#hauntstarter

Smoke still rose from the cove the next morning as Leila stood just behind the police tape. Her headphones were over her ears, but for once the gentle strands of Leon Bridges was doing little to soothe her. The distinct scent of burning, both acrid and nauseating, filled her head.

Her hands were in fists in her pockets, her body stiff against the wind. She’d been frozen, unable to so much as blink as that voice hissed in her ear. Worse had been the panic that overtook her on the front lawn, and drew her to the cold grass as her home burned. In the morning the death tolls had come in, the damage rung out by police sirens and fire trucks, and the news of William Porter passed from ear to ear.

She sensed the presence beside her, but did nothing to acknowledge them.

Sef was good at fishing. That’s what he did well. An adroit problem-solver, he was not.

He could feel the will to live drain from his body as he stood before the only vending machine on his floor, a bag of kettle chips wedged between the glass and the spring that’d failed to push it out of its slot. Fitting, he thought. Not fair, since he was out a dollar fifty now, but definitely fitting. First the world decides to hole him up with a town-full of paranoid strangers, then it robs him of food. Clasping his fist around the rusty nickel the machine had proffered as meager consolation, Sef had been fully prepared to just accept starvation as his fate when he noticed approaching footsteps.

“—Are you...good at getting things out of tight spaces?”

While it seemed as though the rest of the world engaged in month long debates regarding the first date they could blast Christmas music without scrutiny from their neighbors, Leila held onto her belief that there wasn’t a “right” date in Sallybrook. She refused to allow herself to be distracted by this facade of happiness when children continued to go missing, houses set on fire, or any of the oddities that the residents of Sallybrook seems to have become indifferent towards. This isn’t to say that the girl always hated Christmas. In fact, her excitement kept her awake during the holidays. Unfortunately since she’s been back the Christmas spirit hasn’t affected her the same way.

So, in an attempt to escape the long reach of a overplayed Holiday playlist, Leila slipped into a booth. Of course she could have gone home, but she knew once she did her organs would be floating in alcohol. It was only the first day of December. She figured she could take it easy one night - there were only twenty-four more to go. In response to the figure approaching in her peripheral vision, Leila felt all of her muscles simultaneously tighten. They didn’t relax until she recognized the person who now sat across from her. “I hope you brought stories to share. Everything looks good and I know my eyes are bigger than my stomach. So I give you first dibs on whatever I can’t finish.”

Joyous conversations blurred together from behind him in the cove, his purposeful placement just close enough to hear-- if he wanted to and focused-- but far enough away that he didn't have to participate. Really, he'd only come here to keep an eye on Leila, but deep down he knew that she was getting past the age where that was necessary. Still, here he was, and here he always would be.

Glancing back at the dimly lit lanterns of the harbor, Jasper momentarily debated getting up from his little spot on the beach and going back there instead. Truthfully, he would have if not for those damn pictures. He'd purposefully avoid looking at them, to no avail, as he'd catch a glimpse of the Haunt's latest victim. The children on those lanterns always wore such bright and broad smiles... but now? Where were they now? Dead-- or at least that what he'd believed before 2010.

Approaching footsteps snapped him out of his contemplation, to which he was grateful; he never wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. Turning and offering a polite smile at the nearing person, he raised his shoulders slightly. "It seems I've been spotted," he teased gently, "sounds like they're having fun over there. I'm not sure my company is quite as exciting... but you’re more than welcome to join me."

Jackie tried to take it all in. It was undeniable that excitement was coursing through her veins. She actually made it. This was the prime time to see the Haunt for herself. Although she experienced all of these emotions, she made sure to maintain her composure. It was evident that no one around her shared the same enthusiasm. After all why stay at the church if you weren’t seeking protection?

Now it wasn’t her place to determine whether that protection was real or not. In fact, she couldn’t even confidently say that it was provided by God Himself. So she wandered down the halls, fingertips grazing the textured walls as if she possessed the sensitivity of most mediums. 

