PARA - ARCHIVES

Table of Contents

Act One

Prologue

Chapter One

Something lurks out there. Can you feel it calling?

Lexi is a troubled girl, riddled with a rot no pills or institutions can cure, struggling to cope after a traumatic event nearly claimed her life.

Nia is Lexi’s best friend, and is perfect in comparison. But even she has her flaws, her secrets, things that ruin her from the inside. She just hides them better.

Dark things are called to the rotten and ruined.

cw: death, gore, graphic descriptions of animal decay/death, implications of violence

This is ACT 1, CHAPTER ONE of my creepypasta OC origin!

Spring was quick to fade. Leaves budded and unravelled, the bushes and grass blossomed with flowers, and naked chicks grew their feathers as summer took its hold. Three months of no school, all warm breezes and hot afternoons, were eagerly anticipated. Lexi spent all of it inside, thick curtains drawn as she burrowed under her covers and hibernated. Only Nia managed to peel her from her sheets for brief outings to the ice-cream section of their local convenience store, or to the theatre's emergency exit that never locked.

But no matter the company, the ice-cream flavour, the movie, Lexi always found herself creeping back to her bed prematurely. There was something about the heat that only served to deepen her depression. Perhaps it was the feeling that her emotions were supposed to thaw with the seasons, but instead she remained frozen in her sickness, stiff while the world moved around her, beaming faces and clear heads. 

Just as quickly as they had bloomed, the flowers wilted, and the leaves began to yellow, and Lexi had to finally depart from her bedsheets and play the part of a diligent student. Only two more years before she was free from the shackles that bolted her to this town was the thought that would motivate her. Two more years until she could pack her things and get behind the wheel of whichever car she scavenged enough money for, drive herself somewhere new where nobody knew her face, nor the rot that plagued her head. Perhaps she would find a quaint apartment, where she would shed her teenage flesh and partake in adult things, like eating what she chose to and doing her laundry together, instead of separating them by colour and fabric. Small and humble fantasies, for that is all girls like Lexi were allowed. Girls who, once they were alone in the dark, faced the reality that they did not expect to live that long.

"Have you been experiencing anything unusual since your new dose?"

There was a hangnail wedged in Lexi's nailbed, sore and inflamed. Absentmindedly, she picked at it, despite the stinging pain. It was a good distraction from the fluorescent lights, the plain white walls, and the uncomfortable leather chair. Slowly, she answered, "No."

"Hearing or seeing anything unusual?"

One of her dark eyebrows arched upwards, just barely, "No."

A sound, barely audible, followed her response. Ballpoint pen scribbling across paper, providing her a momentary break before they finally asked, "What about thoughts of harming yourself or others?"

The hangnail Lexi was picking at gave way, but not without pulling extra skin with it. Raw skin gleamed in the white light before blood beaded on its surface. She stuck her thumb in her mouth, slicking her tongue over the tender cut, taste buds flaring at the metallic flavour. Then, she lied, "No."

"Are you certain?" That prompted her to look up, finally. 

The psychiatrist—not hers, Lexi didn't claim people like that—was a middle-aged man. Perhaps elderly, by now. Rectangular-framed glasses sat on his bulbous nose, drawing attention away from his stern, but strangely kind, blue eyes and sagging cheeks. Not many medical professionals Lexi met were kind; something she had come to learn from her frequent trips to various clinics, hospitals and wards. Never for anything mundane, like a bad flu, or anything interesting, like a broken leg. Nothing mundane happened to Lexi, much like nothing interesting happened to her either.

What landed her in white-walled places that smelt of disinfectant was herself, or rather her own mind.

Oddity was endearing when she was a child. But as she grew into her skin, her macabre mutated, and suddenly she was startling awake to her own screams, or tying nooses to her ceiling fan or scrubbing her skin red and raw to rid herself of the rot she felt beneath. 

"I'm sure," Lexi replied. Without decipherable emotion, the psychiatrist took a glance at her thumb, which was now dribbling blood down to her knuckle. More scribbling on his paper.

