𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨, riley, thirty, est, she/her, indigenous. this blog is for muns 21+. i'm a slow replier as i have a full time job and am in grad school, but i try to reply a few times a week! all muses are bisexual unless otherwise noted.
𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝, underage, deceased, asked not to be used, ariana grande, selena gomez, justin bieber, taylor swift. this list is subject to change!
𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐬, survival, desperation, and decay; exploration of religious trauma, cult indoctrination, and false prophets; death, grief, mourning rituals, and the intimacy of tending to the dead; exploration of addiction and moral decline; swamp lands, dying towns, forgotten crossroads; heavy emphasis on flawed, morally grey characters; emotional manipulation, betrayal, and unhealthy interpersonal dynamics; rot, ruin, false sanctity, dirt and blood and prayer; romanticism of violence and sin through poetic, character-driven lens; mentions of grief psychosis, survivor's guilt, prophetic delusions.
† 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘.
𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐨, forty7, preacher, moonshiner. ・ pedro pascal.
𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫, forty5, blacksmith, outlaw. ・ charlie hunnam.
𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐦 𝐤𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞, thirty5, bounty hunter, ex-preacher. ・ jack o'connell.
𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐧, thirty1, faith healer, cult recruiter. ・ paul mescal.
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† 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧: gentleness mistaken for weakness; hands trained to erase evidence; sugar dissolved in bitter tea; soap scum and candle wax; grief carried like a second spine; tenderness surviving where it should have rotted; care mistaken for penance; love learned as labor and never unlearned.
† you stay because leaving would mean admitting how much it hurt. the town takes from you in small, daily ways, and you let it, mistaking endurance for virtue. you clean what others won’t look at twice — blood from floorboards, wax from church stone, sickness from bedsheets. people speak freely around you because they think cleaning is mindless. it isn’t. it is memory with a bucket and rag.
† you came into this world kind — though they think you're naïve; just open in a world that punishes it. open enough to bruise, open enough to be shaped by loss. grief found you early and never quite let go, settling into your chest like a second heartbeat you don’t name. you tend to the living the way others tend to the dead, carefully, patiently, even when no one calls it holy. you tell yourself it’s worth it. you aren’t sure anymore.
eveline makes her living cleaning what the town leaves behind. she scrubs churches after sermons, sickrooms after fever breaks or doesn’t, homes after arguments turn quiet and final. she is called when things need to look normal again. she carries water, rags, and a steady presence that people lean on too heavily. the town relies on her to erase its messes and never asks how much she remembers. she remembers everything. she just keeps cleaning.
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† 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧: quiet transgression; ink-stained fingers; ledgers that never balance; glances held a second too long; pressed flowers hidden in scripture; survival through omission; desire practiced in secret; a future folded small enough to hide.
† you learn early how to disappear without leaving. the town prefers you useful and small, so you become both without protest. you keep accounts, run parcels, memorize who owes whom and how much silence costs. you move carefully through rooms, through conversations, through desire itself.
† you were born careful — not ashamed, just aware. aware of eyes that linger, of rumors that don’t need names to cut. affection becomes evidence here if you’re careless. you love quietly, fiercely, and in fragments, tucking pieces of yourself into places no one thinks to search. it isn’t bravery. it’s preservation.
isabel keeps the dry goods ledger with a hand steady enough to lie convincingly. she knows which numbers are wrong and which ones are dangerous to correct. she runs messages because she’s fast, forgettable, and never asks questions aloud. the town knows what she is without naming it, watches her the way it watches weather — with suspicion and inevitability. she keeps her head down, her heart hidden, and her future folded small enough to fit in a pocket. for now, that is survival.
† 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧: wet iron; bad manners; hands that know locks too well; laughter at inappropriate moments; things pulled from water that should’ve stayed buried; truth without courtesy; ferality mistaken for sin; survival without apology.
† you live where the town pretends not to look. half-sunk houses, flooded roads, places where loss settles heavy and quiet. you salvage what’s left behind, strip rot down to usefulness, and sell it back without apology. you do not soften your edges for comfort, and you do not explain yourself unless it’s necessary.
