of the important decisions and deemed himself much more optimal for the position.

Creon got the position of dictator.

Baxter became furious at this decision, but kept quiet. He currently serves as the advisor of Creon as he waits for the right opportunity to finally get the position he deserves.

DISCTRICTS

The island has four districts; the residential, the establishments, the core, and the quarantined. Each district will get their own post so as to go more into detail about the key areas.

The residential district holds the people's homes. The key areas include the apartment complex, the individual housing neighborhood, the public club, the storage units, and a hotel.

The establishments district holds the business, educational, and recreational facilities. The key areas include the corner store/gas station, the library, the mall, the cafe, the clothing manufacturing headquarters, the university, the cathedral, the mortuary, the nightclub, and the obscure employment agency.

The core district holds the major manufacturers and government establishments. The key areas include the law firm, the courthouse, the guard quarters, the prison, the arms factory, the hospital, the pharmacy, the laboratory, the bank, and the tower of authority.

The quarantined district holds Baxter's underground investments and illicit companies hidden from the public and only accessible through obscure means such as tunnels. The key areas include the cleaners office, the hostel, the hitman's centre, the casino, desolate valley which holds the wealthy population only, the warehouses, and valentine's anatomy distribution.

there is also an energy source in the middle that provides power to the island.

#sacrilegious project #oc story #original project #sacrilegious lore #world building #writing #writers on tumblr

10 notes · View notes

morvantmortuary · 8 months

Text

morvant mortuary x the boy au -

welcome to town (pt. I)

summary: your realtor tells you everything about the old Morvant place. you make a decision, and a couple of new friends.

warnings: mentions of suicide, violent domestic abuse, eating disorders, the works. brief allusions to gore and period-accurate homophobia (not related).

general: okay, so I meant to have this up a couple of days ago, but my dad is unexpectedly visiting on his way home from a trip so I had to quick get my ass in gear and tidy up/play host. new retirees get chatty. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

but this is the part I’ve been working on the longest, and I honestly think this thing might go through spooky season (along with me working on the barrens and blood fest challenges!!)

I might also be working on something where those of us undertaking them can all hang out together…? keep an eye out come october

When you emerged again onto the porch, Bev jumped like you’d scared her. A pack of cigarettes was in her hand, and her phone was nowhere near her face, despite her earlier excuse.

You ignored this, too exhilarated from your find. “Okay,” you said, your mind made up.

She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes searching yours. Like she was trying to decide what the context of your response was, rather than what you’d come there for to begin with.

“…I’ll take it,” you prompted, nodding at her expectantly.

“You what. I mean,” she backtracked almost immediately, that faux wide smile coming back. “Of course you will! It has beautiful bones, don’t you think? With a little love and elbow grease, it can really be something special—”

You held up a finger, and her smile fell immediately. “With one condition. A really, really easy one,” you added, seeing her wary face. “I promise.”

Bev sniffed slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to be perceptible as she shifted her purse on her shoulder. “…I don’t know,” she hedged. “I might have to check with my—”

“No, for real, just between you and me,” you said quickly. You leaned against the surprisingly sturdy porch railing, trying to seem casual, to show her you wanted to talk outside the roles the transaction required of you both. “All I need is just the truth. No bullshit, everything you know, just like you’d tell any rando who wasn’t trying to buy this place. Okay?” You waited, watching her watching you.

Her doll-pink lips pressed together, trying not to frown… but she still nodded.

“Okay.” You gave her a smile, trying to seem reassuring, before you asked the big question: “What the fuck is the deal with this house?”

A born and bred Greymoon local, you saw the same shine in her eyes that you’d seen in others when you’d first arrived to look at the listing. The minute you’d mentioned to a friendly, curious stranger what had brought you here - at the cafe you’d stopped at for directions, at the hotels on the edge of town, hell, even while pumping gas into your car - you saw the same thing in everyone’s gaze: the gleam of a story that threatened to ooze right off the tongue, if the teller didn’t hold theirs. Something that spread around small towns even more reliably than a winter flu or a stray ember from a bonfire.

You watched her natural instincts battle with her trained professionalism, her lips pursing and relaxing repeatedly as she seemed to be literally arguing with herself internally.

Finally, she set the binder down as a clean place for her (probably expensive) purse on the dusty porch, and leaned back against the porch rail herself. A natural hostess, she held the pack of cigarettes out to you (which you politely declined), before selecting one of her own and lighting it.

“…Are those Virginia Slims?” You couldn’t help but ask, the smell hitting you like a memory made tangible. “I didn’t think they made those anymore.”

“Mmhm,” she drawled even without words, and you realized she must’ve dropped her customer service voice. “You can only get ‘em around here nowadays. This town’s always been years behind the outside.” Taking a long drag, she exhaled the smoke through her nose - something that surprised and delighted you against her Mary Kay powder pink everything. “I know vaping’s supposed to be better for you, but my mama smoked ‘em, her mama smoked ‘em… force of habit.” She shrugged. “If I’m so blessed, my daughter’ll probably smoke ‘em, despite my best intentions.”

She stared into the overgrown yard for a long moment, the smoke from her ash curling neatly between her pink almond nails. “…This house. The family,” she began, hushed. “Was always strange. I mean…” She took another drag. “They - and it,” she nodded towards the screen door, while still seemingly careful not to look at it. “Had been around long as anybody could remember. It’s like… the town grew around them, almost. They were always just here, handlin’ dead people.” Her nose wrinkled automatically, until she seemed to remember what, exactly, had led you here. “No offense,” she added, with an apologetic glance.

