#song: deadly nightshade by blackbriar | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sandinthemachine · 1 year

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Chilling Rapture

Part 2 of Deadly Nightshade, a monster!König au.

Part 1

Masterlist

I actually had so much fun finishing this one, my power went out and I had to handwrite it by candlelight until my wifi came back on, hopefully it's strong enough to post this now because the lights keep flickering.

I also have a draft sketch of the map so hopefully that can come soon as well.

For those interested, the songs at the beginning will sometimes be chosen for a little bonus foreshadowing. There's also a Shirley Jackson reference in this one for any classic horror fans out there. Hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: nothing serious yet (lemme know if I missed anything)

Word count: 3,313

There's someone walking over my grave For a sudden shiver is making its way Creeping over me, coursing down my spine And taking over this body of mine I can feel it in the depths of my being A chill of the blood, an ominous feeling -"Walking Over My Grave" by Blackbriar

It is a quiet kind of night.

No. To say it is quiet does not do it nearly the kind of justice it deserves, nor does it stir up the emotions such a night as this has urged forward, deep in the pit of your stomach where your dinner still sits heavily.

Quiet ushers forth a peaceful kind of relaxation wholly unlike the thick black tar rising up your back.

Silent perhaps is closer, only insofar as the word conjures in you the hopeless repetition of the phrase silent as the grave.

You find every warning and caution drifting through your head as you shift in the bed, but where you would expect fear you feel only an anticipation, strangely dissonant with the weariness of your body.

Where are the birds? Where are the whales? Why hasn’t there been a single gust of wind?

The sea, in clear view of the window when the curtains are open, is soundless. How is that even possible? It is as if some strange god has thrown a great smothering blanket over the entire island, trapping each tiny soul in the silence below. Like flies in honey.

You can’t even hear the blood rushing in your ears.

You find yourself staring at the window curtains, their blackness somehow darker than the shadows around them.

With no notion of why or even how, you find your legs swinging over the bed very much of their own accord, carrying you to those curtains, and behind you the soundless void presses in, a great wave bearing you forward, and you think perhaps you could open this window, let it carry you right to the ocean itself and down below, for surely then you’d hear something, even if it was your own splash before you were dragged below.

You brush the thought aside with a quiet resignation. You will open the window, you think. But only to hear the water.

The curtain fabric brushes velvety soft over your fingers as you push them aside, ears perked to hear a shuffling of fabric, a metal scrape of rings over curtain rods, but neither sound ever comes.

You pause at the drawn curtains, staring at what you know to be the window. It is completely indistinguishable from the darkness of the walls and the curtains, such that you find yourself raising a hand, pressing a palm into the cool glass to make sure it’s there. But when you remove your hand it is as if the window once again vanishes, leaving you staring blankly, eyes nearly burning in their hopeless struggle to see.

You feel strangely dizzy all at once, as if gravity is shifting, pulling at the air around your face, warping the flooring beneath your feet, tilting the walls in hopelessly contrived angles you can’t possibly see in this crushing dark. You could be upside down now, walking on the ceiling with no idea. Perhaps there is no ceiling at all and you are stepping straight up the walls and soon you will step off and fall sideways for an eternity and you will never even see the ground flying by you. Or maybe you will keep walking right up into the sky, only all the stars are gone and you’ll never know the cool mist is clouds wrapping around you as you climb for the rest of eternity.

You shake your head.

Why are you here again?

You suddenly get the overwhelmingly primal feeling that something is watching you, something carved from the darkness itself with no need for eyes or ears, stalking up to you, and you will never see or hear it, you’ll only know it’s there the second it reaches through the window and claws sink into your ribs, grabbing at the heart whose frantic beating it senses like a beacon in the night and…

You yank the curtains closed, stumbling backwards. The need to gasp briefly possesses you, but your throat tightens against your will, cutting off even that sound in a mocking kind of rage.

My quiet, a thousand thoughts chant through your head. My quiet, my darkness, my place, mine mine mine.

And you, who are you to break the silence of this night that doesn’t belong to you?

Your heart stuttering and flapping against your chest, you fall back into bed, tucking your legs up against your chest so tightly you feel it in your lungs.