† you were born wrong — unsoftened. animals sense it, people resent it, and you refuse to correct either. you laugh when things feel too serious, go quiet when they expect gratitude, and treat superstition like a joke you’re not in on. if the world insists on cruelty, you see no reason to be polite about it.
joey makes her living pulling bones out of water and calling them tools. she lives on the edge of the swamp in a shack that leans like it’s listening. she smells of metal, damp wood, and something sharp enough to keep most people at a distance. the town tolerates her because she retrieves what they’re too afraid to touch. she laughs at funerals, falls silent at weddings, and sleeps easy knowing she never lied about what she was.
† 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧: voice as currency; soft mouths forming hard beliefs; candle smoke clinging to hymnals; silk ribbons knotted too tight; sanctity mistaken for desire; reverence rotting into fixation; beauty treated as omen; the violence of being believed.
† you sing because silence invites projection. every room you enter fills with expectation, and you have learned how to let your voice do the kneeling for you. you keep your hands folded, your eyes lowered, your faith conveniently undefined. it is safer to be adored than understood, safer to leave them wanting than to stay long enough to be claimed.
† you were never holy — only careful. careful with smiles, careful with breath, careful with the way awe curdles into devotion. men mistake reverence for god, women mistake envy for warning, and you stand between it all pretending not to notice. you do not believe in prophecy, but you believe in attention, and you know how to survive it. someday it may cost you. for now, you let them listen.
magdalene was raised to sing before she was taught to pray. her voice learned the shape of churches, the way sound bends belief into something intimate and dangerous. she stitches dresses by day, measures hems and expectations with the same steady hands. by night, she sings wherever she’s asked — funerals, weddings, revival tents — never staying long enough to be claimed. the town calls her blessed, calls her proof of something divine. she calls herself lucky. neither word settles comfortably when the silence finally comes back.
you’re sitting across from me in a shitty diner in anywhere, america, and i watch you pour too much creamer in your coffee and i think “i love you.” you look up, catching me staring, and for a moment i think i’m brave enough to say it, but i take too long and the moment passes. i take the balled up straw wraper and flick it at you, pretending that was my plan all along. you laugh. i never want to go another day without hearing that laugh. i think i will have all the time in the world to say it.
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"isn’t that the trick of it?" temi’s voice was soft, like rain threading through pine needles, not meant to interrupt but to be heard inside the silence. "they dress up joy in someone else’s words and call it yours, and maybe you even wear it like it fits. smile just right, say all the sweet things that keep the peace. but god, doesn’t it get heavy? holding something that’s supposed to be light?" she leaned back, fingers stained green from crushed herbs, tracing idle shapes into the wood beside her. "i think sometimes happiness starts as a seed they plant in you, sure. but it’s still yours to water. yours to let bloom — or not. and if it hasn’t rooted yet, well. that’s not your fault." her gaze flicked up, gentle and unwavering. "i’m listening. but what am i supposed to do here?" maybe she doesn't get it, maybe she doesn't have the right thing to say, but at least she'll just be... here.
“ ⎯⎯⎯ i just don’t know what you want me to do here . i mean really , ‘cause my hands are tied . ” cue a shrug , then slump of figure . “ you wouldn’t be the first t’come round here and ask , or tell , me the same thing . ”
"wouldn’t be the first, huh?" his smile was crooked, worn at the edges like a playing card left too long in someone’s back pocket. it didn’t touch his eyes — those stayed tired, ringed with the kind of sleeplessness you can't drink away. he leaned in the doorway like it might hold him up better than his own spine could, one hand hooked in the worn leather belt at his hip. "guess that makes me a fool with bad timing." he sniffed, glanced away, then back again. something in him itched to pace, but he stayed put. maybe out of pride. maybe out of hope. "i ain’t askin’ for long. just a day. two, if the dust don’t settle." his voice was soft, but it carried. "someone’s got it in their head that i been runnin’ more than shine. and maybe i have. maybe i ain't as clean as i used to be. but hell… it wasn’t meant to spill over like this." he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, skin flushed from the sun or shame — it was hard to tell. "you say your hands are tied. alright. i won’t pull at the knots." his gaze flicked up, steady now, something bitter and boyish blooming behind it. "just… don’t act like you wouldn’t’ve done it, if it was someone else knockin’." the words lingered between them, heavy as smoke, sweet as regret.
