The Tucker Pack- probably more of a family than any of the 'families' in the Grove. The Tucker Family is comprised of werewolves, each with a need to be in some pack, a family to lean on and to stay with. Some outside the gorge like to refer to this as 'Omegaverse'- and then it was outed that werewolves were real, so that was scrapped early on. But the Tucker pack is comprised mostly of turned werewolves that found their way stuck in the gorge through abandonment from their own families or packs post-turn.
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The Stoker Family- a hive of vampires. Most have been there for centuries, but- most other have died off. Vampires that believe they're invincible, jumping into or trying to go across the chasms, perish to the darkness just like any other. Now all that remains of the original vampires of Stoker's Grove is a singular woman, one they refer to as 'Granny'. She's never seen, alway's holed up in Stoker's Mansion. Some dont even believe she exists. But someone is up there, and someone is turning those humans that go inside at their own demand. Beware of the sinister light coming from the castle's tower- it might not be a sweet old lady to meet you up there.
A figure stumbled from the treeline as though the forest had birthed her itself. Her pale limbs moved, faltering steps. Her breath tore from her chest, shallow gasps that filled her lungs, as the cool air bloomed with white condensation lit by the moonlight that fell across her figure in broken patches. Muddy streaks of blood smeared across her blouse and dripped from the loose strands of her long hair. The stains were fresh, dark and sticky, clinging to her clothes, to her skin, with the weight of her hunger.
“Cold. The air is cold.”
“Thirst... still. Always.”
“Too much… too much.”
Her hands trembled as she groped for balance, fingers scraping until they found the rust-coated iron of a roadside sign, the flaking metal biting faintly into her skin as if to remind her it was real beneath her touch. The iron was cold beneath her palms; the chill moved through her until it felt as though it reached her bones, anchoring her in place even as her body swayed. She let her forehead press against the corroded surface, eyes squeezed tightly shut, the world spinning behind her lids while she fought to steady her breath, forcing herself to endure the dizziness that rolled through her head in waves, threatening to pull her under.
“Stop. Just... stop moving.”
When she forced her gaze upward, the letters swam in and out of focus before sharpening into words: Strokers Grove. The name carried no comfort. She didn’t recognize it. She hadn’t meant to wander here; she hadn’t meant to wander anywhere.
“Where?”
“Here?”
“Run. No… no strength left.”
Her lips, still coated in blood, parted as though to call out, but no sound came. She looked less like a creature of the night than a woman drowning in it... lost ... confused.
The Cromwell's- Not a family, for there is no blood between them- but a coven. Much like the Van Helsing Family and the Stoker family, the Cromwell's are comprised of a coven of witches that have come together, for those who prefer to stay within their own group. Taught magic from generation to generation, the witches within Stokers Grove see the Cromwell Coven as family. Each with their own lives, names, experience, powers- but it can be taught. Will you end up a witch, I wonder?
The Van Helsing's- born human, kept human by years of breeding with the other lost humans trapped in Stokers Grove, the Van Helsing family is no longer comprised of Helsings- but a combination of every human that now resides in Stokers Grove.
They do not share a last name- but a clan instead. A gathering of humans, of people that were otherwise lost to the forest. Keeping close to home is important, to most humans. Preferring to stick by other humans, they eventually named themselves after the original family that resided there- The Van Helsings.
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Welcome to Stoker's Grove, a town named for the man that founded it. Bram Stoker came upon this little town early in his life- a paradise, a home for those that were cast away like himself.
A town, vacant and empty, with a singular home in the middle, a single sidewalk leading up to a desecrated mansion on a hill. In mere days, he found himself moving in, creating a life there.
Over time, more lost souls like himself began to join him, and built homes around his. Vampires, Humans, Witches, and Fae alike- and they became a community.
But soon enough, those who aimed to *hurt* the people living there ganged together, ripping through the community like a knife through flesh, and the people- the family they had created there was torn down.
Bram was one of the only survivors, and he, two witches and a faerie banded together- and created what they call 'Sinner's Haven.' A place for people who were thrown away, cast off like they were nothing. For people who wished aloud that they had a place to go. Countless people traveled there throughout the years, children, teenagers, adults- and yet- they never stayed. Bram missed his family- he missed his community.
