#thisisntreal

Submission for Day 3 - Nightmares/"This isn't real."

Summary: What might it take to turn a friend into a foe? A hero into a villain? A man into a monster? An imagining of Mamoru's corruption at the hands of the Dark Kingdom.

*this is all fictional and not historically accurate past the research I did on the town and what is provided by Zillow. In other words, issa joke. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and accidental. Buy the house.*

... def not haunted by the ghost of an angsty blueberry farmer whose wife left him for a cranberry farmer one county over and to the left.

Gregway née Gregoire, originally from some little known region in France and whose name was changed upon immigration to the United States because we don't speak that French here, built this house in late 1850. I'm only assuming it was later in the year because ol' Gregway liked to do things fashionably late. He was one of those people. I digress.

Gregway built this house and then found himself a bride named Cora. Gregway, Cora, and their house lived marginally peacefully in Cherryfield, Washington, County (oh, the irony) for several years. I mean, they had spats and whatnot, primarily over Cora's penchant for cranberry juice and silks and spices from Morocco. You kind of have to feel for Greg because that shit was expensive even back then. Well, I don't know about the cranberry juice. Bogs are a dime a dozen up there and so was Cora. She was a dime piece. Lort.

They once hosted balls in the ballroom below (please note the wooden ceiling as it is fantastic) so that Cora could show off her spicy silks and Gregway could show off Cora in her spicy silks. This was a toxic relationship, no bones about it. All the same, Cora met a cranberry farmer at a ball one evening who piqued her interest. Guy (pronounced Gee) owned several bogs in the county over and to the left. He also had a large collection of porcelain knick-knacks for reasons no one fully understood but accepted politely in public and not so politely behind closed doors. Judgers.

Gee and Cora ultimately struck up a friendship that morphed into a full blown affair. They assumed no one knew about it about as much as meth heads assume we don't know they're tweaking. That is to say, the entirety of the two counties were aware including Gregway. He was reluctant to divorce Dime-Piece Cora because he'd invested so much money into spicy silks so he turned to drink instead and built himself a right good bar in the attic (pictured below).

Gregway spent many nights alone drinking at his bar, occasionally hosting some of Cherryfield's mediocre occupants. The finest were too beside themselves to drink middle shelf whiskey and some bathtub gin with him and, yes, I said bathtub gin. Greg was ahead of his time. Cora had basically moved into the home of Gee by this point. Gregway hung a painting of dogs playing cards (waaaay ahead of his time) over the bar and cried at night in his John Collins. This went on for about a year before Gregway was served with divorce papers and a fuckton of shame because divorcing was way frowned upon back then.

Shortly after, a drinking buddy of Gregway's came by to, well, drink and found him having met his expiry date in the attic pictured above (that door, though. Gorg). He was so distraught that he forgot immediately how Gregway died but was documented as muttering something to the effect of, 'horror, blood, blueberries.' Cora was merely told he'd signed the papers and not that he had passed. I don't know why, no one told me.

Nowadays, ol' Greg paces the grounds of the house he built with his blueberry money and constantly asks inhabitants if they want a shot, which tends to either terrify them or prompt them to do shots with a ghost. No judgement here because it's 2022. Do your thing Ghostly Gregway. :shots shots shots: