#helltownevent1

The morning had moved Jude fast. Awoken before first light, dawn shrouded by snowfall—light at first it had rapidly become fierce. The wind's violent assault against the ranch had made her movements rushed and graceless. Duty. It had to be demanding force to drag her away from the bed. The bed where Shaw slept twisted in her sheets. Again. She knew better than to count days or remain where something whole threatened to spill out of her. She had kissed their temple, free from the eyes of ruin. If she stayed for a moment more, the world would long be left to collapse before she had noticed anything else at all. No solace was ever kept.

A loose wood panel ripped from its place had been sharp against Jude’s cheekbone, just a surface wound—not the deep cut of the wind that howled past. The animals had been ushered into the barn without much convincing, huddled together purposefully now. They pulled survival from each other easily. Less complicated than the humans of their shared hell, with no teeth bared or bloodshed—safe together. She could only make do with tarpaulin and hay, quiet the whistle of the wind. The barn seemed to hold strong against the onslaught. The newer wood enforcements steadfast against the blizzard although something like a callous joke now. Was she always just awaiting tragedy?  

The barn was closed tight now, at least, not swaying like the trees. The earth was white and stark, almost blinding. In it, a single patch of colour. A flower. It stuck out defiant in the snow, it wouldn’t survive. It should have already perished. Jude’s brow knitted together, she didn't look away. The wind persisted, the bloom swayed—a violent movement. It was ritualistic. A half-remembered conversation, then. Lectures from a nun. A memory dull in the howl of the wind. Scoffed at by the time by a teenager tall and bruised but words still faithfully retained. Everything had been kept, just hidden away. A weight dragged behind her. 

Scorn for the world won’t protect your heart, child. 

Jude plucked the flower from the small gap in the earth. For Shaw, she thought but she didn’t know why. She could no longer hear the world. There was only the wind. It screeched now, then, in a moment of grievous clarity: a plunge felt in the gut. The pine tree by the cabin bent, then broke—landed on the roof with a putrid crack. Her tongue turned metallic in her mouth, there was only a single thought left. Chant or prayer: Shaw.

The bedroom door was thrust open into nothingness, floorboards and steps barely touched on the way. It was scarcely a room now, the sky had leaked in entirely. The tree was all she could see, yet she pushed forward. “Shaw?” A noise desperate and bare in the throat, a sound not known for years—decades. She had stopped begging when God had not listened. Only the wind answered. Silently, her hand unclenched to search, to unearth and find, a flower dropped to the floor—a thought forgotten. 

“Shaw, please.” 

For once, God would hear her.

It wasn't as entertaining as it probably could have been in any other places - like, literally anywhere else, specifically anywhere not in this limbo - since the same people she saw were really the only people worth actually watching. Countless of hopeless victims of Arcadia rolled through this place and barely lasted a week. Valentina lasted ten years - there was nothing quite strong enough in this world like the power of spite and an overinflated sense of self.

So there had to be some kind of survival instinct in her, but she chose to view it in an opposite manner - these people here were on the same wavelength as her, and that was commendable. Ten years was a long time to survive here, and god knew there were some close calls there. Occasional meltdowns over trivial things that had her shrieking like a banshee and ripping her work from where they hung on the clothesline, but it took a good night sleep and a solid hangover to make her right(ish) as rain the next day.

As for the entertainment, Valentina sipped at her tea - or whatever it was that passed as tea nowadays - at a booth closest to the door, watching those in the town begin their day. She was up and ready to go the second those Things retreated back into the forests where they belonged, not wanting to waste a minute. Her beloved patchwork jacket was on, her favorite guardian against the snow, kept on anyway due to the winter breeze that crept on in anytime someone opened a door.

Someone came in and something about them had Valentina eyeing them, her head tilting to study as they took a seat facing away from her, at the far end of the diner. God, their coat - it was a mess. Absolutely not; the days past had been crazy, sure, but this was ridiculous. Valentina sat down at the booth behind them and gave them two noticeable taps with her index finger on their shoulder. "You know, I'm one of the only people left that knows how to get bloodstains out of clothes," she remarked, nodding at their clothing. "Like, fully out, not that half-in, half-out shit that cleaning lady used to do before she got mauled. Walking around like a giant biohazard is rancid, even for this place. I can help you. I won't even ask that many questions."