"We'll keep you on the same dose," He finally decided, and pressed a few fat buttons on his clunky keyboard. The printer beside him buzzed loudly, "I'll see you in another three months. If anything changes, I can fit you into an emergency appointment."

The printer buzzed once more, decisively. The psychiatrist did not move; instead, it was Lexi who stood and took her script from the tray. They had done this dance before. "Thanks."

Now autumn had fallen over Twisp, the town had been quick to revert to its famous gloomy skies and nipping breezes, the kind of weather that always threatened rain. As Lexi stepped out of the psychiatrist's office, she clutched the paper, which was still warm from the printer, to her chest. Despite her reservations for the warmer months, there was some joy in them, as she could find sanctuary from the temperature in her gloomy room and in cold soda. But when the shell cracked, and autumn came in whistling winds and orange leaves, it was a harsh reminder of something Lexi often succeeded in ignoring. For no amount of scarves and hats upon sweaters and jeans could make up for the lack of fat and muscle that blubbered her body. When your skin sticks close to the bone, it is hard to create warmth, and even harder to keep it. 

Daring to sacrifice some heat, Lexi rolled the moth-bitten sleeve of her hoodie back, tan Band-Aids dark against her sickly skin. But despite the contrast, her attention was drawn to the old watch on her wrist, one of the few objects Lexi owned that proved her biological father existed. A clunky, stainless steel Casio from the 90s, screen chipped and digital numbers crackly. It wasn't worth much back then, and it was worth even less now, both financially and sentimentally. But the watch on her wrist was there for the same reason Lexi wore moth-bitten clothes—only families with heavy pockets got the luxury of choice. Past the cracked screen of her father's watch, Lexi managed to make out the time: 10:15. There was nothing particularly special about such numbers, or rather the combination of them, but it did notify her she only had fifteen minutes to make it to school. Fifteen minutes, unless she wished for the tyrannical receptionist to call her mother. 

Plenty of time, Lexi would like to think, as she walked down the gritty, cracked pavement. But there was a risk to being outside on a time limit, when you had morbid fascinations like hers. For the ground beneath her feet was rich with treasures only she found the worth in, wrapped in blankets of earth, waiting patiently for her delicate fingers to dig them up and bring them home. This day was no different.

Squatting down, Lexi parted a considerably long patch of grass as if she were unwrapping a present, sliding deeper until her fingertips met cold, dry earth. Peering through, she ran her gaze along the scurrying ants and wriggling centipedes, watching for any that seemed considerably still. It didn't matter if there were none—she had jars upon jars of exoskeletons, perched on the shelves in her bedroom. But, like any collector, it was always nice to have a new addition. Instead of empty shells, however, Lexi found her throat watering sickly as a familiar, foul odour filled her nostrils. Pungent and sour, sickly-sweet and rotting meat.

The smell of death. 

"There you are," Lexi muttered to herself, leaning forward until she settled on her knees, and flipped over a particularly long piece of bark. 

Flies erupted, chorusing with beats of their wings as they made their escape. The young they left behind wormed beneath the gooey flesh and matted fur of a squirrel, its tiny jaw cracked wide in silent, perpetual terror. Or perhaps pain, Lexi contemplated, it was rare for an animal to die in fear without being eaten immediately after. Nevertheless, it was absolutely dead, eyeballs long since melted to goo, one side of its face reduced to bone and strings of dried flesh. Lexi abandoned its tomb of bark and instead rolled it over with a short stick, examining how its skin wriggled with each ravenous movement of the maggots beneath. Soon, it would be nothing but bone.

With that thought, she stood and dusted off the flecks of bark remaining on her fingertips and continued her venture down the street. In other circumstances, she would have lingered to watch nature do its work, but she did not see her inability to do so as a loss. A squirrel carcass was a significant find, one that she marked on the map tucked into her journal with a red pen. Red for carcass, for "come back later". Soon, she would reap the reward of her discovery. 

