#── * 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐒 { the true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words }

[ashbalfour]

Nikita is very excited to carve pumpkins together 🎃

Halloween had always been some sort of a strange tradition to him, one that Americans embraced with an almost childlike enthusiasm. Also, clearly it was a cash grab that capitalism loved dearly. Anyway, somehow he found himself in the middle of a cosy farmhouse kitchen, where the pleasant crackling of a candle that smelled of vanilla biscuits provided the background sound. The worktops were cluttered with pumpkins of various sizes, bowls filled with seeds, and an array of oddly shaped knives. His fingers brushed the rough orange surface of the pumpkin in front of him, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"This," he began, his accent even more present than usual ( probably out of spite ), "has got to be the most absurd thing I've ever done." He glanced over at the woman beside him, half expecting some form of protest or explanation, but she remained silent, concentrating on the pumpkin in her hands.

Asher picked up a small, serrated knife and turned it in his hand with a puzzled expression. "We never did anything like this back home. Halloween is just an excuse for a bit of fancy dress, if that." He pierced the pumpkin's thick skin, wincing slightly at the squelch. "But here everyone seems to be very engaged. Frighteningly so.”

He glanced sideways at her, but she was still focused on her task. There was something almost reverent in the way she was carving, as if she understood some secret meaning behind this ritual that eluded him. And she also seemed rather experienced with a knife, although he didn’t know what to make out of that observation. Eventually he settled into a rhythm, trying to ignore the sticky residue on his fingers and the occasional stray seed that fluttered across the table. Ugh. Good thing he didn’t put on his best clothes today, it would have been annoying to get them cleaned. In a way, it was like the sculpting he'd dabbled in during a brief, pretentious period at university, when he’d tried to impress the girlfriend he had at that time. He could appreciate the artistry in it, the way the jagged cuts gradually took shape, forming a crude but recognisable face.

"I suppose," he mused aloud, mostly to himself now, "there's a certain charm to it. Let’s see if I can make this the most frightening pumpkin you have ever seen”, he chuckled sofly, not actually believing he could win this challenge.

[ashbalfour]

(. . .) Bonnie was really looking forward to the fall picnic. 🌰

With his usual thoroughness, Asher adjusted the picnic blanket beneath the old oak tree, smoothing out the corners with care. The late afternoon sun dipped low in the sky, casting a warm amber glow across the meadow. The air was crisp, a hint of autumn’s chill mingling with the lingering warmth of summer. Scattered golden leaves formed a delicate pattern on the green grass, marking the season’s slow change.

Bonnie arrived just as Asher set down the wicker basket, her breath visible in the cool air. She wore a deep forest green cardigan that blended with the surrounding trees, her eyes distant as she took in the scene. Without a word, she sat down beside him, folding her legs beneath her and gazing out at the horizon.

Asher unpacked the basket, placing out cheese, bread, and a bottle of wine. He handed her a glass with a small, polite smile. “I thought we could both use a break." His tone was light but with a hint of concern. “It’s nice to get away from what we're dealing with, even if it's just for a few hours. Don't you think?”

Bonnie took the glass with a nod, her fingers brushing against his briefly. She sipped slowly, her gaze still fixed on the horizon, the light fading to a soft gold. Asher watched her, noticing the way her hands lingered on the glass, the subtle tension in her posture. He wondered if the ring’s influence still clung to her, despite their efforts to distance themselves from it.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said gently, trying to draw her out of her thoughts. “But tonight, let’s just enjoy this. No ancient artifacts, no mysteries. Just some good food and a quiet evening.”

Bonnie glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She seemed to relax slightly, her shoulders easing as she reached for a piece of bread. Asher took that as a small victory, relieved to see her spirits lift, even if just a little.

The sky deepened to a rich purple as the sun dipped below the trees. The world around them grew quiet, the soft rustle of leaves the only sound. Asher kept the conversation light, sharing stories and jokes in an attempt to cheer her up. He could see that the weight of their recent adventure still lingered, but for now, it was enough that she was here, safe, and smiling, even if only for a moment.

[ashbalfour]

“ you want to tell me something— i can see it. so you might as well speak. ”

Asher leans back in his chair. The amber liquid swirls in his glass as he watches her from across the low-lit bar. She’s a regular, though they’ve never spoken. She carries herself with a certain ease: self-assured, like she belongs here, even when the low buzz of conversation and clinking glasses swirls around her.