But his time there would not last. A teenager, stuck in his mansion, their capture still fresh in their mind, had staked him through with a silver dagger. In his last moments, he used the magic he had been taught and cast a second spell- one keeping the residents there. The bridges leading to the glamour that resided at the edge of the tree's collapsed into a chasm that reached farther than the eye could see, and the people there were stuck- never being able to leave.
It became legend- no one was stupid enough in the Renaissance to ask directly. 'Take me to Stoker's Grove'. They needed to say. These days- it was mainly vampires.
The Fae stayed away from the trap, their own culture reminiscent- they weren't too keen on getting stuck in another realm like they had done to humans for centuries.
Humans would tell scary stories to their children, keeping them away from saying the phrase.
Witches were warned- go there, and no one would ever see you again. Vampires, however- especially rouges, like most were- had nowhere else to go. No money, No home- and pack, coven, hive-like instincts
Of course- not many listened. Many people disappeared from their beds over the years, some joking, some not, but they would all end up the same way- trapped, with others, in this new home.
Now, hundreds of years later, the town is empty of strangers, used to the centuries old families there now- and itching for a new community. For a new family.
Teachers, Mothers, Children, Doctors, Nurses, Firemen- hell, anyone who uttered the phrase would be swept away forever. Soon enough- a community would form again. Most were distraught. They wanted to go home. But this was their new home- and they would learn to enjoy it, just as Stoker wanted.
The barrier outside the Grove seems to null the effects of the sun on the vampires inside, letting them roam free during the day. Food seems to appear on shelves in the shops, clothes seem to appear on racks, and the outside world is completely cut off to them- but they're not cut off to it. They can see everything that happens on their phones, keep up with the times- but they can never leave, and even if they try to tell people what happened, where they are- its like the message never existed, to outsiders. They cannot communicate with the outside world in any possible way. Good luck, truly. For there is no way to leave, no one to save you, and no way out.... or is there?
The Chasm is empty nothingness at the edges of the town. it's completely dark, no light, no bottom known, and no survivors. The only thing that you could possibly do to see if there was one- is to jump. And no one has come back from the jump. You can hear a distant bang, a splatter of blood and the horrifying creak of the bones all breaking at once- no matter who, and what a person is. On the other side of the Chasm is a sort of forcefield- a barrier, keeping those inside. There is no exit- no entrance. Simply an island, with a glamour concealing them from the outside, and the outside from them. They can see the outside, but if someone were to stand on the other side of that Chasm- No one would be able to see them.
There are animals inside the island- but are there? Are they real? Is any of it? Or is it all just... an illusion?
In the current time, it is 2025- in Vermont, USA. The current date is 5/14/25, and the latest president is literally a troll, disguised as a human. Over the years, more and more creatures have been coming out as non-mythical. That they truly exist.
Hell, someone found a Pegasus last year!
The more that the human world has to adjust, the less shaky they get. Pixies and Fae are doing TikTok dances. Theres a golem on Instagram selling vapes. A lovely little gnome lady teaches people how to make homemade boba on Facebook.
And with vampires. With werewolves. People have begun to accept them more and more.
Werewolves are able to consume a concoction of chocolate and wolfsbane and heavy painkillers to mute the effects of the full moon. It doesnt hurt them otherwise- just numbs the pain.
But some havent. There is still war, there is still famine, homelessness, there is disgust and hate and species-ism running rampant throughout the world- mainly in the south, no doubt.
But good things have come from the supernatural world leaking into the human world.
Temp B. Temporary Blood. A synthetic blood substitute for vampires, mass produced across the earth for vampires much like the ones found here, in Stoker's Grove.
Maggie stirred awake to the chill of morning clinging to her skin. The grass beneath her was wet, each blade slick with dew that had soaked through the thin fabric of her yellow dress until it clung heavy against her body. She shivered, rolling onto her side, strands of damp hair plastered across her cheek, the taste of earth and sleep still thick in her mouth. She ran her tongue over her new fangs, still unfamiliar in her mouth. For a moment she stayed still, before forcing herself upright.