Halfway through her walk, Lexi stopped checking her watch. There was no point in confirming what she already knew; it would only serve to make her anxious and late. Regardless of her efforts, she still felt a weight settle in her stomach as the bland building stood in the distance, harshly awaiting her tardy arrival. Much like the rest of Twisp, it was a boring, sad place—a large white building with a grey slate roof, rectangular windows, and bulky, modernised doors. Devoid of all colour, passion, and arguably, knowledge. There were some efforts to save its mediocre appearance, with overgrown hedges and a few trees with protruding roots, but pairing something so hideous with nature's beauty only made it harder to look at. Lexi preferred to ignore the bias in her opinion on the architecture; anyone with eyes could see it was a crime to build such a thing. 

The inside was no better. Upon entry, Lexi's senses were immediately ambushed by notes of unbranded disinfectant and printer paper, which only watered the seed of nerves that was sprouting in her gut. Ahead of her, across the tough, grey carpet, was a fibreboard desk stained a dark, almost cherry-like colour, backed by shelves of files and various buckets of stationery. Between them, nestled in a creaky office chair, was a large woman with a dirty blonde perm, whose intense blue eyes had already set themselves on her. Clasped to her ear was the gleaming, black handset of her desk phone—Lexi had no doubts as to who was on the other end. 

"She's actually just come in now," Then a pause, followed by, "Yes. Thank you, goodbye."

As Lexi made the venture across the office, she took a fleeting glance at the large clock hung behind the receptionist. Its thin arms read that she was only three minutes late. A merciful outcome, as if her mother hadn't picked up, and if Lexi hadn't only been three minutes late, her step-father would have been the one receiving that call. Avoiding his wrath was not an easy feat, so doing so was always something to be celebrated. And, if fate were on her side, her mother would forget the receptionist ever called to begin with. Above them, the bell rang shrilly as Lexi arrived at the desk, noting the distasteful purple eyeshadow the receptionist had experimented with that morning. 

"Sorry," Lexi began, even though she wasn't, "I got distracted."

A scoff in return, as the clacks of the woman's keyboard spoke the foul words she couldn't, "Distraction isn't an excuse. Do you think your university professors will accept that?"

"Probably," Lexi replied. A sharp look in her direction made her quickly add, "…Not."

"You're signed in. Show up late again, and I'll escalate it to the Principal."

Lexi severely doubted the geriatric Principal, who was more dust than man, would do anything, but she attempted to act scared as she scurried from the thick-aired room. The remainder of the school was better lit, but that was the only positive aspect. Swarms of students pushed and pulled Lexi into their current, smelling nauseatingly of sweat and cheap deodorant, all while violating the societal laws of personal space. After a painstaking five minutes of holding her breath, she managed to get herself spat out at the eastern doors, which led to brick paths, lunch tables and a small, patchy hill. Fresh air whisked her pale hair off her neck, prompting an aggressive shudder, but Lexi prevailed through the glass doors, pushing herself up the hill to the lone oak tree in the very corner of the courtyard. 

Against its old, scratched bark lounged a girl clad in bedazzled blue jeans, a purple Juicy Couture zip-up over a white lace cami, and Ugg boots. Even from where she stood, Lexi could hear the pop music blaring from her clunky earphones, attached to a purple rhinestoned iPod nestled in the pocket of her hoodie. She flopped down on the yellowing grass beside the girl and plucked out one of her earbuds.

"Hey." She greeted.

"Lex'?" Nia dragged out her other earbud as she turned to Lexi in surprise, "I thought you were off sick!"

"I just had an appointment, I told you yesterday," Lexi explained.

"Oh yeah~! " I forgot," Nia's glossy lips stretched into a smile before her face morphed, comically quickly, into a pout. "Boo! I was so bored on the bus, you bitch! I brought a Pop-Tart for you, too."

"Do you still have it?" Lexi absentmindedly palmed her stomach.

"Uhh, no, duh! I ate it. Why would I keep one Pop-Tart? Weirdo."

A smile teased at the corners of Lexi's mouth. Something rare and strange, comparable to finding a flower bloom amongst rubble. Since she was a child, Lexi had always struggled with feeling emotion—that's what she would think, if she were anyone but herself. In truth, she found it difficult to show it. If anything, she felt far too much, far too often. But when faced with a grim face like hers, she supposed she couldn't blame people for making the assumption. Even if she did, however, she would think Nia would be spared from her quiet, stewing wrath. 