Tonight isn’t different, but something feels off. He’s noticed the men. They’re not subtle. Eyes linger too long on her, conversations drop when she shifts in her seat. One of them, in particular, keeps glancing toward the door, like he’s waiting for her to leave. Asher’s seen him before, more than once.

And then there’s the guy outside. He’s not sure if it’s coincidence, but he caught a reflection of someone watching her car as he walked in earlier. It could be nothing. Or it could be something he’ll regret ignoring.

Asher takes another sip, his mind flicking through the day’s events. Tense, unpredictable, like always. He’s tired. Maybe that’s it. Maybe exhaustion is making him see things that aren’t there. Today, he doesn't even look like his otherwise perfectly styled self. His hair is a bit of a mess, he has long since taken off his tie and the top buttons of his white shirt are undone. He would never be seen like this in Oxford. But that instinct of his, the one that always pulls him into situations he should probably stay out of, tugs at him again.

Her eyes, sharp and aware, meet his suddenly, and he realizes he’s been staring. He almost looks away, but then she tilts her head, studying him in return. When she stands, his breath catches, not from fear, but something else entirely. She crosses the space between them, slow and deliberate, and before he can speak, she leans in just close enough for her words to reach only him.

"You want to tell me something—I can see it. So you might as well speak."

Her voice is steady, with a hint of curiosity. He hadn’t expected her to make the first move. Now, the weight of his thoughts presses harder, hanging in the air between them. His fingers tighten around the glass as he debates how much to say . . . or if saying anything at all is just him being overly cautious.

"I've seen you here before. And I’ve seen them, too," he nods slightly in the direction of the men without making it obvious. "Might just be nothing, but … something doesn’t feel right tonight." Maybe he is overstepping, but better to be safe than sorry, right?

[ashbalfour]

³⁾ a teakettle, a fresh bruise and rosewater 🥀

You don’t notice the bruise at first. It blooms along your wrist, hidden beneath the sleeve of your sweater. You can’t remember hitting it, but it’s there, dark and unfamiliar, like something you weren’t meant to find. The teakettle whistles in the background, its shrill cry filling the quiet room, and you think about ignoring it, letting it go cold. But something pulls you toward it. The steam smells faintly of rosewater, sweet and soothing, but there’s an edge, a sharpness beneath the floral note that unsettles you. How odd ... you could have sworn you had settled for fennel tea tonight . . . The scent clings to the air, almost too thick, as if the room itself is breathing with you. You pour the tea, your fingers brushing over the handle, and for just a second, you swear you feel something cold, something not quite human, watching from the shadows. You turn. There's nothing. But that bruise? It's spreading . . .

sent in by @dopplgaenger & @verflcht , so this is directed toward both of you, if you like !

[ashbalfour]

‘they say it’s still haunted by restless spirits.’

It was the perfect night to have a little bonfire and welcome the Fall, his favorite season. Asher sat by the fire, the crackling flames casting a warm glow across his face. He glanced over at Bonnie, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he sipped from his mug, enjoying the taste of a hot wine punch.

"Alright, Bonnie, I’ve got a little story for you." He was leaning back comfortably. "Not the kind of story that'll have you looking over your shoulder every five minutes, don't worry, just something a bit eerie enough to keep things interesting."

He paused for effect, the fire popping in the quiet of the night, as if it wanted to contribute to the setting.

"Years ago, there was an old inn, nestled deep in the English countryside. A place called The Old Harrow, named after the nearby village. It was a quiet sort of place, never too busy, but travelers would stop by for a warm meal and a good night’s rest. It stood at the crossroads of two ancient roads, where the Romans once marched."

Asher’s voice softened as he continued. "Legend has it that during the reign of Henry VIII, a family was staying at the inn on a stormy night. They were wealthy travelers, trying to make their way back to London, but the roads had turned into muddy rivers. The innkeeper, a man named Aldrich, was known for his hospitality … but unfortunately also for his greed. When he saw the heavy chest they were carrying with them, filled with gold and jewels (or so he thought), …  let’s just say temptation got the better of him."

Bonnie’s warm eyes were wide as she listened, the fire reflecting in them.

