#& my house of stone ; your ivy grows • ageless

[lcfthaunted]

She doesn’t care why the townspeople step out of her way immediately. She is still too prone to tears to risk going out without her veil in place, though considerably shorter than full-length for ease of travel. It was no small feat, after all, to travel from Glenwood Springs to Purgatory as an unaccompanied woman. Safely arrived at the small town, though, she had a mission to complete. A devil to find.

“Mrs. Clootie,” she calls when she finds the sheriff’s wife.

The woman turns, almost starts when she sees Mazie. “For a moment, I thought you were one of my sister wives,” she says dryly. “What do you need?”

Mazie struggles to find her voice again, already on the brink of tears. “—Kate told me,” she manages finally. “About John Henry. Please.” Her voice cracks. “Where is my husband?”

“Oh,” Constance croons. “You’re the lady wife. Rather brave, coming here alone.” She leisurely closes the distance, close enough to see Mazie’s face through her veil. “Your pain is a balm to my own wounds. I am a mother- a mother whose children were slain for no reason. That is pain.”

“John Henry was too ill to do anything,” Maisy begs. “Why have you taken him from me?”

“I took him from Wyatt Earp, in exchange for my boys.”

Mazie lets out a harsh, angry laugh. “Wyatt never paid much mind to his collateral damage.” Her expression fractures again, and she can’t hold her tears back any longer. “Why be like him? Reunite me with my husband. Please.” She pulls her handkerchief from her sleeve, presses it to her mouth.

“He’s safe, alive and well. And will be always, as per our deal. But no matter how you beg, he will never be reunited with Wyatt Earp. He could search for centuries and never come close to finding him.” Constance steps around Mazie.

Constance is only a few steps away when Mazie says, “Wyatt can forget.”

Constance stops, turns back to Mazie.

Mazie’s only half turned toward her in return, wringing her handkerchief. “You know how men like to delude themselves. John Henry was ill. They said their goodbyes. Wyatt can just convince himself John Henry had died, and forget.”

"And what do you suggest," Constance says icily, not quite a question.

Mazie turns her head to look at Constance. “Wyatt feels responsible for me as his best friend’s widow. Extend to me the same deal you gave to my husband. I will search for him for centuries. Let me be a constant reminder to Wyatt of what he did. Of what he’s lost.”

“Or,” Constance offers, “you could leave him behind, like he left you. Consider it my consolation gift: your independence.”

Mazie shakes her head. “I can’t. I love him.” She lifts her handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “And I will never forgive Wyatt for what he took from me. For how much of him he took.”

Constance considers her for a moment, then holds out her hand. “Give me your wedding ring.”

Mazie clutches her left hand to her chest.

“I will give it right back. The spell needs metal and stone. And a drop of your blood.”

Mazie hesitantly pulls her glove off her left hand, eases the ring from her finger, and reluctantly sets it in Constance’s waiting palm. She has no intention of replacing her glove until her ring is safely back on her finger.

Constance reaches into her pocket, draws out a small penknife, and offers it to Mazie. “The tip of a finger should do.”

Mazie takes the blade, and after the briefest hesitation, slices open the tip of her index finger. Blood wells in the small wound, and she touches her finger to the ring when Constance instructs. As Constance intones quietly over the ring, Mazie puts her finger in her mouth to soothe it, then presses hard against the wound to stop the bleeding. By the time Constance offers her ring back, Mazie’s finger no longer hurts.

“As long as you wear that ring, you will be as immortal as your husband,” Constance says as Mazie takes her ring, sliding it back into place with a sigh.

She nods as she pulls her glove back into place, and with a murmured, “thank you,” she starts toward the hotel she chose for the night.

“Don’t you want to know about the curse my husband placed on the Earps?” Constance calls after her.

“What do I care what happens to the Earps?” Mazie says in response, steps never faltering.