The world looked washed pale in the early light, a soft blue haze stretching across the open field. Maggie hugged her knees, staring down at the dirt smudges on her bare legs, then rubbed her arms as if she could wipe away the cold. Her dress was darker now at the hem, heavy with moisture, and she brushed at it pointlessly. A sigh slipped out of her, half annoyance, half exhaustion. She tilted her face to the sky where the sun was still a muted blur behind thin clouds, not yet strong enough to warm her.
It was then she saw the town across the field. Low rooftops broke the horizon, clustered together like a quiet promise. A large manor stood above the rest, and a single column of smoke rose from somewhere unseen. Maggie blinked, pushing back the strands of hair that clung to her face, and felt a strange pull in her chest. The place looked small, ordinary, almost forgettable but to her, standing in the wet grass at the edge of morning, it was the beginning of something. She got to her feet slowly, barefoot in the dew, and started walking.
Ward stood on his balcony, wearing a white cotton dress shirt and his black tie, smooth Dress pants and polished shoes. He was drinking from a glass of Whiskey and watching the field.. his eyes took in each sight. He sipped from the drink and spoke briefly
"There's no finding me here, been watching my back for days, as long as I lay low im good. Ill be fat capping on this life for the rest of my days."
But then his eyes settle on the girl in the field. And his eyes locked onto her.. when he saw her discombobulated and walking towards town. He thought for a moment, and he felt as if he had to investigate. So he went back inside, and put on a long coat and a fedora.
She would see a figure walking up to her, a Black figure in a black hat and long coat.. and the orange glow from a cigarette in his mouth.. he approached with a hand in his pocket and another holding the cancer stick to his mouth. It was accidentally intimidating, behind the shadows his eyes watched her approach
Maggie slowed as the figure broke from the haze of the morning light. At first all she could see was the wide brim of his hat and the dark weight of his coat, his shape blurred by the rising mist that clung to the field. For a heartbeat her breath caught, and an old story clawed up from memory, the Hatman, the shadow that lurked at the edge of sleep. She stood frozen in the wet grass, arms tightening around her body until her nails pressed hard into her skin, as if she could hold herself steady against the sight.
But the shadow didn’t vanish. It came closer, step by step, the ember of his cigarette flaring in the dim light like some watchful eye. Maggie’s throat felt dry, and in the damp morning air she caught the faintest trace of something sharp, coppery, unmistakable, the scent of blood. It slipped into her senses before she could shut it out, winding through her hunger.
“Hello?”
She swallowed, forcing her voice out, cautious and small, the word carried thin over the field. Her eyes stayed fixed on him.
"Its a cold night out here. And from what I saw you look a bit under the weather.
His voice was not thick with an Irish accent but rather it held the undertones of his voice. He noticed her weariness and pulled his coat off his back, he held it out in the night, wide enough to show his Lean figure
"I don't bite now, and I hope you don't either. But I'd hate to see you catch a cold out here.
He said offering it to her walking closer, his other hand pulled the cigarette from his mouth, tapping its side so its ashes could fall to the wet grass to snuff it out
Maggie didn’t answer right away. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched him shrug free of the coat, the fabric hanging wide in the pale light. She stood rooted in the damp grass, the morning chill had seeped too far in to shake off.
Her breath drew in sharp, carrying with it again the copper trace of blood that clung faintly to him, it wasn't only his, she wasn't sure which unsettled her more. Still, she didn’t move back. She let her arms loosen, slowly, and reached out to take the coat from him, the fabric warmer than she expected against her fingers.
Her eyes flicked up to his face once, wary and questioning, before she slipped the coat over her shoulders. It was too big, of course, swallowing her figure in its folds.
“Do you offer your jacket to all strangers you meet?”
Her voice came out slow, honeyed with a small-town southern drawl, the kind that softened her words even when they carried an edge.
He chuckled slightly, as he stood off to the side, he noticed her fangs and nodded
"Anyone deserves politeness. In most cases." He gave her a hand for a handshake "Keelan Ward, how about you?"
His eyes examined her, checking body movements and the way she looked at him. He already knew what she was already. Yet he smiled anyway
Maggie's eyes flicking from his outstretched hand back up to his face. Then she let one hand slip free of the coat, her fingers cool and delicate as they met his. Her grip was soft, not timid exactly, but measured, as though she wasn’t used to giving anything away too quick.
“Magnolia Thorne,” She said, her drawl curling around the name like it was meant to be spoken slow. A faint smile tugged at her lips, almost shy.
“But most folk just call me Maggie.” She released his hand gently, tucking hers back into the safety of the coat’s folds.
His grip was firm, professional, practiced. He let her hand fall
"A wonderful name, French I believe. But you clearly aren't French. You sound.. American?" He asked almost like it wasn't a question, like he knew, but he kept a smile on his face "Its a pleasure Maggie."
It almost sounded regal, with the Accent. He had a way with words, that made them sound like he was talking to an old friend.
His accent curled around her ears, warm and deliberate, though in the back of her mind she couldn’t help but think it sounded a little too much like that leprechaun from the cereal commercials. The thought almost tugged a smile out of her, but she kept it hidden.
“Natchitoches,” She said at last, her drawl leaning heavier into the syllables. “Down in Louisiana.”
She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing as if testing how much he really wanted to know.
“Not much of a place, but it’s home.”
"Aye well, seems you've made a new home here." He said as he gestured to the town. "You will fit right in.. but uh.. how long have you been..?" He pointed at his teeth. He was asking how long it was since she turned.. as if it wasn't a sensitive topic.
Maggie’s gaze followed the sweep of his hand toward the town, but it didn’t linger there. At his question, her chest tightened, and she dropped her eyes to her bare feet sunk in the wet grass. Her toes curled against the earth, as if grounding herself might make it easier to say the words. The coat hung heavy around her shoulders, smelling faintly of smoke and blood.
“Not long,” She said quietly, after a beat, she lifted her chin just enough to meet his eyes. “Less than a day.”
The admission hung between them, fragile as glass, and she tightened the coat around herself.
He stared at her.. and then he crouched down next to her.. he looked saddened.. putting a hand kn her shoulder
"Probably hungry too, I got some Synthetic at home just in case.. uh.. doesn't matter would you like some lass?"
He asked as he made sure she was okay, trying to catch her gaze so she could focus on him.. although he hoped that wouldn't mean death
She took a careful step back, putting distance between them so his hand couldn’t rest on her shoulder.
“…Fine,” She said cautiously, voice low but steady. “I’ll take the synthetic… back at your place.”
He nodded and stood up, putting his hand down. He nodded to the apartment building
"Alright.. it will get you on your feet, and get a clearer head. Then you can navigate the new world you are in." He started to walk to his place, waving her along.
She fell in step behind him, keeping a careful distance, letting the warmth of the morning settle into her. The streets of Stokers Grove stretched out under a soft amber lamplight began to flicker off as the sun began to rise above the horizon. The quiet hum of small-town life drifting through the streets, the smell of fresh grass mixed with faint woodsmoke filled her senses.
She tightened his coat around her shoulders. The warmth of it seeped into her skin, and she realized with a mild surprise that her bare feet didn’t ache on the gravel. Not even a little. She followed quietly, keeping her gaze on the morning light on the rooftops as the shadows disappeared into back alleyways.
“It’s not so bad,” She murmured, mostly to herself, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.
He looked around as he looked to her, leading her to the front of the building he opened door for her
"If anything, best place to come after being turned. Lots of experience here for you to learn.. I don't know much. Just know enough to keep them happy and my blood in my body."
When she tightened the coat she could feel a sense of toughness in thr fabric.. almost as of the suit was reinforced.
"Unfortunately I can't lead you to any of them because im new here as well."
She stepped inside, letting the door click softly behind her.
"…If you don’t mind me asking," She said, her voice was quiet but curious, "when did you get here?"
Her gaze flicked up to him, trying to read the unfamiliar lines in his face.