"The night that family stayed, they disappeared without a trace. No one knows exactly what happened. Some say the storm swallowed them whole, others whisper that Aldrich made them disappear to steal their treasure. But no matter what the truth was, The Old Harrow was never the same after that."

He paused, his gaze drifting to the fire for a moment before continuing. "People started reporting strange things. Travelers would wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps on the floor above, even though the inn had no second story. Others claimed they heard soft whispers, like the wind, calling their names, or saw fleeting shadows out of the corner of their eyes. Some even swore they felt cold hands brush their arms as they walked through the halls."

Asher grinned at Bonnie, his voice dropping even lower. "But the creepiest part? The treasure chest. No one ever found it. It's said that Aldrich buried it somewhere on the grounds before he met a mysterious end himself, years later, which is a completely different story. To this day, treasure hunters still go looking for it, but none have found it. And those who’ve tried … they’ve all claimed to have had some rather unsettling encounters along the way."

Leaning forward, the firelight casting shadows across his face. "They say it’s still haunted by restless spirits, the Inn" Asher said quietly, letting the weight of his words sink in. "It’s whispered that the family’s spirits are still there, guarding their treasure, trapped between this world and the next. So, if you ever find yourself at a crossroads on a stormy night … you might want to stay away rom The Old Harrow."

With that, Asher sat back with a wink, letting the comfortable silence settle in around the campfire.

"Of course, it’s all just a story," he added lightly.

[ashbalfour]

‘people are naïve about such things. and they would rather write them off as evil than attempt to understand them.’

The englishman leaned back slightly, the faint scent of old books and herbs filling the air around him. His gaze shifted to Zeev, who stood across the room, radiating that same quiet yet vibrant authority that seemed to follow him like a shadow. There was something unnervingly calm about him. Almost like an air of control Asher wasn’t used to encountering.

Naïve? Yeah, that sounds about right, Asher thought, his fingers tracing the edge of a nearby shelf, brushing against a dusty relic. People fear what they don’t understand. They always have. They always will.

His mind wandered briefly to the artifacts his family collected. Objects that, to most, would be dismissed as cursed or malevolent. But Asher knew better. They were pieces of history, fragments of something deeper, far more complex. The stories behind them were rarely simple. Some were tragic, others cruel, but none were entirely evil. Just misunderstood.

It’s easier to write something off as wicked than to wrestle with the complexity of it. Less messy. Less dangerous.

But was that really true? Or was it just another excuse to stay ignorant? Asher caught Zeev’s gaze and felt a flicker of something in the man's expression, as though he, too, carried the weight of knowing things others would rather not see.

He felt there was a silent understanding between them, unspoken, but there. This world, this ... business ... it's not black and white. And those who try to paint it that way are the real fools.

Asher tilted his head, lips curving into a faint smile. “People are terrified of what they can’t control. It’s easier to vilify than to dig deeper.”

Zeev’s eyes flickered with amusement, but there was something else in his gaze, something Asher couldn’t quite place. What does he know? The question lingered, and for once, Asher didn’t mind not having the answer. It was rather refreshing.

The conversation had peeled back another layer of the world he thought he knew so well, revealing that there were others with secrets not unlike his own. Maybe understanding isn’t just about knowledge. Maybe it’s about accepting that some things don’t need to be defined.

[ashbalfour]

❛   don’t   tell   me   you’re   afraid   of   the   dark.   ❜

The soft glow of street lamps flickered as Asher strolled through the quiet garden of the old estate. The path beneath his feet was lined with wildflowers, their sweet fragrance filling the cool night air. He was supposed to meet with a local historian, someone who knew more about the artifact he was currently looking for. But as usual, plans had a way of slipping through his fingers.

Lost in thoughts, he was startled when he heard a voice from behind, which made him pause mid-step.              "Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark."

Asher turned, his usual easy smile in place, though his brow arched with mild surprise. A woman stood there, watching him with a hint of challenge in her eyes. She stepped forward, her features illuminated briefly by the nearby lamp, though she left plenty room for mystery.

“Afraid?” he said, glancing around with a playful shrug. “I prefer to think of it as being overly cautious. You’d be amazed at what can trip you up in the dark.”

His tone was light, disarming, as he took a step closer, offering a nod of greeting without being too forward. “Though I’m sure you didn’t come here to check on my night-vision skills." He gave her a charming grin, leaving enough room for her to decide what came next.