You shrugged. “Used to it.”

She paused, seeming to consider this. “Yeah, guess you would be, huh? My granddaddy remembered going to school with old Etienne,” she went on immediately, missing your hard blink. “He was a real bastard. His daddy remembered Etienne’s daddy, he was apparently somehow even worse. My mama went to high school with Vincent, one of Etienne’s boys, and said even when he was young, you could practically see the snake oil drippin’ off his smile… and his hair. Ugh.” She shuddered delicately. “Nothing ruins a man faster than too much pomade.”

You were nodding politely in all the right places, despite none of this really meaning anything to you. “They sound… shady.”

“See, that was the thing,” she pointed at you with her cigarette, her eyes flashing. “They were bad vibes all the way down, you know? But they still kept gettin’ married and having kids — marrying rich, too. I mean, real rich, richer than those Dallas types with the high hair and the diamonds. Them folks had weddings like Kennedys, my mama said, where they’d dress this house all up in magnolias and oleander, and you’d see limos out front with those special Capitol plates they use in Baton Rouge. The lights would be on all night, you could see ‘em all the way from town if you knew how to find ‘em — looking like they were floatin’ out in the swamp, nothing else around.” She shook her head, her eyes distant as she saw them again in her mind. “But they only ever married out-of-towners,” she said, with the faintest wrinkle of her nose again. “We all said that’s the only way a Morvant could get married, was if it was someone who didn’t live here. If they weren’t around long enough to know what we all knew.”

“…So.” You glanced around at the peeling paint, the cobwebs in the corners, trying to surmise. “They went broke? Ran out of rich people to marry?”

“Uh-uh.” She took another long drag again, eyes wide. “No. Nothing that simple.”

She glanced around as if afraid you two weren’t the only two people for miles before she spoke again. “…Somethin’ caught up to ‘em.”

You couldn’t help the way your head tilted. “Something like what?”

A feeling prickled so hard down the back of your neck, you put a hand to it to make sure a bug wasn’t investigating your shirt collar. You twisted your head, trying to catch a glimpse of your shoulder, your hair —

And paused, certain you had just seen movement in your periphery.

You held yourself perfectly still, trying not to catch the attention of your hostess. She was jumpy enough as it was, she didn’t need you thinking you’d seen curtains shift in… was that the kitchen window? Oh, god, you really hoped that didn’t mean mice—

Ironically, you yourself about jumped when she dropped her cigarette butt and crushed it under her heel. She was already pulling out a second one, the movement entirely a reflex. “Everyone in town has their pet theory. Old guy who owns the diner thinks they clashed with the New Orleans mob, got taken out to make a point. My hairstylist, she thinks they were in a cult that went sour. But I don’t think either of those account for the fact that somethin’ was picking them off one by one.” She flicked her lighter, and for the instant of light, she looked… older, somehow. “It got all of ‘em, eventually. Like they were cursed.”

“…They’re all dead?” It made sense, of course. The place had been abandoned for years now.

But when you remembered the family portrait you had seen hanging over the mantle, something in you felt unsettled. Almost sad, for reasons you couldn’t explain.

“God, one would hope.” She shook her head, taking another long drag from her fresh one. “…Well,” she amended, her eyes moving to the ceiling as she thought. “Most of ‘em. It was Etienne’s boys’ kids,” she said quietly. She gave you a look meaningful look. “They would’ve been…” She paused, sizing you up unsubtly before she spoke again. “Older, than you and me. See, Vincent had a twin, Emile, and Emile only had one boy: Hector. He was a year ahead of my big sister when she was in high school. I would see him when she had parties — I was little, you know, watchin’ through the stair rail when I was supposed to be asleep. He’d be on the edge of the room, just… holdin’ court in a corner.” Her eyes were distant as she looked into the past, and you could almost see the reflection of the party in her irises, low lights and cigarette butts. “And he always managed to see me, no matter how quiet I was. Even waved when he did.” She shrugged, as if oddly defensive for a moment. “He would’ve been kinda cute, if, y’know, he wasn’t a Morvant. But that managed to ruin it — they were all kinda creepy. He’d just… look at you, sometimes, with this smile, but like… I don’t know how to explain it,” she said, shaking her head again. “It was weird. He was always taking pictures, sometimes of nothin’ at all, it looked like. You’d swear to god that boy knew when you were gonna die, and he was gonna tell you, just to take a shot of the face you made when he did.

“But even that didn’t save him.” Her eyes snapped back to the present, to you. “See, his daddy, Emile, he was the first one of the bunch to die.”

“How?” The question was partially polite interest, but it was still interest nonetheless. These people sounded… peculiar, at least.

She leaned towards you conspiratorially. “Everyone says if it wasn’t the mob or Vincent, his wife did it. Hector’s mama. According to that version, she just went crazy and shot his head clean off in the back of his own car — this old Mustang. Hector was only sixteen or so - people claimed he saw the whole thing from the porch, out back.” She nodded in the appropriate direction, too deep in her storytelling to notice your widening eyes. “He and his daddy were supposed to go… somewhere, I don’t know,” she gestured vaguely with her free hand. “But his mama got to him first. Obviously, when the cops came sniffin’ around, she kidnapped Hector and the two of ‘em tore off across the border - she was from the Mexico side, which was how she didn’t know what she was gettin’ into when she married in,” she interjected. “But no one ever saw poor little Hector again. People think she must’ve killed him too, ‘cause he looked too much like his daddy. Couldn’t handle the guilt.” She exhaled, missing the slight drop of your jaw at this little horrifying tidbit. “And even after they left, Vincent, he still managed to keep the car somehow. Ugh.” She shuddered less delicately, her tongue poking out in disgust. “I can’t even imagine, having all that money and keeping the car your own brother’s brains was all over. No one ever said what he did with it, either.” She stopped suddenly, looking out over the overgrown yard and scanning it, as though she might find it hidden just out of sight behind some foliage.