[the-fiction-witch]

The Witch Of The Woods

REAL LIFE COUPLE TBS X READER RATING: SWEET

I stood with fear washing over me over and over again like waves onto the dusty sands, constantly I felt this fear moving in me my stomach felt like I had trapped within it a thousand butterflies, my legs as if made of jelly the sun still high in the sky and yet these woods had a darkness that loomed though them. I stepped over the threshold walking through the carpet of red and brown leaves crunching with each step underfoot, the canopy of thick tree branches and leaves at times concealed the sun, letting in only the occasional flicker of beautiful light, the scents of tree sap, flower pollen, grass and yet this strange alluring smell in the air that seemed to drive you ever closer to the centre of this maze of trees and rivers. the tricking sounds of the little river that goes through these woods, often with little streams passing across the woods in odd little ways almost to block your ways. after a good while of walking came across a sight to behold, the main little river flowing through the woods, with a little wooden bridge over it, on the other side of the bridge is a little cottage with smoke coming from the chimney, a garden of herbs, veg, and little tree's, ivy growing up the little cottages' walls,  a few bat boxes high in the rafters of the little cottage, a little waterwheel on the side of the house that turned the river it sat beside. I held my breath walking over the little bridge and onto the garden stones my steps enough to frighten me. I walked to the door and saw the little black rose and thrown door knocker so I took it in my hand and tapped twice. I tried to keep my breath steady not wanting to reveal my fear. The door opened and I was taken back my hands shaking as I saw her there.

This woman in the doorway wore black thigh high heeled boots with ribbon laces up the front, black twisted fishnets, black petticoats, a long dark purple dress, a black corset tightly tied above her dress with black ribbons the same as her boots, a black apron wrapped around her waist with spiderweb lace and a bat-shaped front pocket, the dress had tight purple leaves that went to her elbows with the black lace that matched the apron spurting out the ends, a rim of the same lace around the square top of her dress exposing her skin, she had an impressive necklace of metal thorns and rosebuds sitting flush against her skin, a large impressive gothic sone on a ring on her ring finger, her long freshly curled hair sat on her shoulders bouncing as she took slow breaths a purple and black bow tied in her hair sitting on the top of her head, she had gentle purple eyeshadow and a sharp black liner enough to cut your hand, a slight purple sparkle to her cheeks and nose, a dark triple lipstick across her lips that matched her dress and bow perfectly.

"Yes?" she asks wiping her hands on her apron

"I'm sorry I-" I stuttered "Dear witch of the woods, I have heard stories of your dark and powerful magic, as well as your unfavourable beauty please I beg of you I need a spell to help my family" I begged her taking her hand giving it a kiss and moving to my knees

"Witch of the- ohh for god" she sighed "Why does this keep happening?" she sighed "I am not the witch," she says taking her hand away and wiping where I kissed her on her apron

"Your not? but... I was told to find the witch. who lives in the woods?"

"You are looking for my husband," she says "Thomas!" she calls

and from the side of the house where some apple tree's sat emerged a tall, lanky man, with bright golden hair, dark brown eyes, an ageless face, dressed in some old blue pants and a white textured button-down with red suspenders holding his pants up,

"Hello darling" He smiles giving her a kiss

"You have a customer" she smiles heading inside the little house

"Ohh hello," He greeted me, "come along to my spell shed, she doesn't like me doing spells inside." he encouraged leading me around the back of the garden where a small apothecary style shed sat

"You're the witch? I uhh I thought"

"Yeah it's okay she gets it a lot"

"so your the immeasurably beautiful, immortal, all-powerful witch who lives in the woods?"

"aww thank you,"

"What does that make her then?" I asked

"Careful now Thomas" she warned having come out to put some laundry on a line

"My adorable goth wife" he smiled blowing her a kiss "Love ya"

"love you too" she giggled

"Now spells?" he says

[heartofaquamarine]

DISCWORLD’S DEATH AND YOKOHAMA KAIDASHI KIKO: A FRIENDLY END.

I am terrified of death. That’s not really hyperbole; I have an anxiety disorder that mainly manifests itself in the form of irrational fears of immediate mortality. When I was younger, I would see smoke in the patterns on the ceiling above my bed at night, fearing that the house was in the process of being consumed in flame. Later on, I developed health anxiety to the point that the hospital sent me a letter telling me to stop going there when I was actually fine physically, if not mentally. Even my current academic path has been directed by this somewhat; one of the reasons I went into climate science was because of my fears of global climate change. My default response to this panic is to seek either reassurance or understanding; going to the doctor’s, checking the house for fire, and learning about the physics of the climate. It is the uncertainty, the lack of knowledge that causes me the problem.