He paused.. his mind shifting to standing in a street coated with blood on his hands..
"Couple days ago, just needed a change in scenery. Got too bored of my work and such." He said with a perfectly manufactured tone. As he led her up stairs and hallways.. eventually leading them to the hall with his apartment on it "Heard only fools come here and im a big one so, decided to play magical fairy princess and come here."
"I see… so you just up and left, followed the whim of boredom,"
She murmured, her eyes tracing the hallway as they led to his door. She paused at the threshold, feeling the air shift somehow, as if something, unseen, was stopping her. Bare feet shifting against the carpeted floor, she hesitated.
He walked ahead of her, walking to his door and using a key to unlock it. Then he glanced at her
"Yeah that's something else you need to get used to, can't come in without permission. Give me a second ill be right out." And he walked in, leaving her out there while he went to get some Synthetic for her.
Her brow furrowed as she edged closer to the open door, peering inside. She shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other, testing the boundary with a step that never quite landed across the threshold. The irritation flickered across her face, sharp and undeniable.
“Seriously?”
She muttered under her breath, dragging her fingers along the doorframe as if feeling for seams. The barrier mocked her, solid as stone and yet invisible. She pulled the coat tighter around her, exhaling sharply, annoyance curling under her ribs.
She could see a office area immediately at the front to the right next to a coat rack that held a underarm holster, and next to the rack was a empty keyhook. Past the small office was a living space with a nice leather couch with a blanket on it, a coffee table that held up a fancy whiskey and a glass, beside the vices was a nickle plated handgun resting like the TV remote next to it for the expensive TV. When he walked inside he turned left into a cramped kitchen, at the end of the Kitchen was a fridge and whne he opened it she could see the bottles of Synthetic blood on the shelves as he grabbed two of them. Among other various foods and treats a Irishman would love, including a good amount of beer for passing time. A knife holder was on the black marble counter, a microwave and an air fryer sat next to each other with the coffee make on the other side beside the small sink. Beside the sink was a dishwasher. All anyone could need. Beside the kitchen was a hall that must have led to the bathroom, and the bedroom.. but she couldn't see from her position.
He turned closing the fridge and walked back to her, holding the drink in his hand.. her food. He walked back out and closed the door, handing her the drink.
"This should keep you as you find your home in this place, everyone has one." He said handing her the two bottles.
She reached out, fingers brushing against the cool glass as she accepted the bottles. For a moment she just held them. Tilting her head, she offered a quiet.
“Thank you…”
Her gaze flicked back up to him, she hugged the bottles lightly against her chest, she could feel her body ache with the need to drink both right there.
“What do you mean, everyone has a home? Like… here in town? Or...” She hesitated.
"Anywhere really, follow where you think your home is lass. You'll find it there, I think im not too sure how it works."
He chuckled as he leaned against the wall, his eyes locked between her in the bottles as if waiting for her to lose composure.. he looked impressed.. at the resistance she had for not drinking it right there.
"Like I said, I've not been here long enough to know everything. But just enough to know the basics. And so far im the only human here." He shrugged, looking off for a moment, clearing his mind with a joke. "Makes me feel a little special, im gonna be famous."
Her grip on the bottles tightened, the glass cool against her palms as her gaze fixed on him. The chestnut warmth in her eyes bled away, deepening into a dark maroon that caught the low light like polished stone.
“Special?” She said softly, her voice carrying a sharper edge now. “Or just… a target?”
Her head tilted slightly, looking down the hall towards the exit “If this place really is full of vampires… being the only human sounds less like fame and more like walking around with a ‘bite me’ sign taped to your back."
"Let them try, I can handle myself here. I've had run ins with many folk who come with bad intentions."
He said with a smile, shrugging slightly as he watched her movements. Vigilance keeping him ready for a lunge or an attack, new vampires tend to do so.
"You just worry about yourself there, there's a lot you need adjusting to and I think you should try and reach out to others for help. I can only tell you so much but im not a Vampire, so I can only tell you what I learned."