You followed her gaze, though you were less interested in the remnants of a family tragedy. You could tell even now that once, the yard had been beautiful - there were traces of a garden under all the weeds, and landscaping features hiding under sheets of kudzu like little kids under ghost costumes. In the golden light of a summer evening, it still looked oddly magical, if not a little surreal.

Now, you weren’t known for your green thumb, sure. But you weren’t going to have to overhaul as much of the House as you thought, and you had all that money saved. Maybe you could tame some of this; make a nice little nook in the shade of a tree for a bench and a table, a place for a mourner to get away and catch their breath. Heck, maybe you could even get the garden going again, plant some of the hardier—

“You saw the listing is for more than just the house, right?” She looked back to you abruptly.

You blinked, your mental vision board process interrupted. “Sorry?”

She pointed around the yard with her cigarette. “This whole property is a good few acres. You get all of that, too.” She stared at you, hesitating. “…And whatever else they left behind out there.”

Before you had time to process this, Bev fell right back into her story. “Anyway. So after that, Aurore - she was Vincent’s daughter. Vincent had twins too, it ran in the family - she killed herself when she was eighteen. It would’ve been kind of sad, if she hadn’t… been who she was. She liked girls,” she explained, lowering her voice sympathetically. “And this was a small town, you know? Sure, it mighta been the nineties everywhere else, but here in Louisiana - in Greymoon, especially…” She shook her head.

You froze, mentally reviewing your expression, wondering if it looked neutrally passive enough to avoid her catching how sick you suddenly felt. You thought about the angry girl in the portrait, her delicate clenched fists, the seam-ripped frills on a comforter she clearly hadn’t picked out for herself, trying to block out her room with things she actually liked even if they were a bit unusual—

God. No wonder she was furious.

A part of you deep under your skin ached for this girl you’d never known. You’d been there. You remembered what that part was like, growing up.

Bev took another long drag, her pause pointed before she spoke again. “And everyone was sure she did it because her girlfriend was the chemistry teacher’s daughter, and she broke up with Aurore because… well.” She stopped herself, her lips pursed again. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but Aurore was… kind of a raging bitch, if I’m being totally honest.”

She winced and held up a hand before you could even raise an eyebrow, clearly aware of how she sounded. “Look, she was smart, and pretty, and she knew it, and she rubbed it in everyone’s face that she was better than them. I mean, this girl could make you feel dumb and ugly as rocks with just a look. My sister would come home in tears and still be cryin’ through dinner and homework. I’ve never seen anyone else able to do it like she could in my entire life, and I was in Chi Omega at ‘Bama,” she nodded as though you’d understand any of this, face somber. “I’ve seen some looks that would take your skin clean off, but never anything close to hers. Then she set the school on fire - well,” she stopped, rolling her eyes as she did a loose approximation of finger quotes. “‘Allegedly’ set the school on fire.” She huffed a small bit of smoke. “Her daddy must’ve had some real dirt on the Greymoon sheriff, because he managed to make them say it was due to faulty wirin’ before they even got her in a squad car. Then she was homeschooled for like, a year? Two years? Doesn’t matter,” she waved her hand. “Because the next thing anybody heard, she was dead.”

You stared at her, still wondering how she could be so blasé about all this. So much tragedy in just one family, the ‘cursed’ bit didn’t sound so melodramatic anymore. “That’s… awful,” you managed, not sure what else to say. “That poor girl.”

“Mmm-hmm. People swear they heard her mama’s scream clear to the post office on the other side of town. My sister and some girls who knew her back when said she was doin’… I don’t know, witchy shit,” her voice dropped to a whisper, leaning close again. “Like, I don’t know if I believe in that sort of thing, but I’ll be honest, she and her mama both had somethin’ off about ‘em. People think she was trying to cast a spell over her girlfriend to get her back, and it went wrong. Either way,” she hushed her voice even further, and you had to lean close to hear her over the thrum of cicadasong. “Whatever she thought she was doing, they said there was a hole burned clean through her lower jaw, her tongue was falling into her neck and everything. Had to bury her closed casket, which about killed her mama, Mathilde.

“And that was the next one,” she went on, exhaling smoke and not seeming to notice that your eyebrows were about to scale the top of your forehead. “Mathilde, she went mad with grief. I mean, you read about it in old-fashioned novels, Kate Chopin and all that stuff they make you read in English class. But this woman went mad in the most literal sense of the word. I was at that funeral, I saw everything.” She punctuated each word with a stabbing motion of her cigarette. “She was dead silent, right? Might as well have been carved out of wood. Sat there like a statue, didn’t make a peep through the sermon, through the hymns, through Aurore’s twin brother giving the eulogy, his voice cracking and his hands shakin’ and his notes all covered in tears and snot and everything.”

Your chest ached, thinking of the two delicate-looking kids you’d seen in the portrait on the mantle. How unfair that they should have to be separated. And so young, too. “That’s… awful,” you repeated hollowly, not sure what else to say in the face of such naked grief, even secondhand.

“Oh, just wait, it gets worse,” she said a little too quickly, holding up a finger. “Vincent and the brother, they go with the pallbearers to start carryin’ the casket to the family vault — which, nobody has ever figured out where that was, by the way,” she said, looking pointedly at you again as she flicked ash into the bushes. “But suddenly that woman starts screaming and cryin’ like her hair is on fire, out of dead silence. She tears her way up to the casket and starts walloping, I mean absolutely beatin’ the tar out of everyone she can reach - her husband, the brother, the last two employees who stuck around. She is just hollerin’, ‘That’s my baby girl! Don’t you touch my baby girl! Don’t you put her in the dark, don’t you take her away from me!’ Cussing up a storm that made all the old ladies and the Junior League gasp and blush, I mean,” she shook her head, eyes wide with horror and exhilaration even in the recounting of it. “The brother tried to calm her down, tryin’ to be gentle with her, ‘Mama, please don’t, you’re upset, let me help you’ and what does she do but punch that poor dumb boy hard enough to crack his glasses and about break that boy’s nose. Her own son.” She sucked her teeth with inherent judgment. “Left Vincent with a black eye, but we all agreed he deserved that, the bastard. She only stopped when he hauled off and slapped her in front of God and everyone, and that was after she tried to rip the casket open and get her out.”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, secondhand mortification threatening to blister your cheeks with heat. This place was starting to sound like if Steel Magnolias was a horror movie, or if Texas Chainsaw had a stint as a stage play. Your chest ached, thinking again about the kids in the portrait. Always back to them, somehow.

Would you ever be able to sleep in a place with so much pain soaked in the floorboards?

You’d been quiet a second too long, and you laughed nervously, trying to cover up your weird new attachment to dead strangers. “Did they ever get these people on Maury or something? Dr. Phil?”

Bev laughed, and it wasn’t the ladylike giggle you’d heard before, the placeholder for business. It was full-on, her head thrown back and every one of her teeth showing. You could see where she must have been trying to bleach them up front to hide how much she smoked. You couldn’t blame her - you’d darkened your own with a steady lifetime diet of multiple caffeinated drinks a day, and you’d given up on anything whitening by now.

“Oh, honey,” she lightly slapped your shoulder. “The Morvants would’ve left Dolly herself without something nice to say. And that was before people started whisperin’ about how Hector and Aurore were just a little too close for cousins, when they were alive, or how Vincent was too familiar with some of the men he worked with - especially for a married man. God,” her accent stretched the “o” to “awe” and gave the name two syllables. “If I were Mathilde I woulda gone crazy years ago. But then again,” she added, glancing upwards. “She could’ve been the whole time and nobody woulda known, she hardly ever left this house.”

“So what happened to them? The parents, and the boy?” You were fully in this, now. You’d been keeping count in your head as each Morvant met their doom, bringing this House one step closer to falling to someone like you. This family sounded like it was long overdue to tear itself to pieces. It’s not like you’d invoked that — it’s just that you were here to start over. Till their ashes until something could grow from them.

That wasn’t… too awful, was it? If it meant you finally got to start your life on your own terms? Be financially independent and settled down for once, when that had seemed impossible less than a month ago?

Bev flicked away her second butt and didn’t go back for a third, too engrossed in the telling of her tale. “Well, now, here’s where it gets real interesting,” she said, her eyes luminous in the encroaching blue of creeping dusk. “Because there’s only so much of them we know for sure.”

You could hardly imagine details being even sketchier - half of what she’d already told you seemed rooted in hearsay and maybes. But you only nodded, eager for her to go on.

“By all accounts, Mathilde never left this house again of her own accord,” she said, hushed. “Never stepped a foot into town, never went to another Junior League meeting - and she used to be their treasurer and everything. She was a… reserved woman beforehand, mind you, but after? Didn’t see or call a soul. Didn’t even write.” She shook her head, her eyes again darting to - but not quite making contact with - the front door. “All sorts of people came by, but she refused any visitors. Her son kept turnin’ them away at the door. He was perfectly polite about it, of course — he was one of those boys where the older ladies about bruised his cheeks from pinching ‘em, you know the type. So it was always ‘Mama’s indisposed,’ ‘Mama’s a bit fragile today,’ ‘Mama’s havin’ one of her spells.’ I’ll be damned if he let her own doctor in there to see her. And of course, Mathilde was never just in the sitting room or something. She was always upstairs, hidden away.” She shook her head. “Now, that boy was one bad day away from goin’ full Norman Bates, I swear, but we’ll get to him in a minute.”

Without a cigarette, Bev’s hands moved freely now as she talked, her fingers slender and straight like the spines of a paper fan. You couldn’t help but be entranced by them, even if you were bristling on the boy in the portrait’s behalf - for no real reason you could discern, but still.

“So the next time anyone saw Mathilde Morvant was two years later, when she was comin’ out of this house under a sheet,” she continued, fully giving over to the drama of the tale. “Vincent and the county coroner about came to blows right there on the stairs.” She nodded to the spot. “A lot of people suspected Vincent was tryin’ to be slick, because the first anyone heard of her dying was when he tried to file her death certificate himself — or, something, I don’t really know how that part works.”

“Louisiana’s a closed records state,” you filled in, your job coming in handy for once in conversation. “If he could’ve gotten it signed without anyone hearing about it, then only close family or people with a direct financial interest would’ve been able to see her death certificate at all.” You were flipping pages of your mortuary school notes inside your head, remembering what else they would’ve needed it for. “…I mean, hell, if they had their own family mausoleum on the property,” you gestured to the yard. “They wouldn’t even have had to tell anyone before they buried her, legally speaking.”