This anxiety has been with me long enough that, while it is still there, I can mainly handle it. I sometimes have panic attacks, but normally I can talk myself out of the spiral before I get there. That being said, it is still lurking at the back of my mind, like ivy in a garden. I can pull it up, I can try and rip out the roots, but as anyone who has tried to rid their garden of ivy knows, it will grow again.

One of the powers I think media has, that I think stories have, is that they provide an external framework for us to interact with, much in the way that the real world does. I don’t think it is a particularly novel thing to say that many of these stories focus on death, either the acceptance of it or warping it, overcoming up. Death is just such a universal constant. The very first full book I ever read, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, has the need to accept death as a major theme of the book; “Death, to a well prepared mind, is nothing more than the next great adventure”.

Given what I have said above, you might think my preferred framework for handling death is a world where death is meaningless, where it loses its power. The immortality of Baccano!, the constant respawning of video games where if you die, you just have to try again (and some, like Undertale, make this a core part of their narrative), or just the idea of an eternal afterlife, and while I do enjoy a lot of these, I don’t actually find these to be the most comforting portrayal of death.

HELLO.

There is only one consistently appearing character in GNU Terry Pratchett’s Discworld, and that is Death himself; the anthropogenic personification, the Grim Reaper. Sometimes he is the main character, often he is merely a one scene wonder, but he appears in every single book in the series. We get to see into his mind. It is alien, but understandable both because of the fact that he represents a fundamental shadow in our lives, and because Death himself wishes to understand us. He has a cottage, a garden where he tries to grow plants that cannot truly exist. In Discworld, we are not left with the mystery of death, the question about what lies beyond the grave, but instead Death is also forced to confront the mystery of us. His attempts are well meaning, but clumsy. He attempts to make his adopted grand daughter a Hogswatch card (the Discworld’s version of Christmas), apologising for how damp it is; he knew he was supposed to put snow on it, but it melted, and the robin refused to stay on. Heck, even in that little sentence I dropped the idea that the Death has an adopted grand-daughter. Death and Life are, in Discworld, constantly reaching out to one another, and Death has a deep soft spot for us; he rides out with the other Horsemen of the Apocolypse (War, Famine and Pestilence, as well as the Fifth member who left before they became famous) in defence of life, and steps in to fill the role of the Hogfather when he disappears. We do actually get to see the afterlife of Discworld, or at least the start of it. Death escorts you into a desert. Once you get there, your fate varies, but we get to see very few of the actual outcomes. A golem, having spent millennia working, finally sits down. The abusive leader of a religion discovers that the ghosts of his victims still very much believe in him. But for the most part we don’t see what happens. It is not a reveal of what happens to you after your life, but just a very short glimpse at what lies beyond. The comfort comes not from the idea that I know what lies beyond, but just that there is something, and there will be a friendly, if alien, hand. THE AGE OF THE CALM EVENING

If Discworld presents a comforting vision of a personal death, then Yokohama Kaidashi Kiko by Hitoshi Ashinano (henceforth referred to as YKK) presents a comforting vision of a future without humanity. It is set in a post-apocolyptic world, where the climate has fundamentally changed. The seasons have merged; winters are now milder, while summers are cooler. The sea level has risen to the point that most of the city of Yokohama is now underwater; a recurring, haunting image in the manga is that of the street lights of Yokohama still lighting up underneath the waves, creating an artificial, glowing sea.

And in this world, we follow the everyday life of an android called Alpha, as she runs a café on the edge of a cliff.