[ashbalfour]

continued from here ... with @dopplgaenger

Ash smirked at her response, the amusement lighting up his eyes. He tucked his hands into his coat pockets, falling into step beside her as they walked through the surprisingly quiet streets. The adrenaline was still running through his veins as well, but he'd long learned how to make it feel like an old friend rather than something to be shaken off. He embraced the feeling, it made him feel alive.

"Bold?" he echoed, his tone light, teasing. "I thought I was being considerate, offering a way to clear our heads before we unravel the lovely mess we’ve found ourselves in." He glanced over at her, her rather foul mood not lost on him. "But if you’re already rethinking the company you keep, I could always head off alone and leave you to figure out the artifact’s delightful little curse by yourself …."

He arched a brow, though there was no real intention behind the suggestion. He had no plans of letting her handle this on her own, whether she liked it or not. Not when things were only just getting interesting. Besides, he still felt the veil’s presence weighing on him. Even if Camille despised his company, he wouldn’t just leave now, without knowing that there was no aftermath caused by the mess he’d made in the museum. ( Not that he would ever admit his failure. ) 

Asher’s eyes drifted briefly to the distant notes of the saxophone, mixing with the humid air, before looking back at her. "One drink, then," he agreed smoothly. "But let’s make it count. You might find the evening a bit more fun than you expect. Besides," he added with a wink, "what’s life without a little risk?"

His eyes flicked over to her, the teasing grin still on his lips, but something in the air shifted. Ever so subtle at first. He felt a twinge in his chest, like the faintest pressure, almost as if the world had momentarily tilted. His grin faltered for just a second, then he straightened.

“On second thought …” His eyes were scanning the street ahead. “Let’s not get too comfortable just yet. The night isn’t quite done with us.”

They continued walking, but the familiar sounds of the French Quarter, the distant saxophone, the murmur of conversations, sounded muted, almost muffled, like they were hearing them through a thick fog. Asher’s steps slowed, and he glanced over his shoulder. The street behind them seemed ... wrong. Too dark. The shadows had lengthened, stretching unnaturally, pooling in corners where there shouldn’t have been enough light to cast them. What was happening?

His breath quickened slightly as he realized what was going on. The curse of the artifact, the Veil of Despair, was beginning to take hold.

"Camille..." His voice dropped to a low, urgent whisper. "You feel that?"

Before she could respond, a cold breeze swept through the street, biting against their skin. It wasn’t the ordinary chill of a New Orleans night, or so he thought, it was something else, something that crept under their clothes and settled in their bones. Asher’s pulse quickened. The light from the streetlamps began to flicker, one by one, until the only illumination came from the weak glow of the distant bar sign down the street, the one they wanted to get their drink at. It seemed awfully far away now.

Then came the whispers.

Faint at first, barely audible. But they were there. Voices … countless, distant, and desperate … just on the edge of hearing. They seemed to swirl around them, growing louder with each passing moment.

“This,” Asher muttered under his breath, “is not good.” He instinctively reached for the inside of his coat, where the Veil was wrapped carefully in protective cloth, but he already knew it wouldn’t be enough. The curse was bound to them now, whether they liked it or not.

Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement. A figure - a woman, pale and shrouded in what looked like tattered, translucent fabric - stood at the far end of the street, just barely visible in the gloom. Her eyes were hollow, staring straight at them.

"Don’t stop walking," Asher said quietly, his voice steady but urgent. "Keep moving. Whatever you do, don’t acknowledge it."

[ashbalfour]

continued from here with @shevampyre

Asher’s eyebrows shot up as Nikita looped the apron around him, her movements quick and efficient. He blinked, more surprised than anything, as she tied the bow at his back with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a thousand times. The whole thing felt so absurdly domestic that he almost laughed. Almost.

“Good boy, is it?” he echoed, his tone lightly sardonic. “I wasn’t aware I’d signed up for a lesson in good manners along with pumpkin mutilation.”

Her next comment, though, caught him off guard. "Boringsburgh?" he repeated, the word tasting like a challenge. He turned to her, one eyebrow arched in mock indignation. “Is that what you think of me, then? A dull Englishman from some backwater town? Honestly, it’s like you’ve known me for years.” His tone was sharp, but there was a flicker of humor in his eyes that softened the words, even just a little.