there are stories waiting to be worn like second skin. broken teeth and sacred hymns. motel rooms and whispered confessions. small towns that never let go. gods with no face, only hunger.
something is stirring beneath the surface. below is a collection of plot ideas — some pulled from the fevered world of the revival, others meant for broader canvases: cults and crooked faith, dusty roads and stolen names, prophetic dreams and blood-wet promises. these are for the restless muses. the ones who ache for something more. something strange. something holy. choose your poison. or your prayer.
・ † 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬.
you grew up in the cult. i was kidnapped into it. now they’ve paired us to be spiritual 'mirrors' — meant to reflect each other’s flaws. but i think you’re planning an escape, and i think i want in.
we both ran from the same cult, but not together. now years later, we’ve run into each other under different names and different faces. we recognize each other instantly. we also recognize the man watching us from across the street.
i came to document the cult for a documentary. you’re a member, and i thought you were feeding me false information — until you slipped me a real, bloody relic and said: "don’t let them see you bleed."
they paired us in the program. we’re not supposed to love each other. this is supposed to be 'sacred duty.' but i think we might be in love. or we’re both manipulating each other to get out. either way, we’re in too deep.
you’re the child of the cult leader, which makes you royalty here. i’m an outsider who’s just been 'invited.' we’re not supposed to talk. we keep doing it anyway.
・ † 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬.
you say you saw the god in the hush pond. you haven't spoken since. now you only speak in verse, in riddles, in scripture. they say it’s prophecy. i think you’re still drowning.
they say the vessel must be clean. so why do i feel holy only when your hands are on me?
you’re the preacher’s son. i’m the runaway witch. your father says i’m possessed. you keep sneaking me food and asking what it’s like to taste freedom.
i joined the church to get clean. you joined to hide. now we’re both kneeling, whispering confessions to each other through the booth walls.
you keep showing up at every church i move to. every sermon, you're there. sitting in the back, watching me. i think you're stalking me. i think you're praying for me. i think you're doing both.
you used to be devout. i used to be damned. now we’re both somewhere in between, clinging to each other in motel beds like penance.
・ † 𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬.
you disappeared into the swamp six years ago. now you’re back. barefoot. clean. untouched. and you won’t stop smiling at me.
i left this town years ago and said i’d never come back. you never left. now my mother’s dead and i’m back for the funeral — and you’re the one organizing it.
i work at the diner. you come in every sunday after church. everyone in this town thinks you’re perfect. i know what you did. and now, apparently, so does someone else — because the notes are starting.
we were the golden kids — cheer captain and football star, prom king and queen. but that was ten years ago. now i’m back and you’re an alcoholic with a dead marriage, and i’m the town’s new undertaker. we are not okay.
you’re the sheriff’s kid. i’m the local disaster. everyone says you shouldn’t talk to me. so we only talk in secret, in your truck, behind the high school gym, at midnight.
we’re exes who both stayed in town and now we have to co-own a failing gas station because of a clause in your dead uncle’s will. we hate each other. except when we don’t.
・ † 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬.
i’m the enforcer. you’re the offering. i wasn’t supposed to talk to you. now i’m carving your name into my skin like scripture.
they said you confessed, that you begged for forgiveness. but when i look into your eyes, i see something else. i think you liked what you did.
you’re a hitman. i’m your mark. but you stopped the job halfway. now we’re both running, and i don’t know why you’re protecting me.
i’m the person you robbed last week. i tracked you down to get my stuff back. but instead, i found out you didn’t steal anything. you were planting something.
you’re the rookie cop. i’m the town's favorite felon. everyone’s betting on when you’ll try to arrest me. or fuck me. whichever comes first.
i’m on the run and pretending to be someone else. you figured it out — but you’re not turning me in. you’re using me for something else. and i’m kind of into it.