There’s no great revelations about the nature of the catastrophe, or even much discussion of it. We just see the everyday life of Alpha as the world changes around her. At first, the world is still very much dominated by human presences. Roads and buildings remain mostly intact, and the characters Alpha interacts with are almost all human. Even the café itself is a remnant of humanity; Alpha has an owner, who asks her to look after the café, but we never actually meet him. He sends her a camera early on, but this is basically the only interaction we see them directly have. The human presence instead comes from a family that lives nearby, and runs a small petrol station, a little distance from the café. Over the course of the story, despite Alpha remaining unchanging, we see these characters move on. The children grow up, and the grandfather dies. The road to Yokohama along the coast becomes sand, and nature reclaims the terraces and plateaus.

Nature is perhaps embodied in story by the character of Misago, an ageless wild woman who lives in the bays and waterways below the café’s cliff. What she is is never explained; it is possibly implied she is the first robot, but I have always read her as a spirit of nature, something that was here before humanity, and is here after we disappear.

Likewise, we also see new things appearing, evolving in forms similar to what humans have created, but at the same time alien. Blue glowing trees like street lamps (a running motif in the manga), strange structures that ape the appearance of buildings but that appear to be some kind of fungus, and plants which grow statues that look like people. Crucially, none of these are actually explained; they are left a mystery, but a comforting one. The end of the world was not the end of the world. Life goes on, even if is not in forms recognisable to us, and the effect we had on the world still lasts, just perhaps not how we expect.

Misago and nature; the world that was here before us, and that will be here after us.

Alpha and the other robots: the children of humanity that inherit the evening age from us.

The flower statues and street light trees: what comes after us.

We see this in reality at Chernobyl. Plants and animals still live in the area around the plant, even when the human population has left. We even see new types of life emerging; bacteria that grow on the interior of the reactor walls, feeding on the radiation. It is not as complete as YKK. Human life is returning to the area, but it shows how the world might behave without us.

The story, without saying so explicitly, creates a structure where my anxieties about climate change can be peacefully projected. Not that it won’t happen, but simply that it will be a lot more peaceful than I have allowed myself to imagine.

A SMALL ENDING

My default method of tackling my anxiety is to search out more information; to search for the fire, to seek out a diagnosis, or to be more precise, to seek out reassurance that it does not exist. Both Discworld and YKK take some fundamental fears of mine and, rather than telling me they will not happen, tell me that it will not be as bad as I think it is. Reading both Discworld and YKK is a strangely calming experience; allowing me to project myself into a world where a friendly hand, an alien smile, on the deck of a café looking over the evening sea, illuminated by lights, with shapes moving in the clouds and water that I do not understand.

And I do not need to understand.

It is peaceful.

[lcfthaunted]

“Doesn’t matter how much you want the answer to be something else,” she says irritably. “The information points to the cult. He’s been taking girls her age for years, and no one survives leaving. Either she’s still with him, or she’s been eaten by his shape-shifting wife.”

He snaps his teeth in her face. “Find another way.”

She sighs loudly, unshaken by his antics by now. “Tell me where my husband is.” She crosses her arms. “This is what the information points to. You’ve kept me here for six months. Just because you don’t like the answer, doesn’t mean there’s another one.”

“You’ll get your husband when I get my lead.”

“Then I suggest you go pay Lou a visit.”

He snarls and backhands her.

She goes down with a cry. She wipes at her mouth, unsurprised to find it come away bloody. She looks up at him, furious. “You’d best hope you’re long gone by the time I’m reunited with John Henry,” she spits, “because he will turn you into swiss cheese for that.” She stands and moves to the sink, spitting blood before filling a glass with water to rinse out her mouth.

“I’m not afraid of Doc Holliday.”

She laughs, low and cold. “Bobo. Robert. You’ve never seen him with me.” Ice eyes cut to him, and there is something there that unsettles him.

“Find my Lead. You get your husband. That’s the deal.”

“I could go get her, if you let me go. I’m sure he wouldn’t raise any eyebrows at me showing up.”

“And let you go running off on me?”

“Where would I go? Who would I turn to? I don’t have any allies in this town, let alone friends. And if you’re not lying, you’re the only one who can tell me where my husband is. Why would I leave?”

“I never pretended to understand you women folk.”

She glowers at him. “I understand what Wyatt saw in you. Now, either let me go get your lead, or leave me alone until you decide to accept the information I gave you.”