She wasn’t entirely wrong, though. Asher had spent most of his life cultivating a certain image: reserved, composed, perhaps a touch aloof. But boring? That stung a bit, even if he’d never admit it.

He watched her as she cleaned up, her movements so methodical, and couldn’t help but feel a hint of irritation at how effortlessly she seemed to handle everything. She probably was a person who was experienced in using her hands for precise tasks.

He leaned against the table, crossing his arms over his chest as she took the knife from his hands. “What do I actually like?” he mused aloud, his voice tinged with a hint of mischief. “Let’s see … quiet walks, a good book, perhaps even a decent conversation with someone who doesn’t presume to know me inside out after a single pumpkin carving session.”

He watched her carve with an almost annoying ease, the blade moving smoothly through the tough skin that had given him so much trouble.

“Chelsea, you say?” he continued, his tone still light, though there was an edge to it now. “Well, that explains a lot. The place is crawling with eccentrics. But if it’s mystery you’re after, I’d suggest a good murder mystery novel instead of … this.” He gestured vaguely at the pumpkins, his disdain only half-feigned.

She was used to being in control, clearly, and Asher wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. He’d never been one to back down from a challenge, though.

“So, tell me, Nikita,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, “Do you always make such sweeping judgments about people before you’ve even finished carving the first pumpkin? Or is it just my lucky day?”

[ashbalfour]

camille would like to [ . . . ] 🍁 go to a pumpkin patch.

Asher adjusted his well-fitted coat, squinting against the bright autumn sun at Maple Grove Pumpkin Patch. Camille, juggling a half-picked pumpkin in one arm and a corn stalk in the other, laughed as she nearly bumped into him.

“Careful there, Pumpkin Picasso!” Asher teased, grinning. “Trying to start your own veggie art gallery?”

Camille rolled her eyes playfully. “Better than spending the day lost in your maze of dad jokes.”

They wandered through rows of plump, orange pumpkins, enjoying the crisp air and the scent of hay. The signs declared: “Haunted Pumpkin Hunt! Find the spooky surprise!”

As they approached a particularly dense section of the patch, Camille pointed to a pumpkin unlike any they’d seen before. It was enormous, with a crooked stem and an eerie, yet somehow goofy, carved face. One eye was a perfect circle, the other a lopsided oval, and its jagged smile seemed more mischievous than menacing.

“There it is,” Camille whispered dramatically. “The Haunted Pumpkin.”

Asher raised an eyebrow. “Looks more like it needs a good laugh. Maybe it’s haunted by stiff Englishmen?”

They edged closer, and suddenly the pumpkin’s eyes blinked. Camille jumped back, dropping her own pumpkin. Asher burst into laughter.

“See? It’s alive! Or maybe it just needs more Halloween makeup.”

Before they could ponder further, the pumpkin let out a low, groaning chuckle. “Welcome, brave souls! I’m Percy the Pumpkin. Ready for a spooktacular adventure?”

Camille crossed her arms, smirking. “A talking pumpkin? Alright, Percy. What’s the challenge?”

Percy’s stem wobbled. “Solve my riddles, and I’ll reveal the grand prize. Fail, and you’re stuck helping me carve faces all night!”

Asher exchanged a glance with Camille. “We’re in. Fire away, Percy.”

“First riddle: I’m orange and round, but not a ball. You carve me up for a spooky hall. What am I?”

“Easy! A pumpkin,” Camille answered, trying not to giggle.

Percy let out a hearty laugh. “Correct! Second riddle: I fly without wings, I cry without eyes. Whenever I go, darkness flies. What am I?”

Asher scratched his head. “Hmm … a cloud?”

Percy’s laughter echoed through the patch. “Close, but not quite! Think more Halloween.”

Camille grinned. “A bat!”

Percy’s face lit up. “Bingo! Last riddle: I’m tall when I’m young, and short when I’m old. What am I?”

Asher thought for a moment. “A candle?”

Percy beamed. “You got it! Well done, adventurers. Now, for your grand prize …”

Suddenly, a hidden gate swung open, revealing a cozy bonfire area with blankets, hot cider, and marshmallows. Camille laughed.

“A haunted pumpkin leading us to a perfect end to our day? Not so haunted after all.”

Asher nodded, sipping his cider with a smile.