You bury your face in your knees, swallow a sob.

And try desperately to sleep.

You finally shift again, dragging your head upward as a sluggish grey takes over the room, shoving the shadows further and further into the corners. You stare at your bare shins as the light hits them, a single finger tracing delicately over deep blue-black. You hover your hands over the outlines with a detached kind of contemplation, fingers stretching back into place, perfectly aligning with the rounded shapes.

You hadn’t felt it last night.

Best not to think about that, actually. You let your eyes drift back to the window curtains, fitting your lower lip between your teeth as you take in their limp form.

Right now, stained by the leaden rays of another grey dawn, they’re just curtains. Old and decrepit, with a fraying bottom corner and a coffee stain along one edge. Beyond them is a dusty window, and a view to a monotonously dark sea.

Nothing more.

Never anything more.

The walk to the kitchen is uneventful, the shadows thin and cowardly. A persistent chill worms its way up your neck, but even that gives up when you pull a blanket around yourself, tucking it over your head like a fluffy oversized hoodie.

When you were little, you and your mother always used to bundle up like this, huddled on the couch on cold winter nights as you begged your father to hurry up and restart the fire, please, I’ll freeze solid this instant if you don’t.

Be a lot less complaining around here if you did. And he’d grin at your indignant face, winking over at your uncle in the armchair as they both chuckled.

He’d always pull out extra blankets afterwards, though.

With a loud gulp, you pull the blanket tighter around you.

You should write to your uncle. Yes, that’s exactly what you’ll do, you know you packed stamps and envelopes and...

Damn.

You forgot to pack a pen.

It’s fine, that’s an easy enough thing to find.

In any other house, that is. For the more you search, the more you realize just how little this place has. One floor of cramped rooms smelling of dust, dust, and more dust. A tiny office with an empty desk. Even stranger, atop the desk, atop every surface, actually, are no clear patches, no thinner patches of the dusty coating to indicate that anything had ever been on top of them. Did your uncle have any stuff? Or was he really just content with this place as it was?

You begin to wonder if he ever really lived here at all, or if maybe this is some kind of cruel prank the world is playing on you, sending you to this decrepit old cottage on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere with no friends and nothing to-

Elisha. Probably not a friend. Yet. You’d met her once, after all. But maybe friendly enough to give you a pen. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

You try not to dwell on that question as you throw on some warmer layers and shove past the front door.

Immediately you’re greeted by a frenzy of your own coughing as the acrid tang of cigarette smoke floods your lungs.

What the hell?

You spin all around, scanning your yard, but of course the only one here is you. As you walk forward, the smell quickly fades, and you decide that’s a problem for another time. For all you know, it won’t ever happen again, anyway.

Elisha’s house shows no signs of life, so you knock on her neighbor’s door instead. Almost immediately the rickety door swings open to reveal a stout old man glowering at you past a crooked hooked nose.

You stutter out a hello, earning nothing but an eyebrow raise. “I…uh, well, I just moved in down there and, anyway I just came by to ask Elisha for a pen but it doesn’t seem like she’s…home.”

You trail off as he marches past you, right up to shake Elisha’s poor door with a trio of hard knocks. “New one’s here!” he yells out, not even listening for a reply before picking his way back to his own porch, giving you a wide berth. “She’ll be down in a minute.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He pauses in the doorway, regarding you for a moment before giving a quick nod. With that, he disappears back inside.

A little creak pulls your attention back to Elisha’s door just as her head pokes out of it. “Oh, sweetie, what are you doing standing out in the cold?” She gestures frantically. “In, in!”

With nothing better to do, you oblige.

Her cottage is as small as yours, but that’s where the resemblance ends. A warm fire blazes in the fireplace, combining with the soft light of a couple candles to cast the entire living room in a comforting orange glow. There’s no hint of dust to be found, only soft chairs and a couch covered in extra pillows and fuzzy blankets. Dark blues and emerald greens. An oil painting of a salt marsh hangs above the fire place. Peaceful. Full of sunlight. You take a deep breath, sighing. Woodsmoke and vanilla. Fresh coffee. A hint of ocean salt.