Another tense moment, and he storms from the trailer, door slamming behind him. It only takes a moment for her guard to shoot the locks again.

[lcfthaunted]

open

Alice was five months when John Henry disappeared, and now Mazie’s planning how to celebrate her first birthday. It’s far from the first time she’s been left behind with no warning, even setting aside the decades of searching, but now they have a child, and she’s furious. It’s not like they have very many people left, after all; Jeremy and Xavier disappeared into Black Badge and the Earps are gone, her husband along with them. She only has Nicole and Rachel now, though she’s sure some gifts may appear for Allie from their friends who can’t be near them anymore. Still, far from what she’d expected when she first learned of her pregnancy.

Mazie’s fury spikes at the most inconvenient of times, like standing in the sparsely-stocked grocery store trying to decide what to make for Allie’s birthday. Daughter on her hip, her eyes fill with angry tears as she glares at a box of snickerdoodle mix—not that she would sink to box mix, but the reminder of old plans and new realities crash over her. Clutching Allie close, she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to wrangle her emotions under control again, before sharply turning away from the box mix and nearly running into someone else. “Oh—!” She checks her daughter first to be sure the girl is unharmed before turning her attention to the other. “I’m terribly sorry, I really ought to pay more attention to my surroundings.”

[lcfthaunted]

all you need to know about my wearp verse is fuck canon i do what i want

[lcfthaunted]

Chomping at the bit to write mazie (and allie) in the year and a half her husband is missing and she's Furious w him

[lcfthaunted]

e.mily a.ndras was a coward for not putting johnny ringo or any of the other cowboys in the show and i still think having mazie turn to johnny in doc's absence when he's in eden is the greatest idea ive had in ages

[lcfthaunted]

She should probably give herself more time to recover, but she so desperately wants to be back in her hotel room and out of this gown. The heavy skirts no longer make her feel safe, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever wear yellow ever again. Zachary will be furious that her escort abandoned her after the princely sum he paid, especially in favor of a dance hall girl. It’s not that she faults him; just that she wishes he’d seen her back to the hotel before absconding with the woman.

She’s not even aware of the tears on her cheeks as she reaches the street, pulling her shawl over her shoulders, trying to cover as much skin as possible. She pauses, struggling to orient herself in this unfamiliar town, before she starts in what she sincerely hopes is the correct direction and tries not to think about the pain she’s in. At least her gown is long enough to mostly hide her limp.

“Well now, little lady,” a man drawls from the entrance of the saloon, lit cigarillo in hand. “You shouldn’t be wanderin’ around these streets at night alone. Lotta unsavory people around.”

She can’t help the finch at his words, pulls her shawl a little tighter and doesn’t respond.

Unfortunately, he saw the flinch, and his attention is fixed on her. “Darlin’,” he says, almost gentle, “you’re shakin’ like a leaf.”

A soft sob escapes her, and she presses her hand to her lips, forcing her composure back into place. She will not fall apart on these unfamiliar streets, in front of this unfamiliar man. He steps closer, and she shies away, tenuous grip on her composure slipping again. He doesn’t come any closer, moving slowly as he pulls a clean handkerchief from his coat pocket and offers it out to her.

The gesture of kindness is almost enough to break her. Her gaze goes from the handkerchief to his face. Uncertain of his motives at first, she easily reads the sincerity of his concern in his expression, and shakily reaches a hand to accept the handkerchief. “Thank you,” she forces out, voice choked.

She doesn’t notice his eyes catch on the dirt ground into the palm of her glove, doesn’t notice his expression harden as he glances back at the saloon he had exited. His voice remains gentle, though. “Would you allow me the honor of escortin’ you home, ma’am? I’d hate for any more misfortune to befall you. I can’t imagine the kind of monster that would drive an angel to tears.”

Any other time, she might have blushed at the flirtation, might have laughed. Now, though, she’s too broken by the night’s events to manage anything more than a rough, “I would appreciate it,” in response to his question. She tells him the name of the hotel she’s staying at and lets him guide the way. He is kind enough to avoid touching her, kind enough to put himself physically between her and any other stragglers on the road.

