𝐢 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉.

†   𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘.

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.

𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚, thirty8, grave-digger, post office clerk. ・ manny jacinto.

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐞, thirty, maid/cleaner, caretaker. ・ taylor russell.

𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐨, twenty3, shopgirl, ledger-keeper, courier. ・ jenna ortega.

𝐣𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰, twenty5, salvager, lock-breaker. ・ odessa a'zion.

𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐢 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐨, twenty8, swamp tour guide, charm maker. ・ evan mock.

𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐭, twenty9, singer, seamstress. ・ anya taylor-joy.

𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐨, thirty2, innkeeper, midwife. ・ adria arjona.

𝐧𝐚𝐨𝐦𝐢 𝐛𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞, thirty, prophetess, mortuary asst. ・ ryan destiny.

𝐬𝐚𝐰𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐯𝐨𝐬𝐬, thirty3, mill worker, moonshine runner. ・ austin butler.

𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐭, forty5, carpenter, cult-enforcer. ・ tom hardy.

𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞, thirty5, cult leader (the revival). ・ oliver jackson-cohen.

𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐢 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐥𝐚, twenty9, herbalist, schoolteacher. ・ ayo edebiri.

𝐰𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐫, thirty2, grave robber, petty thief. ・ dylan o'brien.

†   𝖘𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖆𝖑𝖍𝖊𝖚𝖗.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭, established 1817, to be born, you must first be buried.

† 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.

† 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.

† 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.

† 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.

・  †  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.  

† 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.