So falling from the roof of the cinema, even if he was very barely cushioned by the snow, he knew instantly that his arm (the other one, at least) was broken, right at the elbow. His teeth clenched together as he screamed, and he was unsure if he was loud enough to garner any attention. This was the ugly side to keeping to yourself - would anyone blink an eye at a lump in the snow by the cinema, that weird kid that sticks to himself all the time? Emmett had tried to stand, but a sharp pain shot up his spine that dropped him right back into the snow. At least the cold helped with the injury, until it started to burn and become somewhat unbearable, him cradling his arm in the snow as the flakes started to fall on top of him, faster than from when he was on the roof. He hadn't necessarily accepted the worst, but he was sending a few silent prayers upwards anyway, just in case.

He was a bit dazed and his chattering teeth were louder than whatever Reyna had been saying over him, when she found him. It was hard to stand with his muscles frozen, with his elbow, with the pain in his back. Nothing was broken, he could figure that much, but something had to have been at the worst, badly bruised. There wasn't much opportunity to lay down at the cinema, but a few blankets piled at the back of the house, near the long since boarded up fire exit was as comfortable as he figured he'd get.

Their moments together, as silent companions with dinners, a few jokes and stories shared between each other, updates on the world around them from his part, Emmett had grown to secretly cherish and her comforting presence was missed when she had been gone from his side for a little while. He couldn't tell if it was the snow falling against the door, or real whispers coming from somewhere - oh no, this was it, wasn't it? He was finally losing it.

"Reyna?" he called, voice a little hoarse and shaky, barely audible from the blanket cocoon he had wrapped himself in, cradling his arm underneath it all. If he squinted, he could see the top of her head, over in the seats. *// @reynahendrix

Seeing the wreckage from a mile away, Juno made way towards the cinema in an attempt to get a closer look. To see if anybody - in this case Emmett, whom they knew resided within - had fallen victim to the collapse of it he’d been lucky enough to shelter elsewhere.

Curiosity was a bastard, and a mean one at that, so despite the cold air around them, Juno continued on forwards. Anything to be away from Charlie. “Hope you’re not dead.” they called out instead of hello. “Looks pretty bad from out here.”

They maneuvered themselves around the scene, finding the main doors of the place and walking inside. Juno probably should have been more careful, with the roof caved in and all, but the excitement of potentially seeing his body kept them going. “Emmett?”

What started as such an innocent snowfall, which had Sera making snow angels in the white dusty cold ass powder she hadn't seen in a long, long time. She'd acted like a child, one that wasn't supervised when everyone else around her their mental state had quickly started decreasing when the weather picked up. Somewhere between burying herself beneath the snowfall and now, she'd been pulled inside by someone she'd come to know as Nika's right handed guy - or whatever that meant. She hadn't been allowed to return to the cabin she'd been assigned to the past week, so instead she'd busied herself with her knife and a piece of wall that very much deserved her attention. People had hurried past her the entire time she'd been busy, going in and out until the whole hall was left to just her.

She'd been left alone for some time. And then more time went by. There was no clock present - but the ticking very much was inside her skull. She could tell time passed by. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Not even the scratching noise the carving her knife made into stone could mute the constant ticking. The howling wind was such a tease, still no match for what went on inside her mind. The snow did make some interesting noises, though. Every now and then she could hear the snow shift weight and fall off the side of the roof.

Did she hear a new noise amongst the ones that were already at play? Was that the door creaking there? Shit, who'd that be? It'd been so long, surely no one would be foolish enough to still be out there. Still, it couldn't hurt to check. To hide herself behind the door and silently observe.

Don't let anyone in. Another rule she was supposed to follow. Emphasis on the supposed, because she hadn't touched that door. The door had opened itself, in a very mysterious way, by hands that weren't hers. She hadn't let anyone in. What she had done, though, was sneak up on the person from behind and hold her pocket knife against their throat. Her voice followed, ''Peek-a-boo, you didn't knock first, silly.''