She shifted the bottles in her arms, as she gave him a small nod. “Well… thank you, truly. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Her voice carried that soft southern drawl,
“If I ruffled your feathers any, I’m sorry. Lord knows I’ve had a rough go of it an’ my tongue gets ahead of me sometimes.”
She glanced back at him, the faintest flush of embarrassment creeping into her tone. “Do you… uh- want your jacket back?”
Her hands fumbled at the collar and sleeves as she tried to shrug it off without dropping the bottles, the motion clumsy.
He reached out and pulled the coat back over her shoulder instinctively, like a man dressing his child in their first suit. His eyes focused more on the coat, but then he met her eyes and pulled his hands back.
"Sorry, right no-.. You can wear the jacket until you get something warmer to wear, I got other coats. It should protect you from the cold and you could use some comfort. Just bring it back to me when you don't need it anymore." He leaned back against the wall again, giving her a smile.
"You know where to find me anyway, and in the jacket is a card I normally give out when I need to share contact info. You ever need me there's a number."
She blinked up at him, surprised by the small, careful gesture, then lowered her gaze, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Alright then… thank you. For the jacket, the bottles-"
She gave him a small nod, hugging the bottles close as she turned toward the hallway. Bare feet carried her forward, the coat brushing against her legs as she walked, her gratitude lingering in the air between them.
“Thank you!” She called back lightly, before slipping through the stairway door.
"No problem!" He called to her as he slipped back into his apartment.. and closed the door. Making sure it locked behind him. He went back to his table and sat down, pouring a small glass of Whiskey to settle in his hands. Her smile lingering in his mind way longer than it should
"Very strong woman.. takes a lot of strength to resist the urge of blood of any kind when you are hungry." His self reflection ended with a chuckle, and a sip of the stiff drink.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the careful mask she’d held in place cracked. She stumbled into the shadowed stairwell, pressing her back against the cold wall until her legs buckled, sliding down into the corner. The bottles trembled in her grip, hunger louder than thought. Her chest heaved once before she yanked the first cap loose with a snap of her teeth.
She drank greedily, the synthetic blood rushing over her tongue, flooding down her throat in desperate gulps. It wasn’t enough, not fast enough, and crimson spilled over her lips, streaking down her chin, darkening the collar of his coat. By the time she drained the first, the second was already half open, clutched so tight the glass bit into her palm. She drank again, savage, as though the liquid might vanish if she didn’t take it all at once.
A guttural sound, half moan, half growl, escaped her as instinct overpowered restraint. Her tongue flicked out, unnatural, curling across her chin and cheek to lap at the mess she’d made.
Only when both bottles lay empty, rolling across the floor, did she slump back against the wall, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. Her eyes glowed maroon in the dim light, raw hunger still simmering even as she tried to catch herself again. She tilted her head, gaze drifting toward the narrow stairway window. Beyond the glass, across the dusky field, a white house stood at the corner, aged paint, weathered roof, but something in its silhouette tugged at her chest with an ache of familiarity.
Her breath hitched. Before she could think, before reason could anchor her, she was on her feet. The bottles clattered where they’d fallen as she bolted down the stairs, bare feet striking fast against the worn steps. The door burst open under her hand, and she spilled out into the street, coat flaring behind her as she ran toward that house in the fading light, drawn by a pull older than hunger.
The house sat at the edge of Stoker’s Grove as though it had always belonged there, white paint weathered soft to gray, a wide porch leaning into the quiet. It was a mirror of Magnolia’s grandmother’s home, down to the delicate curtains that breathed with the wind, the faded floral wallpaper, even the mismatched plates stacked neatly in the cupboards. Inside, time seemed to gather in corners: the hum of an old box fan stained with age, the glow of lace-filtered sunlight spilling across a threadbare rug, the faint smell of dust and roses lingering in the air. Each room carried the weight of memory, familiar to her bones in a way that felt impossible, as if the house had been plucked whole from another place and rooted here just for her.
Magnolia slowed as she reached the porch, her breath ragged from the run, though it wasn’t exertion that made her chest tight. Her eyes swept over the siding, the sag of the porch boards, the way the curtains swayed in the open windows. Every detail ate at her mind, it couldn’t be, and yet it was. Her grandmother’s house. Here. At the edge of Stoker’s Grove, how.