She’s watching, you now realize, heat flushing through your cheeks as you glance at the floor. Even the carpet looks soft. “I…I was actually just stopping by to ask if you have a pen.”

She smiles softly. “Of course, dear.” She moves to the counter, deftly plucking one from a hand-painted mug before pausing. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, ma’am.” The carpet is the perfect shade of green.

“You had better stay, then. I just made fresh rolls, I have plenty of extra.” She tucks the pen into her pocket.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t.” There’s a faded spot in front of the fire. Does she have a cat?”

“Really, it would be my pleasure.”

“I have to get b-”

A hand taps on your shoulder and you jump, finally looking up again. Something warm presses against your sternum, and you glance down. Tea. Your fingers curl around it hesitantly, the weight of it somehow unfamiliar in your stiff hands.

Elisha was just talking. You glance up, trying to force a smile. “Sorry?”

She only sighs. “Couldn’t sleep, could ya?”

Your eyes drift back to the mug, taking in the little gold stars painted along the rim. Their edges begin to blur, and you blink, a little too fast, shake your head even faster. The walls feel cramped again.

“Hey, hey.” Bony fingers wrap around yours, gently pulling you forward, and a hand is on your shoulder, guiding you to sit on the couch. You let yourself sink down, barely noticing Elisha walk away until she’s back and a plate of warm food is being placed in your lap. Your eyes are wider now, burning just a little as you look up at her. She’s already turned away, though, swiping a book up from a side table and curling in an armchair to read.

Tentatively your fingers close around a roll, guiding it to your mouth as the smell floods through your brain.

You’re sure Elisha’s cooking is lovely, but you regret to admit the food is gone before you’ve even tasted it, the crumbs cleaned from the plate with careful fingers, the tea drank in great desperate sips and embarrassingly loud swallows.

You smile at the bottom of the mug now, counting the gold constellations dancing along it. There are dozens of little stars stretching across the inky blue, the gold paint twinkling gleefully as you tilt it this way and that. How did someone paint so many so neatly? Did they have a stamp, maybe? A really long brush and a steady hand? When was the last time you painted?

You push the thought away, glancing up at Elisha. She’s on a new book now, eyes wide and focused.

“Who’s the man next door?”

She jumps a little, eyes a bit wild as they focus on you again. “Hm? Oh.” She laughs. “He scare ya? Don’t worry, George is harmless. Just not a morning person. Runs in the family, I guess.” She holds her palm over her mouth to cover a big yawn.

You giggle, and she raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, guess I didn’t see the resemblance.”

She laughs. “What, the eyebrows weren’t a dead giveaway?”

“Everyone here has the same eyebrows.”

She snorts, slapping her palm over her mouth with wide eyes before you both burst out laughing. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that,” she wheezes between laughs.

“It’s true, though!”

She rubs her eyes, shaking her head with a grin still plastered across her face. “Oh, dear me. You met Martin yet?”

“No.”

“Now there’s a set of eyebrows.”

You quickly lose track of time as the pair of you sit there, her happily describing in detail all the people on the island. And, of course, their eyebrows. The ferryman is Francis (the alliteration makes you smile). He doesn’t live here, but everyone knows him anyway. You learn her brother’s name is John, but that was their father’s name, so everyone calls him Jack. He doesn’t talk much in the mornings, but he sings in the town bar some nights. The man at the general store you met yesterday is Ed. He’s ‘a grouchy old eyesore,’ apparently. But Elisha had smiled as she said it.

Eventually she trails off, her eyes shifting to the window. “It’s probably time you headed back.”

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion before you realize she’s right. The fire is long dead, and the candles flickered out hours ago. Without their light, it’s easy to see the grey outdoors steadily fading to black once again.

Elisha walks you out the door, hovering on her porch. “You come back here if you need anything, you understand?”

You nod dutifully. “Of course.”

“Oh! Almost left without this.” She fishes the pen out of her pocket, stuffing it into your hands.

“Right, yeah. And…Elisha, thank you…for today.” You gesture vaguely, not sure what else to say, but she only smiles softly, giving you one last nod.

You start down the steps and pause, eyes settling on her brother’s porch. He sits in his rickety old chair, eyes fixed on the distance. Smoking a cigarette.