・ † 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬.
you’re the one who wrote the lost chapter of the hymn. you shouldn’t exist. you were erased. and yet i found you in the swamp with a pen in your hand and blood in your mouth.
i thought i was the chosen one. but the god picked you. and now i hate you. and now i love you. and now i think we’re both going to die.
we both dream of the same forest. we’ve never met. but now we’ve started seeing each other in real life, and the trees from the dreams are growing in our backyards.
you were cursed, i was supposed to kill you. instead, i kissed you. now we’re both cursed, and i don’t regret it.
you were possessed once, and you say you remember all of it. i don’t believe you — until you start whispering my dead brother’s name in your sleep.
i died. you were there. and yet somehow, i came back. now you’re the only one who believes me when i say something followed me.
・ † 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐜 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬.
we’ve been sleeping together for months, but only when you’re drunk and i’m lonely. i told you i was done. you showed up on my doorstep anyway, bruised and shaking.
you left me at the altar. i left the country. five years later, we’re seated next to each other at someone else’s wedding. and i’m still wearing your ring around my neck.
i told you i loved you right before you left. you laughed like it was a joke. now you’re home, and i’m not laughing anymore.
we had a pact: if we weren’t married by 30, we’d marry each other. well. we’re 30. you’re single. i’m engaged. and you just kissed me.
i loved you. i think you loved me too. but then you disappeared. now you're back, and i want to know why. but you won’t tell me — and it’s killing me.
you were supposed to die in the fire. i watched it happen. now you're standing in front of me, asking if i missed you.
we’re strangers in the same support group. i’ve never spoken to you — but last night i dreamed of your face, covered in blood. and today you came in with a black eye.
for something so simple , the repetition of his name sounds complicated . like there’s layers beneath the single syllable , and for some reason ⎯⎯⎯ it appears to be soft . vicente knows it shouldn’t feel like that , but even with the white lie , there was the slither of truth that remains ; and that part ⎯⎯⎯ the human one ⎯⎯⎯ makes him feel at ease . he knows that he should have walls up ( they do build higher as opposed to be knocked down ) after years of tiresome work , however can’t entirely deny the slight warmth that radiates . assumes that much is from company , none the wiser , a gaze that still acts as an appraisal crossing over newly named acquaintance . eamon . “ think callahan could be down the road for all i know ⎯⎯⎯ probably didn’t trek far enough . hit on the wrong door , whatever . least you’re getting some energy . ” he comments , the heat of the day sticking to skin like its rehearsal ⎯⎯⎯ every edge and crook of rugged , worked skin hydrated with the sheen of sweat . neither here or there , has just become increasingly more noticeable since he showed up .
“ oh , i think that depends on who you ask ⎯⎯⎯ ” speaks truthfully , because if vicente was an honest , good , man , he’d answer in a heartbeat . but he’s not . has enough skeletons in his closet to fill a graveyard , a crossing stranger was the least of his worries . sparing food and water also weren’t an issue , at all . keeping the rogue parts of himself hidden , however ? entirely different . careful the way he treads , metaphorically and literally , knuckles grasping at the wood of the door , swinging the screen open . a silent move , invitation , as he laughs . that is new , the sound of jovial entertainment ⎯⎯⎯ especially in this part of town ; for him . he ponders for a moment , back turned as he walks upward , simply expecting the other male to follow like some loyal dog . however he’s learnt that nothing ⎯⎯⎯ or no one ⎯⎯⎯ is ever really loyal . a smile hidden , hand spreading the skin of his neck while he cranes ⎯⎯⎯ joints clicking , before an exhale . “ age old question , isn’t it , ” now he speaks in vagueness , acutely aware of presence . “ if the tree fell in the forest but no one was around to hear it ⎯⎯⎯ did it really make a sound ? ” fears no way of sounding stupid now : it’s already left his mouth . “ either way , it works . same with doing right . ” he guesses .