Her hands shook as she crossed the porch, the bottles long forgotten where they’d been discarded. She crouched before the old clay strawberry pot tucked neatly in the corner, the same spot it had always been back home. The sight nearly stole the air from her lungs. Slowly, almost afraid of what she’d find, she lifted the pot. Beneath, catching a glint in the dim morning light, lay the spare key, exactly where her grandmother had always left it.
Magnolia’s lips parted, a soundless breath spilling out as her deep brown eyes widened. The key sat in her palm, cool and heavy, grounding her in a way that felt unreal. She whispered to herself;
“Lord above… it’s really here.”
She lingered on the porch for only a heartbeat longer, then pushed the door open. The familiar creak welcomed her, and the first scent hit her like a wave, coffee and cigarettes, mingled with the faint musk of old wood and fabric. Her chest tightened as she breathed it in.
Stepping inside, she moved almost on autopilot. The hallway stretched before her, each floorboard groaning under her bare feet, and she turned into the small room at the back, the one she’d slept in as a child. The walls bore the faded traces of floral wallpaper, sunlight spilling through the lace curtains.
Her hands trailed along the dresser as she approached it, pulling the top drawer with a careful tug. Inside were neatly folded clothes; shirts, dresses, old pajamas. Her eyes widened as she realized that every piece seemed to fit her now, as if they had been waiting for her all this time. She ran a finger over the fabric, marveling at the impossibility of it.
“Everything… it all fits?”
Her fingers lingered on the soft fabric of the clothes, and then her gaze flicked down to the coat still draped across her shoulders. The collar caught her attention, streaks of dark red marred the collar. Frowning, she removed the coat and carefully carried the jacket toward the kitchen.
She turned on the tap, letting cold water run into the sink, and began to gently scrub at the stain. As her hands moved, something small caught her eye on the counter. She blinked, staring in disbelief: an iPhone 4, its edges scuffed and worn, resting like it had been waiting. Her chest tightened, memories flooding back, the last time she had seen it was in her mother’s apartment, before… everything had gone wrong.
She dried her hands against her dress and picked it up slowly, cradling it as though it were made of glass. Her fingers traced the familiar shape, her thumb brushing over the home button, and for a moment, she simply held it, letting the impossible connection between settle over her.
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Today… today was unreal. I don’t even know how anything is possible, but the smells, the way the sunlight falls through the curtains, Me...
I met Keelan earlier, he’s human, which is insane to have to clarify. He gave me synthetic blood, told me I could wear his jacket. I don’t know why he trusts me, but I’m grateful... Hungry. Everything is new and wrong and yet…
And then… I found my iPhone. The one I left at Mom's.... I dun know that's possible.
It started raining right when I was heading to the corner store. Not hard, just steady enough to make my dress stick to me. Of course I didn’t bring an umbrella, I never do. Figured it’s only a short walk for bread anyway. By the time I got there my dress was plastered to my legs, and my hair felt heavy against my back.
The neon sign outside was buzzing again, pink and green. I don’t know why they bother with it, it looks cheap and too bright for such a small place. Tacky, honestly. Still, it’s the only store close enough, so I just went in, grabbed the bread, and came back. Nothing much else.
I haven’t owned a diary in years, but maybe it’ll help me keep track of my thoughts. Or at least keep them from turning into ghosts.
This town doesn’t change much, not really. Same cracked sidewalks. Same busted Coke machine outside the corner store that only works if you hit it twice. Same men leaning out of their trucks whistling at me like they already own my flesh. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it, but mostly I just feel like I’m waiting for something that never shows up.
Mama’s been working later than usual. Says the money’s better on weekends, but I know what that really means. I pretend I don’t. That’s the dance, I guess, we pretend for each other. She pretends she’s not tired, and I pretend I don’t hear her crying when she thinks I’m asleep.
I keep dreaming of water. Black water, with something underneath it. I wake up thirsty every time.
Anyway. That’s enough for now. I’ll try to write again tomorrow, if I remember.
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