Bev’s eyes practically sparkled, and you realized too late you’d just handed her something juicy. You scolded yourself - the last thing you needed in a town like this was to get a reputation for loose lips about your decedents or families, which was worse still than a reputation for being scared of small animals or having rabies.

But then again, Mathilde Morvant had been dead for over twenty years now. And you were just answering within your capacity as a knowledgable professional.

You cleared your throat, then nodded meaningfully to her. “So the coroner.”

“Oh, right.” Bev fell right back into the role of storyteller. “So of course the coroner sees her death certificate cross his desk, with her own husband being the signing funeral director, and he’s not having it. Especially after everyone else not that long before.”

“Those didn’t raise the same suspicions?”

“Well, you know.” She shrugged. “They called the ambulance for everyone else. Then Emile was pretty obvious when Ranza left town, and he wasn’t in charge of things like Vincent was, so it’s not like there was a financial motive with him. Hector never came back, so he’s only ever been listed as ‘Missing.’ Aurore drew a bit more scrutiny, bein’ so young and all, but given what people were sayin’ around town, they assumed she really did kill herself. Mathilde was different. She wasn’t even mid-forties yet, and she’d been in good health before she shut herself in. So when she died without so much as a whisper to Emergency services, or even her doctor…” She gestured for you to fill in the blank.

You couldn’t help but notice how ‘good health’ seemed to substitute for ‘good community standing.’ Aurore had been troublesome, an outlier, so therefore a teenager’s death wasn’t as much of a surprise as her mother’s, who was considered a lady.

Good to know.

“The coroner thought somethin’ smelled off about the whole affair, so he drove over here with the Sheriff and everybody. My cousin was a trainee over there at the time, and he said you’d never seen two men stand that close to each other and holler without someone getting a black eye. Vincent finally caved, after a lot of cussin’ and fuss, and made the son carry his mama out.”

“What, by himself?” You’d gotten pretty good at ‘deadlifting,’ as you liked to joke, but you still usually needed an assistant to help you wheel someone to transport.

Bev ’tsk’ed again, nodding. “Didn’t even need a stretcher. Beckett - my cousin - said the body was so skinny, he could just carry it by himself, all of twenty and only just a man.”

“No.” Your mouth fell open for a second as you forgot yourself. “What happened to her?”

Bev shrugged a shoulder, but her face was knowing. “Starved.” She jerked her head towards the wall. “Right here in this big-ass house.”

“How?” You glanced at the window over Bev’s shoulder this time — and paused, forcing yourself to look.

There was a shape you could make out through the thinner curtains of the clientele parlor, just barely silhouetted in the lingering sun.

It sort of looked like a person.

“Well, obviously they made Vincent and the boy come down to the station, interrogated them separately,” Bev said, regaining your attention. “But their stories matched exactly: apparently she’d been basically catatonic since the daughter passed. The son had been tryin’ to feed her, build her strength up, but she just ate less and less every day. Vincent said that kid took her trays morning, noon, and night, and they always came back untouched. Not even a saltine, near the end.” She shook her head. “Craziness. Letting yourself waste away with so much to your family name. But she was always high strung, Aurore had to get it from somewhere, of course.”

“Of course,” you repeated half-heartedly, your eyes flicking back to the shape.

Sure enough, it was still there. Had it been there when you’d looked around in there earlier? Could it just be the sun reflecting weird off some art piece or the mantle or something, casting shadows that didn’t exist?

“So they let ‘em both go, and then it was just the two of them here, cooped up together,” Bev went on, in the home stretch now. “Honestly, the boy looked like he hadn’t been eating much himself when his mama died. Gaunt as a beggar, always had a cigarette in his mouth, and looked down at his shoes when anyone talked to him. Hell, we all thought he’d be the next one to go.”

That made you look back to her. “He wasn’t?”

Bev hesitated. “Well. That’s where it gets tricky, see.”

She drew the moment out, pulling one last smoke out of her pack, then taking her time to light it. Only once she’d had a good long drag did she look back up at you again, her eyes gleaming through the thin strand wafting around you both.

“Mathilde’s funeral was the last time anybody saw either of ‘em. Alive, that is.”

You forgot about the shape at the window, resettling yourself against the railing.

Even the cicadas seemed to hush for this part.

Bev spread her hands wide to set the scene. “I was at that funeral too. And honestly, it was beautiful. Far prettier than any funeral had any business being, especially in this old house. Two years to the day Aurore was buried, and Mathilde looked like she hadn’t aged at all. She was smaller, sure, but she looked like Snow White with all these white flowers in her hair and around her casket. If Vincent had been handsome in a not-skeezy way, you mighta thought he could wake her with a kiss.”

“Huh. Sounds like he worked pretty hard on her,” you observed. A starvation case wouldn’t have been the most difficult restoration compared to, say, burning or drowning, but it wouldn’t have been easy. Especially depending on how long she’d been refusing food at all. If it’d been a full three weeks, it left her open to all sorts of infections, which wouldn’t have helped—

Bev shook her head, interrupting your calculating. “It wasn’t Vincent that did it.”

You tilted your head again, fixated. “How do you know?”

