psychopomp

snow covers the trees as far as the eye can see, until the trees blend in with the surrounding mountains. there are no roads visible in the distance, no streetlights, no smoke billowing from neighbouring cabins. the only sign of life comes from the steady stream of light pouring from the porch lamp behind you. 

your toes curl in your rubber boots, the bones crack from the cold. its hard to say how long you have been here, but you know you weren’t here long before you lost your winter boots. you tried to run — you got antsy in the cabin, pacing a hole into the floor, keeping the old man up — but you didn’t make it far before he was dragging you back inside by the scruff of your neck. he took your boots then, laughed about how you wouldn’t make it to the fence line without a proper pair of shoes. fuck, you can barely make it to the shed for some more firewood.

you’re heaving by the time you’ve gathered the last few logs of wood. the snow keeps pouring down; you’d overheard the weatherman on the radio say the storm showed no signs of stopping. the trail you made to the shed is almost gone by the time you turn back. you could run now, drop the wood and head south. but you can’t feel your toes, and the tears that have spilled over due to the cold are frozen to your cheeks.

the steps groan underneath your weight as you make your way back to the door. john looks up from the kitchen window and his face softens. you kick your boots off at the door, feet tingling. he offered his name the first night here. you didn’t offer yours. he knew it anyways. he knows a lot about you, yet you’re still learning about him. 

you’ve gathered that he is military, or he was. he’s old fashioned, the newest piece of technology in this place is the radio from the 90’s. he reads mostly non-fiction or mystery books. he starts his day with a crossword and ends it with sudoku. takes his tea black, drinks only decaffeinated past 2pm to help him sleep. the whiskey doesn’t hurt either.

he’s got trust issues; let’s you bring the wood in by yourself but doesn’t let you near the cutting knives. he’s got control issues too; he laid out a short set of rules for you to follow, but you discover new infractions everyday. 

you glide past him when you come inside, unceremoniously dropping the wood in front of the fireplace and dropping to the ground in an effort to warm up. you think he likes to keep you cold, hoping it will bring you closer to him. that’s why he only keeps one blanket on the back of the couch, why your socks are thin and your cable knit sweater is threadbare. he hums as he approaches, carrying a bowl of what you can only assume is another stew. old fashioned.

“up on the couch, love. got to warm you up.” he brings a hand to your shoulder, fingertips dancing to the curve of your neck before stopping above your pulse. you hate yourself for leaning into it. “got your favourite for dessert. stopped at a bakery i think you’ll love.”

you tilt your head back, watching as he settles into the couch behind you. you don’t recall him leaving. he groans as he leans back, shifting to make space beside him.

“you’d take me?” you ask, voice hoarse from the cold. 

he smirks and pats the space beside him, his other hand tightening on the steaming bowl. “one day. if you’re good.”

its a lie, you both know it. the thought leaves you just as quickly as it comes, erased by the fleeting idea of one day. you shuffle onto the couch beside him and tuck your feet underneath yourself. the snow shows no signs of stopping, the flakes fall heavier with each passing moment. you watch it settle on the window frame as you settle into john — it fogs up the window, it feels like erasure. the stew sits heavy in your stomach, its hard to say why you want to leave.

the streetlamps provide a cozy atmosphere despite the heavy instrumentals blocking out any other sounds. thoughts linger at the back of your mind like muffled voices behind a wall, a quiet discomfort tickles the base of your neck, just enough to have you checking over your shoulder. a quick glimpse over your shoulder has your brain conjuring shadows, a void by the bus stop. your breath hitches, but it’s no longer there when you double check seconds later.

unease washes over you, your pace quickens. the road ahead is empty. you turn the volume down and slip one headphone off your ear; cheers can be heard in the distance, cicadas chirp through the empty park. your pace slows as you contemplate turning back or taking a shorter route home, the road behind you is still empty, you turn into the park.

your headphones slip around your neck between streetlights, music completely off to aid your focus. a low hoot of an owl and rustling leaves grabs your attention as the wind sweeps up. the shadow of the trees seem to grow with your fear; waxing and waning with the moonlight. not too much longer to the main road becomes your mantra. its only at the sound of a soft whimper does the terror make way for something else.

your feet come to a halt, ears straining for more as your eyes scan the bushes to the right. another whimper, slightly louder this time, comes from the opening near the overhanging tree. you stagger forward, hesitance weighing the motion like cement. three paws dangle from behind the bench, a large head and wide eyes swing towards but slow with recognition; “oh, riley!”

riley pants as she tries to swing her body toward you with just one front paw, the other being held up towards her chest, dangling helplessly. you crawl forwards, grabbing a hold of her collar; “what happened? huh? where’s your father?”

you glance behind you at the park; there is no movement to track, riley’s owner is nowhere to be seen, not even a glimmer of her chain leash in the moonlight is visible. you let go of her collar as you stand up for a better view of the park, your movement startling riley who clambers to her feet behind you. you bring her hand back to scratch the top of her head, but meet empty space instead. eyebrows pinching together in confusion, you start to turn around and call for the dog, “ril-hmph”

a hand squeezes your mouth shut as a thick arm wraps around you, dragging you deeper into the woodwork. your arms are pressed uncomfortably to your sides, but you focus on kicking your legs out, hoping to trip the person holding you. your breath shutters as you struggle to breathe around the fabric over your nose, eyes fluttering closed as you choke down the odor on the rag. “shhhh. no use in fightin’ ‘t, luv. just breathe.”

tears well in your eyes, blurring riley as she comes trotting towards you; all four paws bounding off the soft ground, tail wagging happily as she circles you. your legs tire from kicking, arms relaxing at your side, head sagging down.

“atta girl,” the man rumbles, “must be tired, long day at work, eh? don’t worry, ‘m takin’ you home now.”

your head is light, vision is still swimming, when he lays you down in the backseat of his truck. the overhead lights play a trick on your mind; the void from the bus stop is standing over you. he hums as he leans back out of the door frame, the light casting a soft glow over his mask, the bleach painted skull on the balaclava looks almost orange as you fade from consciousness. the man at the park wasn’t playing fetch with the ball tonight.

johnny, who thinks of reader in his last moment; who isn’t focused on the tunnel, or the cold, or the distorted cries of his name. johnny, who’s soul is guided to the afterlife by the very same black dog he swore on his life that he would bring home for reader.