hellbound heart .

Her memory for faces is sort of uncanny and she remembers his easily enough. Places him here, remembers his face the way it is now: lit red and blue by the collateral light of the many, many neon signs that only serve to add to the kitsch. She remembers him outside, too. He’s a smoker. She avoids him and the people he’s usually talking to and smokes alone by her car. He’s social, unsurprisingly. He’s handsome and has an easy charm. She wonders, idly, how many girls that line has worked on. She’d never admit out loud the way the compliment makes her stomach sort of – flutter. It feels a little bit like losing when she has to lower her gaze, flustered but contained. It’s been a long time since anyone complimented her, frankly. Sure, when she gets dolled up she’s pretty enough to glance twice at but these days she practices a purposeful plainness. She’s trying to go unnoticed. There is something appealing in having been noticed anyway, even if it is by a boy who’s young enough to be her son. For a moment she considers telling him just why it is she thinks he might have recognized her but it is so nice not to be known. Perhaps people are forgetting her. Or maybe he just doesn’t watch the news. “I was – being sarcastic.” Lies easily, voice flat as she finally resumes eye contact. A hand goes to cover her work, a little protectively. “That’s a good line.” Terse smile and a small nod – she’s trying to remain impassive. “You ought to save it for someone your own age.” Softly reprimanding but she can’t help the way she gives him one last once over, almost marveling at just how perfectly he’s cultivated the look of the quintessential Bad Boy, Small Town Heartbreaker. He’s like a character in a novel. It endears him to her. 

hector isn’t easily dissuaded. rejection isn’t unknown to him, not everyone is charmed by curls and a mischievous grin, and he’s rather well known around town for being an absolute cad, but a simple brushoff doesn’t deter him so quickly. no, he’s persistent like a gnat, and something tells him this woman isn’t as irritated with as she’s acting. he might even swear she’s blushing if the neon lights buzzing on the walls didn’t turn everything into a soft red glow. “oh, i’d never lie to a beautiful woman.” which is exactly a lie, he tells the most lies to beautiful women, and every other person he comes across. sometimes he doesn’t even know what’s the truth anymore. his head cocks as he leans his elbow onto the bar top, ear and shoulder touching as his gaze travels appreciatively over her. the cad that leers, george wickham in jeans and ratty band shirts. “well, my mama said it’s rude to ask a woman her age,” he’s lying; he doesn’t remember much of anything about his mother except that she loved him and he didn’t love her back. not enough, anyway. “but you don’t seem all that much older than me.” hector can’t actually tell her age, though she’s clearly at least in her mid thirties, and he lifts his beer bottle for a swig that says: look, i’m old enough to drink—barely! the beer has gone warm in his hands and he grimaces slightly as he drags it away, the glass making a clattering sound as it lands on the bar. if it isn’t obvious that he has no intention of leaving (unless she really tells him to fuck off), his glance towards her work and his subtle shift to get a look at the papers probably makes it clear. “what’re you working on?” something to do with that fuckin’ lake, probably—there’s always someone lurking around, trying to find out if those thomians actually drowned themselves or what really happened to those campers back in the eighties, trying to solve a mystery that the rest of the world forget, if they even knew about in the first place. hector thinks it’s all bullshit, he’s worked at the campgrounds for a bit over a year and he’s never seen any ghosts. of course, he’s usually high when he’s working, but when is he not? “let me guess, you’re writing a book on the local conspiracy that this place waters down its cocktails?”

Sylvia has only been in town for a month but already she’s managed to establish a routine. Up with the sun, two cups of coffee, at least one cigarette, a shot of vodka to get her through the morning, lunch at Sapsucker, hours and hours and hours of seemingly endless research, drinks she doesn’t bother to count. None of the dots connect. Frustration begins to pique. She starts to think of Tess. She goes down to The Wagon and she starts drinking bourbon. The Wagon is crowded and buzzy and warm – she can’t say that she likes feeling seen but there isn’t a lot of variety in Crescent Lake. Tonight she’s here earlier than usual and she sips her bourbon (two fingers, neat) unhappily at the bar, pouring over her notes. Attention tickles, hot and unwelcome at the side of her face. She can feel their gaze boring into her; intently curious. She sets her mouth into a hard line and tries to ignore it. Maybe it’s just because she’s new in town. Maybe they’re just looking. But she can’t help but assume that they recognize her: the woman who may or may not have killed her own daughter. “What?” Finally regards them with a cool and level gaze. The iciness maybe a little surprising coming from someone who looks like a Disney Princess. “Can I help you with something? Do you want an autograph? If not could you kindly fuck off?” 