When they reach the hotel, she attempts to offer his handkerchief back, which he gently declines. “You need it more than I tonight,” he says softly, ushering her into the building ahead of him. He flags down one of the girls loitering in the lobby, pulls a few coins from his pocket. “If you could see this lovely lady to her room and tend to whatever she may need tonight,” he instructs quietly. “I fear she may have been sorely misused.”

“I don’t need-” she attempts to protest.

“Allow me anyway,” he interrupts, meeting her gaze. “You should not be alone tonight.”

Realizing he knows exactly what happened triggers a fresh wave of tears, and she merely nods.

He takes off his hat, holds it to his chest. “If you would not find it disagreeable,” he hedges, expecting her to turn him down, “I would like to call on you tomorrow. To be sure you’re alright. Miss…?”

She nods, but it takes a beat for her to find her voice again, and it’s shaky and weak when she does. “St- H-Hooper. Mazie Hooper.”

He smiles. “Lovely, Miss Mazie.”

Despite the curdling in her stomach, the pain in her legs, the tears on her cheeks, her heart flutters at his smile, at his words. “Might I know the name of my savior?” She asks, managing a small smile in return.

“John Henry Holliday,” he responds easily. “Most people around here just call me Doc.”

She huffs out a laugh, very nearly rolls her eyes. “Thank you for your gallantry tonight, Doctor Holliday.”

He gives her a surprised little grin. “It was my pleasure, ma’am.” He replaces his hat on his head, touches the brim in farewell.

“Come on, darling,” the woman says, gently ushering Mazie to the stairs. “My name’s Kate. What room are we headed to?”

“Two hundred sixteen,” she breathes, reaching into her pocket for the key. Small mercies; it’s still there. She hadn’t thought to check for it after- after. She hands it over, knowing she’s shaking too badly to manage to fit it in the lock; in fact, she barely makes it to the correct floor before her legs finally give out on her, and she sinks to the floor. With Holliday’s handkerchief over her mouth, she sobs soundlessly.

“Oh, oh, sweetheart,” Kate croons, kneeling next to her. “Oh, you have been poorly handled, haven’t you? Come on, hold on to me. Let’s get you into your room before you fall completely apart.”

Mazie lets her ease her back to her feet, stumbles alongside her, trusting her weight to Kate for the remaining distance to her room. Once inside, she collapses on a waiting settee, composure completely gone. Trembling and weeping, she yanks her gloves off, throwing them across the room. She can’t bear to look at their potential damage, can’t bear to remember. Her hands still hurt, are still pink from fighting. “I need out of this gown,” she gasps, and, without waiting, starts yanking at the laces up her back.

Kate rushes to her side. “You’re going to tear your bodice,” she warns.

“I don’t care,” Mazie sobs. “I am never going to wear this dress again. I don’t ever want to see it again.”

Kate gently bats Mazie’s hands away, quickly and expertly pulling the laces free, helping Mazie pull her arms from the sleeves and setting aside the bodice. She sets to work on the skirts without being asked, not bothering to maintain any gentleness with the gown. She shoves the skirts and petticoat down for Mazie to step out of, tries not to look too hard at the spatter of blood on the inside of the petticoat. “Should I hang this up?”

“Take it,” Mazie chokes out, barely waiting a beat before tearing her corset cover off, tugging slightly less violently at the laces of her corset. “Do what you will with it. Burn it, for all I care.”

With a gown of that quality, Kate didn’t have to be told twice. She carefully bundled up the bodice and skirts, setting the bundle behind the chair nearest the door. By the time she’s done that, Mazie’s shed her corset and combinations, standing bare as she sobs in the middle of the room.

Kate winces at the exposed violence on Mazie’s pale skin. If even a quarter of what she’s heard about Doc Holliday is true, hopefully he’ll find and end whatever monster did this. If not, well… Kate could see to it herself, if need be. Softly, “Can you afford hot water? I can have a maid draw you a bath…”

Mazie only manages to nod at both statements, sobbing too hard to respond verbally.