There was no one here......there was absolutely no one around to check on her, she could so easily......should she?

''Just kidding, I'm not like those other crazies that live here.'' Another lie she told herself, as she removed the knife from the other's jugular before she forced them to turn around. So she could see their face and eye their body up and down. ''It's okay,'' she grinned wide, ''you can stay here.'' Under one condition, her pearly blue eyes spoke before her lips parted, ''as long as you entertain me. Cause this place suuuuucks.''

Arriving at THE STREETS OF THE TOWN ⟳ ˚ ╱ written for @baarra !

𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗬𝗟 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗬𝗟 𝗜𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗥, a fragment she never asked for, a shadow that DOESN'T fit. It’s as if Cheryl’s fragility — her scarcity, her madness — was sewn into Meryl’s skin the moment her sister died. They were twins, after all, and in the old myths, that bond was always a bad omen. Twins were unnatural in some cultures, an affront to the balance of things. Yet the same stories claimed that when one twin died, the other was made WHOLE, as though the world righted itself in their reunion. Complete. Meryl wonders what kind of cruel lie that is. She doesn’t feel completion. She feels haunted, as if her sister’s absence has carved a hollow inside her that nothing will ever fill.

The dreams have become unbearable. Night after night, she wakes CHOKING on the phantom taste of blood, her throat tight with screams that don’t escape. She dreams of eyes blown wide in terror, of hands trembling like dying leaves, of Cheryl’s voice echoing in her head, begging for release. In the dreams, she feels herself dissolving into Cheryl’s miasma, that cloud of despair and vulnerability that once clung to her twin sister, now seeping into Meryl’s lungs, drowning her. It’s too much. Too heavy. Meryl, who had always thought of herself as the strong one, the anchor, the protector, begins to crumble under the weight. She used to pity Cheryl’s fragility. Now she feels it creeping into her own mind. She begins to understand the slow undulating, the quiet horror of losing yourself, of not knowing where dreams end and waking BEGINS.

I’ve always been lucid, she tells herself, a mantra she repeats like a LIFELINE. But it feels weak now, paper-thin. Am I awake, or is this the nightmare of my own undoing?

Still, she is a survivor first and foremost. That much has not changed. Meryl clawed her way out of the labyrinth beneath the library, her mind as BATTERED as her body. She ran blindly, leaving someone behind — Karen? Coraline? No, Cora. Or maybe it didn’t matter. Meryl only knew she couldn’t stay. She had to escape the depths of hell itself, the place where reality bent and shadows took on too much shape. But what truly drove her to run wasn’t the underground caves; it was the thing waiting for her in its darkest corner. She saw her father again — or something pretending to be him. His grotesque form was burned into her memory: his body mangled, sprouting too many limbs, castrated and BLEEDING. And worse, his eyes still looked at her as they had when she was a child. That same leer, that same hunger.

The memories crashed over her like a wave, dragging her under. She remembered the nights spent hiding beneath the covers, holding her breath to STIFLE her sobs, offering herself up to his monstrous need so that Cheryl wouldn’t have to. One night of reprieve, Meryl had thought. Just one night to keep Cheryl safe. But the weight of that sacrifice never left her. It lingered, carving itself into her soul, twisting her sense of who she was.

And Cheryl. Sweet, broken Cheryl. Meryl could still SEE her sister clawing at her own skin, screaming to be let out of her own body. She remembered the nights Cheryl begged for death, the nights she tried to take her life into her own hands — slashing at her wrists, swallowing pills, desperate to escape. How Meryl had stopped her every time. ( Not for her sake, she admits now. I couldn’t let her go because if she died, I’d lose the last thread keeping me alive. I needed her to stay, so I could stay. )

The cold night air BITES at her skin as she runs, but she doesn’t feel it. Her legs move on instinct, driven by terror. She screams into the night, her voice raw and broken: ❛ DON'T TOUCH ME! ❜ She doesn’t stop to look back, doesn’t dare. She thought she’d KILLED him. Thought she’d ended him that night when she drove the knife into his neck, felt the blade tear through flesh and sinew. She remembers the warmth of his blood on her hands, the way she’d pulled the knife free as her own personal memento and ran, dragging Cheryl behind her. That was the first time Meryl felt power, real power. But it was fleeting, a spark quickly smothered by guilt and fear. She recalls the handcuffs, the jail cell, the trial. She told herself she could bear any punishment if it meant he was gone for good.