She exhaled through her nose again, taking her cigarette out to gesture with it. “Because he just loomed in the back row the whole time, looking like someone pissed in his lemonade. It was the boy that did it all, apparently. The arrangements, the pastor, the… body stuff.” She looked vaguely uncomfortable, nodding in your direction. “You know.”

“I do.” You nodded. “So what was he so mad about? Didn’t he want his own wife’s service to go well?”

“You say that like Vincent Morvant needed a reason to be mad,” she drawled. “It’s anyone’s best guess, but mine was that he didn’t like bein’ shown up by junior, there. I imagine a lot of people with an ego his size don’t appreciate being put in their place by anorexic-lookin’ twenty-somethings with… what’d they used to call ‘em? Emo bangs?” She shook her head. “Anyway. The whole thing went like a charm. You almost would’ve thought Mathilde Morvant was a nice lady, based on how her son sent her off. But then when the service ended,” her voice grew quiet. “Everyone could see the thunderclouds forming in that house. Hell,” she took another drag, looking out over the drive. “I remember gettin’ in the car with my folks, and my daddy said right there in the parking lot, ‘he’s gonna be the next one, just you wait and see. Vincent can’t stand it.’”

“What the fuck for? He was just doing his job,” you balked. You didn’t know why you were so protective of a dead stranger — maybe you felt pity for him, having survived so many of his family members. Maybe you just felt bad for the teenage boy who’d stared at you in that portrait, looking like a wet cat in his quiet misery. “So everyone just— knew his father was going to kill him, and nobody did anything? Nobody called the sheriff, or anybody, to intervene? Did anyone even offer him help to get away from here? To go anywhere else?”

Bev held up a single slender finger as she puffed smoke through her nose, unruffled. “You’re gettin’ ahead of me, honeybun, calm down. I said we thought he was next.”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks at your outburst. Steady, now. No need to make an impression as more of a weirdo than you were. “Sorry. Guess I’m just, um. Invested, now.” You gave her an apologetic half-smile, trying to play it off.

She just smirked. “I don’t blame you, this shit’s like a Lifetime movie.”

Over her shoulder, you swore something moved again in the parlor curtains. It was a fight to not stare — you didn’t want her running off before you could sign anything, she’d been so hesitant to come here — but you couldn’t help but wonder if that thing wasn’t a little… tall, to just be the shadow of some furniture.

Again, you reviewed the layout of the parlor in your head, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for the shadow.

And again, you came up empty and hoped it was just a weird… quirk of the House. A trick of the golden hour light that would reveal itself in time.

“That night,” Bev said, her voice hushed with the solemnity of whatever came next. “It all went to hell.”

She gestured around the yard and the long drive, all other houses a safe distance away. “People who lived closest to here swore they heard things: doors slamming, the two of them fighting at the top of their lungs, glass breaking. Honestly, half of us forgot the boy even had a voice outside of a mumble. But it sounded like he wasn’t long for this world after all, the way his daddy was cursing the day he was born.”

You braced yourself agains the railing subconsciously. “…Did no one call the cops?” you asked, but you already knew the answer.

“Thing you need to learn, hon,” Bev said quietly, sizing you up. “Towns like this, we keep out of family affairs. No matter how loud they get. Vincent may have been a bastard, but the boy was grown. Whatever business they had, it was with each other.” She raised her palms as if to wash her hands of it, even now.

Your jaw wanted to clench, but you resisted the urge. You weren’t one for calling the cops either, but this just seemed… complicit. There was staying out of it, and there was not intervening when someone needed help.

Strange and terrible as this family may have been, you felt like the town was all too eager to give someone up for dead.

“Then they heard somethin’ else,” she said, her hands gripping the rail behind her. She leaned closer to you, eyes wide. “Laughing.”

You didn’t try to shake the chill when it swept down your neck again, settling over your skin. “What?”

Bev nodded slowly. “Laughing. Manic, loud, and high. Like one of ‘em finally snapped and lost their damn mind. People said even the crickets stopped chirping at the sound of it. And after that…” She shook her head, sweeping the air with a hand. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” you repeated.

“Not a damn thing. Not the rest of the night. Whole house was silent as the… well,” she rolled her eyes and gestured to the neighboring cemetery over her shoulder. “You get the drift. But anyway, next morning, of course, the sheriff rolls in with a couple of his men. Figured maybe they’d had time to cool down before he checked on things.”

You nodded, making a mental note that the cops were apparently extra untrustworthy out this far. If something went tits up, you might very well be handling it on your own. “And?”

“And,” she repeated, emphasizing with a flourish. “Nobody answered when they knocked, so they waited. Waited a little more. Finally, before they even went inside, they’d called the coroner. My cousin got to ride along, so he saw all of what happened next.

“When they finally got the door open, the house was doll-still,” she went on, her voice hushed. “Whole thing looked exactly as it had when everyone was here for the service. Flowers were still up in the viewing room, not a throw pillow out of place. Could’ve been a perfectly ordinary day there. But no one responded when the Sheriff called out.”

You frowned. “But the broken glass sounds—”

“Beckett said the whole place was clean,” Bev said, clearly appreciating having insider perspective. “Almost like someone had swept it, it looked so nice. Nothing was busted, the floors weren’t even scuffed. You would’ve thought it was all just a mirage, a group hallucination — until they looked in the kitchen.”

“…What was in the kitchen?” you asked, your voice hushed as well.

Bev’s eyes were locked with yours. “Sitting there at the head of the table,” she said. “Was Vincent himself. Sheriff thought he was just brooding until he walked in there - his eyes were still open and everything - until he poked him in the shoulder to get his attention. Then he fell straight forward onto the table, dead as a doorknob. Sound of his skull crashing into the wood echoed through the whole house.”