“Best haunted pumpkin ever. Thanks, Percy.”

As the sun set, casting a golden glow over the pumpkin patch, Asher and Camille settled by the fire, promising to make this visit an annual tradition.

[ashbalfour]

❝ You find this place as creepy as I do, right? ❞

Asher's fingers brushed against the cold, dusty surface of the ancient cabinet, his eyes tracing the intricate carvings of serpents coiled around its edges. The dim light of the museum’s storage room cast long shadows, making the serpents appear to slither when seen from the corner of his eye. He was used to this - a lifetime spent in the company of objects steeped in death, loss, and forgotten memories. Yet, there was something about this place that made his skin prickle, an unease that he hadn't felt in years.

He heard the soft click of Camille's heels approaching behind him, each step hesitant, as if the very air of the room pressed down on her with a weight she couldn’t see. Asher tensed slightly, his mind shifting from the eerie allure of the artifacts to the warmth of her presence. He forced himself to remain composed, cool, as he always did when she was around.

“You find this place as creepy as I do, right?” Camille’s voice broke the silence, soft yet carrying a nervous edge. It was a question that floated in the stale air, as if she needed confirmation that her unease was shared.

Asher turned to face her, letting a slow, measured breath escape his lips. Camille was standing a few feet away, her arms wrapped around herself as if for warmth, though the room wasn’t cold. The glow from the lone bulb overhead painted her in a ghostly hue, highlighting the worry lines etched on her otherwise delicate face.

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, he felt his composure slip. There was something vulnerable in the way she looked at him, something that made him want to step closer, to tell her that she wasn’t alone, not in this room, nor in the world of haunted objects that seemed to close in around them both.

But instead, he smiled, a wry twist of his lips that he knew wouldn’t reach his eyes. “Creepy? Perhaps,” he replied, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if anything louder might disturb the unseen things that lingered in the shadows. “But it’s the kind of creepiness one grows accustomed to, like an old friend who never quite leaves.”

Camille’s brow furrowed, and she let out a soft laugh, though it didn’t quite hide the tremor in her voice. “I suppose you would say that, wouldn’t you? Collecting haunted artifacts for your family … I don’t know how you do it.”

He shrugged, turning back to the cabinet as if it held more interest than the way her lips curled when she was unsure of herself. “It’s what I’ve always known. We all have our legacies, don’t we? Mine just happens to be … more peculiar than most.”

Camille stepped closer, and he caught the faint scent of her perfume, a light floral note that contrasted sharply with the musty odor of the room. “But don’t you ever wonder if something might … follow you home? If you’re not just collecting these things, but inviting them into your life?”

Asher stilled, her words striking a chord he hadn’t expected. He had thought about it, of course. It was impossible not to when you spent your days surrounded by objects with histories too dark to fully understand. But he had always pushed those thoughts aside, buried them deep beneath the weight of his responsibility.

“It’s a risk,” he admitted, his voice betraying a hint of the unease he usually kept buried. “But it’s one I’m willing to take. These artifacts … they need to be kept safe, away from those who don’t understand their true nature.”

“And you’re the only one who can do that?” Camille asked, her tone gentle, but probing.

Asher turned to her again, this time letting his gaze linger on her face. “Perhaps not the only one. But the only one who’s willing to. These things… they’re dangerous, yes, but they’re also a part of history. A history that needs to be preserved, even if it’s unsettling.”

Camille nodded slowly, as if weighing his words. She took another step closer, her hand reaching out to lightly touch his arm. “Just … be careful, Asher. Some things are better left in the past.”

He looked down at her hand, then back at her eyes, which now held a softness that made his heart skip a beat. He wanted to say something, something that would let her know he understood her concern, that he felt it too. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he simply nodded, the mask of calm slipping back into place.

“I always am,” he said, his voice steady, though a flicker of doubt crept into his mind. He didn’t know whether it was the room, the artifacts, or Camille herself that unsettled him more.

But for the first time in a long while, Asher found himself wondering if perhaps some ghosts were more difficult to escape than others.

[ashbalfour]

&  what do you propose ?

Of all the places, Asher found himself in the heart of Los Angeles. The bustling city was a far cry from the fog-laden moors of Scotland or the shadowy backstreets of Prague he usually preferred, but Asher had learned that the supernatural could be lurking anywhere, even amidst the glitz and glamour of Hollywood.