However now, the past STALKS her. She feels his hand on her shoulder, hears his voice slithering into her ear like smoke, and she spins around, screeching: ❛ DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! ❜ Her voice cuts through the night, feral.

When her vision clears, it isn’t her father standing there. It’s the man she saw in the library a day ago. His face is kind, almost warm, but there’s SOMETHING in his eyes that unsettles her. His hand grips her shoulder, and she recoils, a bitter laugh escaping her lips, sharp and cracked.

Then he was up, the cold becoming too much. Reality caught up with him quick and he took stock of the position he was still in, as if needing to reacquaint himself. As if anything was different. Still in the chair, tied to it with a broken arm, still with the knife lodged into his chest-- God, there was a knife in his chest, and he was still breathing? A miracle in and of itself. Farther to the right than where the real damage would have lied, but it could have been much. Emmett was psyching himself out, though, unsure if his breathing was any different because he was trying not to panic, because the knife hit something important, or even because he just woke up. It was impossible to tell how long he was out - there were no clocks nearby, he didn't have a watch, and there weren't any windows in a theater anyway.

Tripod circled around his feet, rubbing his little head against Emmett's leg and fresh tears popped up in his eyes. The poor cat knew something was wrong and couldn't do anything to help and with the high strung emotions he was feeling today, that felt like the nail in the coffin. And, as horrible as it was to think, he was saved from Reyna's... episode.

The sound of scuffling behind him broke him out of these thoughts and his eyes squeezed shut then, fearing the worst, a squeak of pain escaping him as his shoulders tensed and he felt the knife in his muscles move a bit, fresh wetness steeping his shirt. *// @horrorismx

📍 the police station. 🍑 rain/baby — ft. @rainxm // EVENT #1

The world was merciful, for once. From the cosy nest Baby had made atop an otherwise wobbly and dusty cot thrown into a corner of the Deputy’s office as an afterthought, she slept soundlessly knowing she had made good on her vow to keep watch until 3AM and her shift had switched over with the Sheriff. Rare and perfect were the nights when Baby was left dreamless, allowed to peacefully asleep beneath a set of freshly washed linen sheets, a patchwork duvet, and a crocheted throw. It was safe, blissful. The station creaked and groaned more than usual, like all old buildings did eventually, but nothing went registered in her ears other than the lightest of rhythmic snores. 

Without an alarm clock, she relied on either the clunky footsteps of her superiors to wake her or signs that the sun had risen. From beneath the warmth of her coccoon, Baby poked her head out to confirm if the night’s shadows and moon goons had faded. Rightfully, the amount of sleep she had been clocking up had felt especially indulgent — confirmed by the brightness of the room. It was definitely past sunrise. “Gooooood mornin’!” She crowed, awaiting the typical grunt in response her greetings usually earned. Nothing. Manners, right. Bashfully aware it may have been close to midday, she tilted her head towards the wall closest to where the Sheriff usually sat at his desk, “Thanks for the sleep in!” Silence. Fudge and fiddlesticks. If the Sheriff had already left for the day that was an even worse fate than being cold shouldered for oversleeping, for Baby had missed all indications of preparations for the day and lost valuable hours of shadowing him. “Dep, is he mad at me?” She called towards the door, open ajar, testing if any ears remained. “Hello, hello? Anyone here?”

Alas, the quiet spoke volumes: her bed had been made — literally — so what was the point in rushing now? She could already predict the eye rolls and commentary this avoidable faux pas would earn her, so what harm could a few more minutes do? Rolling over and tossing her covers sideways, Baby stretched out on her back with a wide yawn, watching her exhale manifest in a small cloud above her. Huh. That was new. Cold mornings were not unusual, but this cold was a new low. When she had fallen asleep, when forced to reflect with greater scrutiny, perhaps the air had felt slightly more brisk than usual. If it had been freezing she’d have noticed, surely.