It wasn’t until she heard footsteps behind her that she realized they had strict rules at the church. Despite this, she didn’t begin to apologize or run back to the safety of her assigned room. Instead, as if in a dream like state she responded with, “My Lola would get a kick out of this. She always said I needed to go to church or I’d be damned for eternity. It’s not what she meant, but I’d say it’s pretty damn close. Wouldn’t you?”

when: early morning

where: moonlight diner

who: @diofoti

Nights fade into days so slowly. On the days that Abigail saw the sun rise, which was most days, it seemed to do so almost excruciatingly slowly. Maybe it was because she hated nights; hated how the crowds parted and she couldn’t assimilate as easily. Perhaps it was similar to how a car ride to get somewhere fun always feels like forever as a child, but the trip back home seems over in a moment. Yes, Abigail Quinn had begun to hate nights. Though they once came with promises of baths, being tucked in, and having blissful dreams; this was no longer the case. Now, nights consisted of a cacophony of men circling in and out of her designated room at Great Madam’s, with only time for bathroom breaks and fixing of lipstick.

But when the clock struck 6, one hour before sunrise, Abigail was free to leave, which she had done today. While she usually headed straight home to sleep, she was way more restless than normal, and had found herself tossing and turning before eventually decided to get out of bed, still in pajamas, and come to the Moonlight Diner. While typically, Abi would be terrified to be seen in public in such a state, she knew that the people there this early wouldn’t care.

Then again, maybe most people wouldn’t care. Considering her job now. That was certainly stirring up more gossip at St. Peter’s than her showing up to get coffee in pajama pants and a t-shirt.

As she slurped down the rest of her coffee, she watched out the window as the sky began to become illuminated with a soft, golden light. As it did, a tall, handsome stranger walked into the diner. His hair, in disarray, perfectly framed his megawatt smile. She analyzed him briefly, before calling out to the waiter.

“Put whatever he’s getting on my tab.” She called out, before giving him another glance over as he looked her way.

“You’re new to Sallybrook, yeah?”

ATTN: @rosalinverville LOCATION: st. peter’s cathedral, basement recreation room DATE: november 22nd, 2001

Miles was sixteen years old, and fucking miserable.

Eleven months after his father passed and he’d already been handed through six foster homes — not out of misbehaviour so much as an unwillingness to care for such damaged goods, he’d already been assigned a lack of identity, a brief media freak show-slash-sob story. His face had been plastered on posters across the nation, “DO YOU KNOW THIS CHILD?”, begging for information on what they perceived as being his ‘real family’. No one did. Clearly, no one knew Miles, because if they did, they’d have realized that group therapy was the worst place they could possibly put him.

He was already fully unwilling to speak to a therapist in one-on-one sessions, there was no way he would talk about his trauma in a group of his peers, many of whom he knew through school — vaguely, distantly, and distastefully, but knew nevertheless. Still, at sixteen, he was unable to resist, had little freedom or power to dictate his own path, and found himself in an uncomfortable folding chair, picking away at the foam padding as he watched the circle of sullen teens, introductions heading towards him at a panic-inducing speed.

When the leader of the group therapy session motioned to him, he spoke, despite his obvious discomfort. “Miles. 16. My brother went missing, my dad offed himself, and my last foster parents found weed in my backpack. I don’t want to be here, but I gotta be.” He kicked at the floor, scuffing it slightly, and through his lashes, looked up at the faces of his peers. One girl caught his eye. She was staring. Miles didn’t know how to feel about it.

He gripped a coffee with shaking hands, sipping it slowly. Black, acidic and burnt, he wished it was decent coffee, but the familiarity was a comfort. Miles had folded some of the half-stale pastries offered into napkins and shoved them into his bag, not knowing if he’d be getting any kind of breakfast or lunch the next day, and was snacking on a handful of grapes, when his eyes landed on the girl who was looking at him.

Despite his own self-isolating nature, he couldn’t stifle the impulse to approach her, as what the hell her deal was — she seemed far too willing to be here to actually need to be in group therapy, and Miles didn’t like it. It was like she was flaunting her stability, or something. He could only half-remember her name (Rosa? Rosie?) from the introductions, and completely blanked on her soundbite sob story, but he had a gut feeling about her, one that was turning his stomach in a way he didn’t understand.

Stomping towards her in his heavy work boots, he darkened his scowl, and stared up at her. “You got a problem with me? I saw you staring, y’know. I’m not fuckin’... oblivious.”