eamon stepped over the threshold like he was stepping through a memory. soft-footed, reverent. his boots made no sound, though the wood beneath them creaked like it remembered others — different men, different days. he moved slow, not with hesitation, but with the weight of someone who’d learned long ago that even welcome can be fragile, even warmth can be a trick of the light. still, he followed. he didn’t fill the space. didn’t try to. he kept his shape small, his voice smaller — not out of fear, but out of respect for whatever lived in the stillness of this place. "reckon you’re right." he said, and the words came soft, carried on a breath like heat rolling off a summer road. "about the tree. about doing right. maybe it don’t count for much in the grand scheme — no choir of angels, no gold star stuck to the soul — but maybe it still means something. maybe it’s enough just to keep your hands clean, even when nobody’s watching." he paused, gaze trailing across the room like fingers over old wounds. there was a story in the quiet — in the shape of the chair by the window, in the way the curtains hung like tired ghosts, in the rifle leaned easy against the wall but close enough to grab. a man’s life written in the things he didn’t say. "don’t know if that makes it holy." he went on, softer still. "or just foolish. but it makes it somethin’. a kind of quiet defiance, maybe. or faith."
he glanced toward vicente then, the corners of his mouth pulling not into a smile, but something gentler. sadder. an understanding. "you live alone out here?" he asked, but it wasn’t nosy — it was curious in that way only the lonely ever manage to be. curious like a man who’s learned to listen harder than he speaks. "feels like the kind of place a man chooses when he’s got somethin’ he’d rather not be remembered for." eamon said, voice hushed like he didn’t want to disturb the dust. "when he’s tired of the world takin’ bites out of him. when he wants to go still, and see if the ache goes quiet, too." he let that sit between them, a shimmer of truth he wouldn’t press on. then: a tilt of his head. a look sidelong, steady. a warmth like sun after rain. "but you let me in anyway." he didn’t smile, not quite, but there was a sort of softness around his eyes — a flicker of something aching and old. something grateful. "that’s more kindness than most’ve shown me. more’n i had any right to expect." his hands stayed in his coat, still rooted there like he didn’t know what else to do with them. "and kindness like that — it don’t vanish, even if no one sees. it lives somewhere. it leaves a mark."
“ what , you’ve seen them ? ” seems silly to accuse otherwise , accent heavy through curiosity , but can’t keep brow from raising at the perked statement . it’s always eve’s questions that get her into trouble – wrong time , definitely wrong person . or , additionally , right person but the wrong crowd . spoken in hushed whispers through her own mind before towards anyone else , the words naomi speak would be taunting from anyone else . no one gets her . they’ve always mistaken her for some kind of outlandish passer . but from other femme , feels like a genuine conversation – that , or she’s bad at cues . “ i mean , i’ve heard things before , but never watched . my sister used to say it was all hogwash . ” that’s never stopped her though , a fascination to the unknown . what shouldn’t be spoken of , or to for that matter . there’s a moment of consideration , standing like it’s some kind of demand . just instead deciding she’s growing tired of sitting , wood aches her bones for hours on end now – not as soft as she once was . “ chews them up and spits them out , i bet . but ⎯⎯⎯ come on , i can’t sneak in . ” she would , if it meant her suspicions were aided . tended to . voice dips then , her tone soft as if someone were to hear in passing . “ unless you think i could ? ”
"seen 'em?" naomi huffs — a sound like wind through brittle leaves — not quite a laugh. "baby, i hear 'em. i'm the knower of all. i don't have the luxury of just watchin'." she covers it up as a joke, if anybody asks, but she knows people talk. she knows the things they say. femme shifts, shoulder against the doorframe, fingers picking idly at the fraying hem of her sleeve like she’s counting down heartbeats. like she’s not sure if she wants eve closer or gone. "your sister was right. 'course she was. hogwash, snake oil, holy ghosts put on like sunday hats." a beat. "but just 'cause it's pretend doesn't mean it doesn't work." her gaze flicks to eve, slow and deliberate. there’s a knowing in her eyes — not soft, not cruel, just... tired. tired of being the one who really knows. tired of being asked. tired of being right. "the room doesn't chew. it sinks. like mud. slow. quiet. you go in thinkin’ you’re just watchin’, but it gets in your teeth. under your skin. and next thing you know, you're hummin’ hymns in your sleep and speakin’ tongues that ain’t yours." her voice dips then, catches on something nearly gentle. "but yeah. i think you could." a small smile, crooked, a little mean. "question is — you still wanna, now that you know it bites back?" her head tilts before she speaks up again, not giving eve enough time to answer. "sometimes it's best to not know, though. ever thought a'that?"