'Best friend' is how Lexi would describe her, if she cared for labelling. Not like there was much competition for the girl—if not dissecting every flaw Lexi had, whether verbally or silently, all the other sweaty spawn their age didn't even know she existed. In their perception, she was a flaw in a photograph, something only vaguely noticed, but never truly seen. Nia saw her, though, Lexi liked to think—when she wasn't too busy looking at herself.

"Oh!" Nia had taken out her cosmetic mirror, watching with scrutiny as she fussed with her bangs, "I forgot to tell you. Smithy asked me to go see The Fountain with him on Saturday."

Lexi pursed her lips, "Who?"

"Brayden Smith? The tall guy?" Nia rattled off. When Lexi's face remained thoroughly clueless, she snapped her mirror shut, "He's literally in three of our classes!"

"Which ones?"

Nia's head rolled back, lips parted as a long, vexed groan radiated from her throat, as if not knowing every spotty face that haunted Lexi's weekdays was an astounding sin, "His dad is the Sheriff!"

Something equally scalding hot and sickeningly cold prickled the inner linings of Lexi's gut, a sensation that chased up her spine to the thick, serated scar on her nape. An urge to touch it, feel the puckered skin roll under her fingertips, caused the tendons in her hand to twitch. But she did not submit to the desire—not in front of Nia. Instead, she mulled over the pearl left in her skull, bile collecting on her tongue at the recollection. If Lexi was indignant—or if she brooded on it for longer than necessary—she would find herself aversive at the fact that common people would never know how it felt to be prey. To feel such an unnatural level of awareness that you can feel your teeth in your mouth. To be seen as so abysmal that, once bored of squashing ants and chasing cats, teenage boys hunt you for sport. 

"What about him?" Lexi's voice didn't sound like her own. 

"Are you listening?" Nia seemed exasperated, "He asked me out."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

A gratified look to Nia's eyes momentarily perplexed Lexi, as if she had been hoping for that response, "Yeah, I said no. I don't know why he thought I'd ever say yes; he's been acting like such a freak recently. Like, sorry that I don't want to hear about a bunch of dead kids."

That managed to dilute the thickness in Lexi's stomach, her ears perking, "Dead kids?"

"Apparently, a bunch of kids have gone missing in Winthrop, and his dad got told to be on alert since they think it's the same guy," Nia grumbled, "Smithy won't shut up about it."

While Nia allowed herself to spiral into a rant, mostly about Brayden's meretricious self, Lexi found it increasingly difficult to hold onto the words. There was undeniable tragedy in the crimes Nia spoke of so fleetingly, and perhaps, if Lexi were less rotten, she would feel a stronger inclination to be concerned. But in pursuit of ipseity, she allowed herself to indulge in its fascination.

Was this man a serial killer?

A kind of corruption so unlike her own, so much more abominable. If faced with such moral depravity, Lexi pondered how her little town would respond. Perhaps something worse than herself would fool them that she was one of their own, that she fit in with the societal laws they had crafted, but never shared. That she would no longer be the outlier, something more than the strange girl whose only contribution was a week-long newspaper article that made parents worry for their more beautiful, more ebullient daughters. In their desire to protect their sleepy little town, maybe they would not notice Lexi amongst the masses, and she would no longer be a walking stain. 

From the canopy above, something both fat and light dropped into her lap, just as the bell screeched across the courtyard. Nia exclaimed in what Lexi first thought was irritation, but as she lowered her gaze, she realised it was horror. Embraced by the crook of her crossed legs, there lay a mouse—a particularly large one, at that. Its underbelly, white and furry, was sliced down the middle, a painting of intestines and blood splattered across her jeans. Still warm and limp. A recent kill. A caw caught her attention now, and Lexi craned her head to gaze at the winding, gnarled branches overhead. Beady black eyes stared back from the tilted head of a raven, its slick beak still ripe with mouse guts. 

An accident, to most, but Lexi knew better. Change was coming, and she would do well to be cautious of it.