Jolting upwards, Baby stared expectantly at the closest window. The blinds sat, deceivingly set as normal, drawn against a daylight which seemed especially bright. She tucked two fingers into one of the gaps, experimentally prying for a slivered preview of the weather outside. Immediately, doing so ignited the dimness of the office with the power of a thousand suns, nearly blinding her in the process. Baby’s hand recoiled as if her skin had made contact with the iron of a smouldering woodstove, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes in an attempt to rub away their bleariness. Several hard blinks later, she managed to reduce the blots seared across her vision, bearing the same impression as the blinding white light’s spill into the room. Despite usually being a morning person, Baby’s stomach leapt to her throat. Something was wrong with today.

Tucking her hands into her sleeves, Baby brought her legs over the side of the makeshift bed and tucked them quickly into a set of rubber boots before nudging her door open further, reluctantly sidling around the doorjamb into the eery brightness of the main room. Almost as soon as she rounded the corner, she halted. Something was very wrong. Her hands flew up to shield her eyes, then her mouth; stifling a reaction which never fully surfaced — a scream of terror? A gasp of shock? It was a sight which ran her blood cold and numbed all mobile instincts in her body had to flee the scene, mind running a mile a minute to construct scenarios in which something so horrifically unprecedented could possibly occur. Questions bubbled to the surface faster than she could consider answers. Still, like a deer caught in headlights, Baby couldn’t stop staring until the dryness of her widened eyes forced her to blink; a direly needed reprieve from the unimaginable imagery assaulting her vision, unforgettable and unshakable. One of the three south facing windows had been left open, illuminating the entire interior area of the police station, and with it revealing an unsightly impossible truth...

Snow.

Even from across the length of the room, Baby could see the whiteness blanketing every surface which had been familiar — now a wasteland of formless nothing. The icy hell stole the colour from every surface, leeching all signs life from what had been so vividly green or blue. She had read about such catastrophe a handful of times, briefly described in books or poems, and seen the occasional picture of the mythic horror in action. It was a silent, beguiling killer. Before learning about how it destroyed everything in its wake, freezing all sign of life for months at a time, it had seemed like such an innocent concept. On the surface, it looked like frosting, prettily decorating trees and gutters. Smiling families would play with it, as if it was clay and not a death trap. Every snowflake homage intricately drawn with a different pattern, like the multiple facets of diamonds or leaves. If Baby hadn’t so strongly resisted the winter propaganda, would it not be here now to confront her so brutally? This was too much, validating her accumulative suspicions to an extreme degree. Nothing was frosted, all was drowned by endless sheets of smothering cotton — no fractal designs uniquely distinguished each minuscule droplet of ice; no, the blots of ice looked like chalky smears and radiated with unbearable cold. Her eyes darted around the room, desperately needing someone else to confirm she was not caught up in some sick hallucination.

Breath coming in shallow increments, in her turn about the room to collect material layers to lessen the chill seeping through the glass, her peripheral vision registered she wasn’t completely alone. On the floor, the Sheriff’s body rested. She might have mistaken his stillness for sleeping if not for the bloody gashes across his body, paired with footprints of the same hue. Her thrumming heart skipped a beat long enough to sink within her chest, professional qualms outweighing personable sentimentality. This would make an uncertain but undeniable impact on her career’s progression. “I hope you didn’t hurt too much, Sher…” A weakly whispered obituary, short and sweet. Her lifeblood was a rehearsal for these sorts of moments — picking up on the qualities of a person and summarising within hours what it is they liked, didn’t like, whether they believed in God, and how they deserved to die. Swallowing a lump in her throat, too overstimulated to even begin processing where the blame could be placed, Baby crouched next to the corpse, gingerly pressing her fingers to his neck to confirm the truth, ice cold and final: no pulse. That was a pity; he had been nice enough to deserve better.

The police station’s front door swung open, overhead bell jingling far too cheerfully, and Baby startled at the sound. Howling winds, then muffled footsteps, unmistakably announced someone or something had joined them. Knees locked fearfully in place, Baby stayed in close proximity to the ground, crawling over on her hands and knees until she could peer around the front desk.