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it’s the thrum of his chest that catches him first , then , it’s his stomach . alden can’t seem to focus on much – with every word that’s meant to help , partial observation lets him think . critical of himself before anything else , but perhaps at the appraisal from the other . feels the odd turn in his insides , as if one movement would make him spill ⎯⎯⎯ collapse at the hands of no one in particular ⎯⎯⎯ and male is under the possession of his own feeling . stomach shifts , turns , and feels uneasy . doesn’t know much , but he knows that this ⎯⎯⎯ the promise of revival , the rebirth of past troubles ⎯⎯⎯ shouldn’t feel like this . no matter how much sin he confessed and wanted to be fixed , something that sounded so auspicious in the moment now sounds like rot . it sounds like ruin . and given he way he approaches alden with such intent , it’s nearly making him retract ⎯⎯⎯ turn back around and never come back . perhaps he should’ve done so , the way his gut is telling him to .
but he is not a man of wisdom , let alone intuition . no matter how much his head tells him one thing , physically , he stays . embedded into the floor where feet trap , his limbs frozen and a gaze that’s situated on the other . closes in , and alden doesn’t stop it . he just listens ⎯⎯⎯ really listens ⎯⎯⎯ to the beg , the wait , anything that could make him stay . this isn’t like a church , where he sits to confess and gets bathed clean . he knows that . he knows that something else – something powerful ⎯⎯⎯ resides in the brace , just close enough for him to taste in the air . but , with all the good , there is the bad . doesn’t wish to keep his hands from shaking , a predetermined attribute his mother once scolded him for , only wishes he could’ve grown from it . that’s what makes him him , and the idea of that disappearing sounds tense . makes him tense . at what point does that become less of a promise , and more of a threat ? he isn’t sure . “ ⎯⎯⎯ no . ” singular word , short and abrupt , as if he’s been mulling it over in his mind . “ i can’t not belong to myself . ” a pause , then eyes upon his . “ i may be rotted and ruined but … why must the world end at your word ? ”
sol did not blink at the no. did not flinch at the refusal, did not recoil from the question that landed between them like a lit match on damp wood. instead, he stood still — an old stillness, something born in the hush between storms. his expression did not twist into disappointment nor disdain, but softened, as if alden had whispered something holy instead of defiant. "you ask why the world must end at my word." he murmured, his voice low and thick as sap. "but the world ends every day, alden. in the silence after a slammed door. in the slow fade of a name no one says anymore. in the way a body keeps breathing even when nothing feels alive inside it." he stepped forward — not looming, not looming, not looming. but inevitable, like dusk, like decay. like something that comes whether the soul is ready or not. his hand drifted — not quite touching, but close enough to warm the air between them. hovering near alden’s sleeve, as though with enough stillness, enough patience, he could coax the man to lean into it. "you say you can’t not belong to yourself, but tell me —" his head tilted, eyes shadow-soft and gleaming. speaking with an even tone, no rush to his statement.