“Um, Elisha?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Could you tell your brother to be careful when he smokes? I think the wind blew some of it my way this morning, and my lungs can’t really take that.”

She stares at you for a long moment, head tilting slightly. “There wasn’t any wind this morning, dear.”

“Oh.” You swallow, shaking your head. “Never…mind.”

With one last look back at her brother, you head home.

Something feels…off. Your heartbeat picked up as soon as you entered the driveway, and now the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

Your hand hovers over the doorknob, trembling slightly.

You glance back.

Nothing. A little bird hops across the lawn. It freezes, shaking slightly as it looks at you, before flying away with a squawk.

Your hand tightens around the handle, wrist turning very carefully, opening the door.

A bellowing howl echoes across the marsh.

You leap through the door, slamming it behind you. Your hands shake as they grab at the lock, slipping and sliding off it before it finally clicks into place and you back away, stumbling and barely catching yourself.

You rush over to your bag, flinging it to the side as you throw the closet open, fingers curling tightly around the old bat. You flick it upwards, relishing in its comforting weight as you clutch it to your chest.

THUNK.

You leap backwards as something heavy crashes against your bedroom window.

Did the house shake, too? Or was that your imagination?

Did the curtains quiver just now? Or was that you?

A tiny croak sounds through the window, and you gasp, taking a step closer. Another strangled sound breaks the silence, garbled and unintelligible. Your eyes narrow as you press your ears against the wall, the little sounds continuing.

Carefully you pick your way to the door, the bat resting over one shoulder. You open it just a crack, poking your head out. Nothing. You slide out of it sideways, crouching low as you work your way around the house, eyes fixating on every shadow lengthening and waving in the rapidly dimming light.

You turn, the corner, raising up the bat.

A raven lays twitching on the ground below the window.

Your shoulders slouch, letting the weapon drag along the ground. Slowly, you approach the struggling bird, taking in its pitifully flapping wings as it lays on its back, legs kicking uselessly upwards.

“Oh, you poor thing.”

Gingerly you kneel in front of it, laying the bat aside as you gather it into your arms.

A hulking black shadow gallops across the yard, disappearing into the thick bushes with a crash.

You snatch the bat and sprint inside.

The bird doesn’t seem hurt. Its wings stretch and bend fine as they flap weakly against you, and its legs are shaky but not broken. Only its eyes betray it, flickering wildly around as frantic pants shake its entire body. You cradle its limp head, quietly shushing its cries as you hold a glass of water against its beak. It shudders, throwing its head back before swallowing. Gradually its head tilts, and it stretches its neck forward again for another long drink.

“There you go, that’s it,” you soothe, laying it on the floor with the water as you pull down a blanket, tucking it around the bird. It shudders, fluffing up its feathers before settling in, tucking its head under a wing.

You can’t help but smile at that.

With one last glance at the window, you climb into bed, bat still in hand, and try to sleep.

A raucous squawk yanks you from consciousness, followed by a crash.

“What the…oh, no.”

You leap out of bed, dashing into the kitchen to find the raven dragging a shiny pan across the floor.

“Hey, nonono, not yours.”

It squawks belligerently, hopping backwards with a glare.

You sigh, shaking your head. “Fine, then.” You pick your way around the disgruntled bird so you can pull out the can of tomatoes. “Trade?”

The bird tilts its head expectantly, letting the pan’s handle fall to the floor with a twang. You nod and fish out a tomato, dropping to a crouch to proffer it. The little devil eagerly hops forwards, snatching the food from your grasp and ripping it to pieces, spreading tomato guts all over your floor before happily taking a couple more from you.

You straighten again, regarding the bird with a discerning look. “Yeah, I think you’ll be just fine, buddy.”

You slide the jar back onto the counter and open the door with a sweeping gesture, smiling as the bird croaks joyfully, catapulting itself through the doorway and whirling in the air. You skip around the house after it, watching it whirl higher and higher before diving down into the trees and brush of the swamp.

Maybe being here won’t be so bad, after all.

But as you turn to head back inside, your entire body stiffens.

Carved into the dirt beneath your bedroom window…is a single massive footprint.

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