hector is chaos personified, but even chaos has to have some sort of routine. plus, as nearly everyone who spends more than a week here says, there’s not much to do in crescent lake. hector really doesn’t need much to survive: a place to sleep, people to mess with, parties to attend (or create if there’s nothing going on anywhere else), and copious amounts of mind altering substances. the conestoga wagon provides more than enough. so usually he ends up here, drinking at the bar, stepping out for cigarettes or weed occasionally, and surveying just who ends up in the wagon that night. a fine mix of locals and tourists, there’s always the usual barflies and someone new, always someone to talk to and—hopefully—take home later. the redhead at the bar isn’t new, she seems to be here even more than he is, like she just showed up one day and decided to never leave, but hector’s never gotten the chance to talk to her. or rather, she never really caught his attention enough for him to bother her. tonight, however, in a room full of drunkards standing shoulder to shoulder, his gaze is glued to the woman. hector boasts that he’s not afraid of anything, and truly it does take a lot for him to quiver in his chuck taylors, but there’s a bit of anxiety lining his stomach as he approaches the empty bar stool next to the stranger. it’s excitement rather than nervousness, always something a little bit... naughty in approaching older women. he can tell his stare is bothering her, probably more so now that he’s right next to her, but her outburst makes an amused grin grow across his mouth. he ignores the rest of it, singling out just the middle. “autograph? why?” his brow quirks, fingers gripping over the neck of his beer bottle, “are you an actress or somethin’? you’re pretty enough.”

taylor takes a seat on the edge of the dock, feet dangling off and hovering just above the water’s surface. she knows the water’s going to be a cold nightmare and isn’t looking forward to the first plunge. her interest perks at the mention of one of the lake’s infamous legends.  “ oh my god you know what? they probably are. draining the whole lake would be hard. they’re probably still under there, rotting or whatever corpses do under water. do you think they weighed themselves down with rocks? ”  

EMERALD   ORBS   EYE   HIM   SUSPICIOUSLY,   arms   firmly   crossed   over   her   chest,   “I   think   you’re   losing   your   edge,   Hector…You’re   definitely   not   as   good   of   a   liar   as   you   USED   to   be.”   Danika   teased   with   a   soft   chuckle,   settling   on   sitting   on   the   edge   of   the   dock,   giving   a   shake   of   her   head,   “I’m   not   afraid   of   ANYTHING.”   It   was   a   bold   statement,   maybe,   not   one   she   particularly   believed   herself   but   when   it   came   to   picking   up   the   pieces   of   her   broken   family,   bravery   was   a   necessary   feat.  

she’s stood there in a tank top and shorts, barefoot, with arms comfortably wrapped around herself. she watches him go at it, deciding right there and then that she is, in no way, getting into that water. brows furrow at his words and the brunette lets out a scoff, arms now crossing over her chest as a grimace spreads across her features. “pfft, of course not. no way!” she? scared? oh, absolutely. but, she decides against addressing the fact. instead, she takes a seat on the dock, crossing her legs as she leans back a bit. “i’m just… not gonna swim in water that may or may not be, like, totally contaminated, thanks.” 

“no. no, nothing like that.” mila shook her head as her smile broadened–a breathy laughter accompanying the words. “i’m not like a … journalist or anything. i mean, hopefully, this’ll be published–someday–but as a part of my doctoral thesis, so sort of a niche audience.” in her experience, people didn’t really want to know once she got into too much detail. usually people preferred to tell their own brushes with horror and she was eager to record them. “i’m hoping to get a more personal history of crescent lake while i’m here. you know, you or your family memories. or just things that have raised your hackles.” now that the conestoga was starting to empty out, she hoped someone would take her up on the querie–a couple beers in made even the most reserved townies verbose in her experience. “i can look up facts, but there’s no richness in that history. it’s the town’s memories–their little legends–that warrant preservation as much as the facts, don’t you think?”

AFTER A FEW DRINKS, valeria had decided it was time to go back to her cabin. however, as she stood outside the conestoga wagon bar, dying phone in hand with uber pulled up, her face twisted in displeasure. “the nearest uber is FORTY FIVE minutes away?” she knew it was a small town but this was not expected. her plan to get back was officially thwarted, and she realized she was going to have to walk back to camp in the dark, intoxicated. if only she knew which direction it was. 

“DID YOU FUCKING SEE THAT?" brown locks bumped furiously against the thin fabric of her blouse as aurora flipped around to look at the other, eyes bugged and swiftly wandering around the space sorrounding them. "i am sorry, i didn’t mean to yell- but you did see that as well, right? that boy, covered in blood?" 

( benjamin wadsworth + cis male + he/him ) / who’s that rustling through the trees? oh, it’s just you, HECTOR IBÁÑEZ. i happen to know that you’re a TWENTY TWO year old GROUNDSKEEPER at the LAKE CRESCENT CAMPGROUND. while you’re from TULSA, OKLAHOMA, you’re currently living in the REDWOOD APARTMENTS. i think that you’re CHARMING & ADAPTIVE  but my mama says you’re  HEDONISTIC & DISHONEST. is that FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHT by BEASTIE BOYS currently playing on your spotify? well, turn it down please, you’re disrupting the peace. ( admin velouria + 25 + she/her + est )

hey i’m velouria!! i’m so happy y’all are here and i’m ready to get things going! this is my first child and first up, hector is a bad person. he is a bad, bad, bad, terrible, horny person. don’t think he’s good at all bc he’s not and i hate him and you should hate him too.