"what have you done with that self, all this time? what mercy have you shown it? what love have you been taught to offer your own name?" he smiled then — thin, gentle, aching with something deeper than delight. a breath. a pause. the swamp breathed too, all hush and water-laced reverence. "i want the wound. the broken rhythm. the part of you that wakes at midnight and wishes to vanish." another step. not forceful. not hungry. just near enough that the heat of him could be mistaken for safety. "i’m not god, alden. i’m not church or sermon. i’m not here to punish you for your ruin. i want to use it. want to make something sacred of it. don’t you see?" his voice dipped, hushed and dark as a prayer whispered into the belly of a tomb. "you don’t have to belong to me. not tonight. not yet. just stay. just long enough to learn the sound of your name in my mouth. just long enough to feel what it’s like when someone sees you and doesn’t look away." he let the silence stretch, thick as river mud, thicker still with possibility. "i’m not the end of the world, alden." he said again, softer this time, as if confessing. as if promising. "i’m what waits beneath it. when all else has rotted away."
† 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲: it didn’t begin with the revival. not with solomon, not with the candles in the dark, not with the drowned. the fever was always here. in the roots. in the water. in the hush between crickets. they built saint malheur on top of something that was already breathing. and it has never stopped. history doesn’t repeat here. it festers.
† 1834 — the town is founded.
saint malheur didn’t begin as a town. it began as a retreat. a doctor from baton rouge, theo duplessis, brought his ailing wife inland from the gulf, seeking "a place where the humidity might bless the lungs." what he found was a patch of high ground surrounded by swamp, where mist clung to the trees like mourning veils.
he called it la clairière de l'espérance — the glade of hope. the hope didn’t last. by 1841, the area was overrun with mosquitoes, fever deaths, and disappearing livestock. the locals started calling it malheur behind closed doors. by the time the name was made official in 1869, no one remembered the old one.
† 1867 — the church that burned itself down.
the first church was built with cypress wood and blind faith. they say it caught fire one night with no storm, no lightning, and no lamps left burning. just flame that rose from the altar and swallowed the steeple whole. no bodies were found — just charred hymnals and a pulpit still smoldering a week later. locals whispered that the church had been built atop something else. something older. the reverend who founded it left town the next day, barefoot, speaking in tongues. he was never seen again.
† 1903 — the great drowning.
a hundred-year flood swallowed half the parish. twenty-seven homes were swept into the bayou. and yet, when the waters receded, only two bodies were found. some say the rest walked into the swamp of their own accord, following something that sang through the reeds. others say they’re still down there. children born the year after were called les muets — the mute ones. none spoke until the age of five. the few who did spoke in riddles and warnings.
† 1941 — the boy with no shadow.
a ten-year-old boy was photographed at the saint malheur parish fair standing on dry ground without a shadow. the photograph was destroyed in a courthouse fire in 1947, but the story survived. some say the boy became a preacher. others say he drowned at the hush pond. still others say he wasn’t a boy at all, but something the swamp had made to test us.
† 1956 — the night of the hum.
a low hum rolled through saint malheur just after midnight. no wind, no rain, no machines — just a sound like a mouth pressed to your ear. people woke with nosebleeds. dogs barked themselves to exhaustion. a sinkhole opened behind the post office and swallowed the old graveyard fence. official reports blamed "geological instability." but witnesses described dreams of a voice in the water, and a man with black eyes standing at the foot of their beds. no one talks about that night now. not out loud.
† 2011 — the pilgrimage.
a group of thirteen people walked into the swamp, dressed in white, carrying nothing but candles. they were from all over — arkansas, mississippi, even a woman from vermont. they followed a man named solomon thorne. said he heard something calling from the mud. the candles were found days later, still lit, arranged in a spiral at the base of an old cypress. no bodies. no tracks. locals started whispering again. not about the swamp, but about the thing inside it. the one that listens.
† 2022 — the fish with human teeth.
a fisherman caught something he couldn’t explain. too many teeth. not the right shape. by the time the state biologist arrived, the fish had vanished. the man who caught it hasn’t been seen since. some say he was taken back. that the god doesn’t like being seen before it’s ready.
† current day.
none of this is on the town's website. the official line is quaint and quiet: fishing, tourism, heritage festivals. but if you’ve ever been to saint malheur, you know better. there’s something underneath the rot. something humming in the water. the revivalists might not say it plain, but they know: the god is real. the god is rising. and this town was never just a town. it was always the mouth. waiting to open.