This evening, he stepped into a dimly lit bar on Sunset Boulevard. The bar had an old-world charm, with dark wood paneling and vintage posters lining the walls. Asher approached the counter, his eyes scanning the room for any signs or clues that might lead him to his next find.

The bartender, a young man with tousled hair and a casual demeanor, looked up as Asher took a seat. "What can I get you ?" he asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and routine hospitality.

"A whiskey, neat," Asher replied, his English accent cutting through the background chatter. The bartender nodded and set about preparing the drink.

Asher took a sip, savoring the warmth of the whiskey. He leaned forward slightly, catching the bartender's eye. "I'm looking for something unusual," he began, his voice low but steady. "Something... otherworldly, you might say." It was perhaps impertinent to jump straight into the subject so bluntly, but jet lag was getting to him and he didn't feel like playing a game.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "We get all sorts of folks in here, but that's a new one. What kind of 'unusual' are we talking about ?"

Asher smiled faintly. "Legends, ghost stories, hidden artifacts. I hear there's a tale about a haunted relic somewhere in this city. I was hoping someone here might know more." He was being vague for a reason, he didn’t want to attract some kind of charlatan who only pretended to know something.

The bartender leaned on the counter, considering Asher's words. "You hear all kinds of things in a place like this. There are rumors, of course. Some say there's an old mansion in the hills with a dark history. Others talk about hidden tunnels beneath the city. But specifics... well, those are harder to come by."

Asher nodded, appreciating the man's candidness. " And what do you propose ? " he asked, his voice edged with curiosity and a hint of challenge.

The bartender grinned, a spark of excitement in his eyes. "There's a colleague of mine who knows a lot about the city's underbelly and its secrets. If anyone can point you in the right direction, it's him. He should be here later tonight."

Asher felt a rush of anticipation. "I'll wait," he said, settling into his seat. He knew that the path to uncovering the next piece of his ever-growing collection was just beginning. 

In a city full of stories, he was ready to add another chapter to his own . . .

[ashbalfour]

❝ I never have quite forgiven myself for stealing it. ❞ 

I never have quite forgiven myself for stealing it. The memory haunts me as much as the artifacts I collect. I see myself as a keeper of stories, a seeker, a guardian of those who do not see the magic of this world and need to be protected from it . . . and, regrettably, also a thief.

It was a night bare of any stars, the kind that cloaks one’s sins in shadows. The old manor I was aiming towards was a labyrinth of creaking floorboards and whispers of the past. I had been led there by tales of a cursed locket, said to hold the soul of a forlorn bride. My rational mind scoffed, yet my insatiable curiosity demanded I seek it out. Most of the times these stories were not true and I was wasting my precious time collecting dust and ruining my clothes.

Half curious, half angry about another evening that I couldn't spend to my liking, I navigated the dim corridors. The locket I was looking for lay in a dusty display case, a relic of forgotten love and lost hope. It seemed to call to me, a silent plea wrapped in silver. As I pried open the case, a cold draft swept through the room, as if the house itself was sighing in resignation.

Holding the locket, I felt an inexplicable weight, not just of the object itself but of the centuries-old sorrow it contained. Yet, I was undeterred, driven by the belief that it belonged in my collection, that I could perhaps understand and contain its power. I slipped it into my coat pocket and vanished into the night, the echoes of my footsteps swallowed by the silence I left behind.

Days turned to weeks, and the locket’s presence grew heavier, its influence more palpable. Whispers filled my dreams, and shadows seemed to cling to my every move. My guilt, once a mere whisper in my conscience, burgeoned into a cacophony of remorse.

The sadness contained in these few grams of silver has not left me since I stole this memento of a long-gone love. I know I shouldn't have done it, should have left it in its final resting place. I am a collector of haunted artifacts, yet this particular item has ensnared me more than any other. It serves as a constant reminder of my foolishness, of the fine line between curiosity and arrogance. Each time I gaze upon my collection, I see it there, glinting malevolently, a testament to my hubris.

So, I find myself in a perpetual state of penance, seeking redemption in the very objects that others shy away from. But sometimes, I should just let it go. I should leave the objects where I found them and do them the honour of being forgotten with dignity. But well, I guess that's just not in my nature. As I mentioned at the beginning: sometimes I'm just a thief.