“What happened?” you whispered. You knew you were playing right into her hands, but you had to know.

She shook her head with a disbelieving sort of smile. “Not a damn thing.” She shrugged at your perplexed expression. “Whole autopsy came back clean. Beckett said they took that man apart from head to toe, looked in all the nooks and crannies a body can have, and there weren’t nothing wrong with him inside. Coroner finally had to give up and call it a possible heart attack, because they couldn’t find shit.”

“So the boy didn’t kill him,” you said quietly.

Bev made a hesitant sound. “I wouldn’t be too sure. There’s things that can make it look like nothing happened, isn’t there?” She nudged your shoe with the toe of her heel.

“Lots of things leave traces, one way or another,” you said quietly, shaking your head. “The stuff that doesn’t, most people don’t just have lying around - not in the right doses, anyway. Your cousin, did he say there was anything on his face? Foam, blood, something weird in his eyes? Most chemicals have symptomatic effects.”

Bev shook her head. “He said that man could’ve been sitting there and died, right on the spot. Here one minute, gone the next. Lights just went out, nobody home.”

You folded your arms across your chest, thinking, but also preparing for the next part. “…So where was the boy?” you asked quietly. “What happened to him?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, shug.” Bev smiled again like a cat with a canary. “They never found him.”

You stared at her, this taking a minute to sink in. “They- what?”

Bev spread her hands as if showing she had nothing up her pretty pink suit sleeves. “They never found him. They tore that house apart - well,” she said, with a small tilt of her head. “As much as they could - that attic was a mess, I’m warning you. But all the rest of the rooms were accounted for, bedrooms to embalming room, and all the car keys were on their hooks, so it’s not like he could go anywhere. Hell, his wallet and his glasses were still in his bedroom when they checked. They put roadblocks all over town for two days lookin’ for him, checking under people’s cars and in their back sheds. But he was just… gone,” she spread her fingers. “Like he turned into smoke and blew away. No one ever saw him again.

“My money says,” she went on. “Vincent killed him and hid him somewhere the cops couldn’t look. Maybe took him apart to do it - he obviously knew how,” she said, gesturing at you to indicate your own profession. “And then when that old bastard sat down to catch his breath, his heart gave out on him. Or whatever it was that cursed these people finally caught up to him,” she shrugged. “And good riddance.”

“That poor boy,” you said quietly. You looked down at your shoes, doing the math. “He couldn’t have been older than… what, twenty? Twenty-one?” You remembered how you’d still felt new at everything at that age, how impossibly far away real Adulthood seemed to you with all its promises of stability and achievement. You were old enough to know better now, but you were also old enough to know how truly young you’d actually been then. “He had his whole life ahead of him. He could’ve gotten away, maybe.” The thought struck you as incredibly sad.

“Some say he’s still here.”

Your eyes flicked back to Bev’s, realizing she was watching you. “What?”

Bev’s eyes were gleaming, her tale apparently still not done. “This house has been impossible to sell,” she confessed. “But it’s not just because of what happened. It’s because of what’s still happening. Though you already agreed,” she added quickly, her eyes suddenly serious again. “You’ve already said—”

“I still want it,” you reassured her, deadpan. “Trust me, I’m not finding anything else this good in my price range, cursed or not. I know that.”

Bev shrugged, but still seemed to relax a little bit. “Neighbors say the house just isn’t quite right.” She tilted her head sideways in the direction of the door. “You can’t get much out of them, if you ask, but they all tend to avoid the place as much as if any of ‘em were still alive. Meanwhile, the cleaners swear that this place is straight-up haunted. I’m sure you noticed in your tour,” she added dryly. “That there’s certain rooms they just won’t go in anymore, no matter how much money I offer them. They’ve seen them in there, they say. The family.”

“Yeah?” You had worked around the dead for long enough to know that ghosts, as much as people loved to believe in them, were harder to come by than local lore would have it sound. A town like this, where gossip spread as testimony, you weren’t surprised people claimed to hear and see things. Especially in a House this notorious. “Who all?”

“The girl, Aurore,” she said solemnly. “She shows up in her room if you look in the mirror too long and screams, throws things. Especially men,” she added. “And the mother, Mathilde, they swear they’ve heard her sobbing on the other side of the second floor. Clear as day. One of them recorded some of it on his phone once,” she said, and you saw the hint of a shudder. “And I tell you, it was faint, but I swear it sounded just like at the girl’s funeral.”

“Huh.” You were doing your best to sound disaffected, still. You were not going to let yourself be scared out of buying this place. “Is it only the women still here?” Honestly, you were just relieved she hadn’t said the parlor was haunted. You imagined you’d had a hard enough time getting families interested in coming back, even without anyone showing up in the seat next to them.

“Well, no one’s ever said they’ve seen Emile,” Bev acknowledged. “And Hector died somewhere else, so he hasn’t shown up either. But they claim they see a man moving in the windows every so often,” she said.

You felt your blood freeze in your veins, and you prayed it didn’t show in your face. “…The windows.”

Bev nodded. “People see someone standin’ in the windows sometimes, just… lingering there. Like he’s looking out at something. The cleaners agreed, said they’d hear someone walking up and down the hallways when they had their backs to the door. Or they’d feel watched, but there was never anyone around. Then they’d swear they’d hear the piano playing itself, especially closer to evenings. But they’d go look in the viewing room and — poof. Nobody there. The cops were called once or twice, just to make sure it wasn’t squatters. But the house was always locked tight and empty. No one who’s seen it can tell whether it’s Vincent, or the boy,” she added. “Whichever one of ‘em still feels the need to hang around, I guess.”