Kate wraps a waiting robe around Mazie, helps her sit near the tub before ringing for a maid and quietly asking for hot water to be brought. It takes a while, but finally there is a steaming tub waiting for Mazie. Kate takes the robe and helps her climb into it, grimacing sympathetically when Mazie hisses as the water hits split skin.

Once submerged, Mazie takes a washcloth and carefully scrubs her thighs clean; when the washcloth comes away pink, her trembling increases. She looks up at Kate with wild, terrified eyes. “… I think I’m going to be sick.”

Kate grabs a chamberpot, holding it out for her just in time for her to empty her stomach into it. Mazie hangs over the edge of the tub for a few beats, hair dripping on the floor. “Oh, God,” she moans, before spitting in the chamberpot again.

Kate silently cares for Mazie, gently washing her hair and skin, helping her dry off and dress in a linen shift before getting her tucked into bed. After a whispered promise to be back quickly, Kate takes advantage of the bathwater to quickly wash herself, then sets Mazie’s petticoat and combinations where the maids will take them to be cleaned. Hopefully, they will simply believe her monthly bleeding caught her by surprise. When she returns to Mazie, the young woman is crying softly, twisting Holliday’s handkerchief in her hands. Kate lies on top of the blankets and gently tugs Mazie close, cradling her. Mazie stays curled against her, exhaustion eventually dragging her to sleep.

[lcfthaunted]

It's a small house, only meant to comfortably hold one or two people. The front porch frames the doorway and two windows; to the left is a swing bench, partially obscuring the window into the kitchen, and to the right are two chairs with a table between them framing the window into the living room. The front door opens directly into the living room, an archway to the kitchen to the left. Straight ahead is the doorway to the bedroom, and through that the door to the bathroom, on the left.

The kitchen is the brightest, warmest, most welcoming of the rooms. A second window is over the sink, with pots of herbs on the sill. A table stands in the middle, with an eclectic collection of chairs surrounding it. There is little counter space and a well-loved kettle sitting on the stove, waiting to be used. A washing machine has been added next to the refrigerator when water pipes were run to the house. She's learned to bake in much smaller batches since her exile from the Earp house, but there is still nearly always some freshly-baked good or another, remnants of her work soaking in the sink.

The bathroom shares a wall and water piping with the kitchen, a shower built around the clawfoot tub that has been there since its building. There is a small, frosted window above the tub. Her things are carefully organized on one side of the sink counter, the other open as if waiting for someone else.

There is a double bed, piled with blankets, in the bedroom. Bedside tables are on either side of the head, small lamps on each. One has a trinket dish, where her daily jewelry goes at the end of the day - her locket, earrings, any bracelets she may have worn. A jewelry box in her wardrobe holds whatever jewelry she doesn't wear, and pieces are switched out every morning when she dresses. The other table holds a white pillar candle, lit three times a year. The ornately carved wardrobe stands against the opposite wall, about two-thirds full with her dresses and shoes. The dresser stands against the far wall next to the window, half the drawers empty. On top is a carefully cultivated shrine with flower vases on either end, frequently changed out for fresh flowers. Tea lights sit in front of three framed photographs; one of a couple on their wedding day in the late 1800s, and two more of the featured groom. The tea lights have been lit multiple times. To the right of the bedroom door is a hat hook, still awaiting its use.

The living room isn't designed for entertaining. Tucked into the corner, in roughly the center of the house, is an old wood stove, meant to heat the house though once used for cooking, piping running up the wall and out to a small chimney in the roof. There is one armchair, meant for comfort, angled to face the north wall. Against the window is a roll-top desk, a laptop sitting on one side, writing implements and paper to the other. The desk also holds many, many years of correspondence with a friend helping her quest. Across the room is an old Singer sewing machine, set into its own desk. The desk and Singer share a chair, frequently found at the desk.

The entirety of the north wall is dedicated to her quest. A world map stretches across the wall, large and detailed, with flags, pins, and other markings covering it. Underneath and around it are newspaper clippings, records of stories, notes, and symbols to correspond each with a mark on the map. So far, every researched avenue has been a dead end.