As she was talking, you let your eyes slowly slide over her shoulder.

The shape was gone, the light streaming through the window unencumbered.

If it did show on your face, Bev didn’t notice, still going on. “Personally, I wouldn’t want to run into either. You can’t get the cleaners here after a certain time, either - they all just work in the mornings and mid-day, and they don’t dare stick around late afternoons. I had a hell of a time even getting them to come spruce the place up for you when you called yesterday, they were so worried about being caught here after dark. I mean, I don’t really like coming here myself, obviously,” she said, with a nervous laugh. “But you sounded so determined, I thought ‘well, might as well see’ So!” She clapped her hands together, suddenly all business again. “There you go, everything I know about this old place, the honest truth. Now,” she said. “Let’s get you some paperwork done so we can get out of here for the night, shall we?”

Okay. Decision time, for real.

This place was an intact, seemingly fully functional funeral home that had been running for - if the dates on the listing were to be believed - more than three generations of this family. It was solid, and proven, and it was nicer than any building you’d ever be able to rent in an actual city, and cheaper by an absurd degree. You could leave your shitty apartment and live here, in a real house. You could own real estate, and your own business. How many of your friends could say that, especially in this economy? Spooky as this place was, it was still a viable chance at Real Adulthood dropped right into your lap.

But you had also definitely, unmistakably seen something standing in that window. It sounded like half the town would either avoid your business like the plague, or just come for the sake of rubbernecking. Greymoon was tiny as all get-out, and you would be a newcomer in a place where everyone seemed to have known everyone else since they were all in diapers. Your friends all lived elsewhere, and it’s not like you’d have a lot to take them to if they visited. Even if nothing in this House gave you a premature cardiac event, chances are you’d end up being just as lonely as you were now, if not moreso.

…But even if there were ghosts, what could they do to you really, besides startle you? Honestly? Hadn’t you been scared for so long that you had made a huge mistake going to school, and were never going to make anything of it?

You bit your lip, and as if Bev could see you wavering, her eyes suddenly changed, bright and alert. “That was the deal, right? You’d take it if I told you everything?”

You had to face facts at the end of the day. It was this, or a lifetime renting a place and working retail.

“…Yeah,” you said at last, nodding. “Yeah, I’m still in.”

Bev beamed, her smile all bright pink. “Excellent. I have everything we’ll need in the car — do you want to take it back to your hotel, look it over?”

“I checked out this morning,” you said. You glanced at the front door, the weight of this simple decision suddenly pressing hard upon you with new implications. No going back now. “I figured if I didn’t buy it, I’d go home, and if I did, I’d stay here tonight. Save the money either way.”

Bev blinked, truly startled for the first time since you’d seen her. “Tonight? Hon,” she laughed, nervous again. “You can’t be serious.”

“How long would it take to get power and water back on?” You looked back to her. If you were in this, you were going to be in it for real. It was going to be your house, after all.

“I mean — an hour, maybe? I know people in a town this small, I can help you get it on in a flash,” she hemmed. “But don’t you need to get some things?”

“I have enough packed for a few nights,” you said, nodding at your car. “I’d kind of… planned on this. I want to get things ready to open as soon as I possibly could.” Anything to get yourself away from where you’d been, and the dreariness that had been slowly starting to eat away at your hope that anything could ever get better. “And besides, the cleaners went through last night, right? Once I get the water running long enough to clear out the pipes, I’ll be good to go.”

“Yeah, but…” Bev glanced from you to the general direction of the House and back again. “You must be starving by now. Are you sure you don’t want to take a night and think on it?”

“They deliver pizza out here still, don’t they?” You shrugged. “I’ll manage. I’ve had worse dinners, trust me,” you added, your mouth quirking up at the corner.

Bev stared at you for a long moment, her professionalism clearly warring with her own concern, before she sighed. “Okay. If you insist.” She bit her lip for a moment, then sheepishly asked, “Would you mind just signing things in my car, though? So I don’t…” She gestured weakly to the front door, all her storytelling bravado apparently gone.

“Sure, whatever makes you comfortable.” You smiled, willing to work with her if it meant you had this place in your name sooner.

Okay, so an entire family might have met their tragic ends within these walls.

But you were going to be able to sell all your IKEA furniture, sleep in a real four-post bed, and no longer have a landlord, so beggars couldn’t be choosers.

In no time, you had signed and initialed in all the places Bev had highlighted and pointed to, the ink drying on your first ever real house.

When you finally waved her off, watching her car creep down the drive as she kept eyeballing you in her review mirror, you were at once so relieved and exhilarated that you could almost forget the shadowy figure behind the curtains.

It wouldn’t last.

(okay, so I did the thing again where the whole piece wouldn’t fit in one post! :’D sit tight and I’ll have the next part up later today!

as always, if you read this far, I hope you get exactly what you secretly desire and that it turns out with better results for you than our dear reader here lmao)

#maxi morvant #maximilian vincent morvant #morvant mortuary #the boy au #southern slasher ocs #slasher oc #slasher oc x reader #non-binary reader #genderqueer reader #bisexual reader #queer reader #mortician!reader #(for this au anyway)#daniel brühl fc #monsterkisser fics

14 notes · View notes