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melit0n · 7 months ago

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Delicate is the Flesh - Chapter 1

- Synopsis: On the brink of the bustling new city of Rosholt lies a forgotten palisade of abandoned homes, shops and streets that sit mummified after a chemical outbreak in the 70s, leaving the city uninhabitable.

Over the years however, the place has become a hotspot for urban explorers and crime junkies alike.

Whispers of reanimated bodies stalking the dead streets and brutal murders worm their way into your friend's ears and, having nothing to do on your Winter break, you reluctantly agree to go exploring the abandoned city with them.

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters ->

Prologue

Chapter 1: For whom the Bell tolls (you're already here!)

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast

Chapter 4: Something Forgotten

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious

Chapter 7: Heavy is The Head that Mourns The Past

Chapter 8: Be Not Afraid

Chapter 9: Eye for an Eye

- Status: Work In Progress.

- Obsessive! Demon OC/Reader

- Word Count (for chp): 11.7k

- Warnings (for chp): Nightmares, description of past truama.

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/143071153#workskin

Glass crunches quietly underneath twisted and trembling hands. Digits that looked more like misshapen claws than human fingers. Fingers that shouldn’t be bent at that angle. Fingers that quiver with every hoarse breath you take. Fingers that you’ve been able to move your whole life, yet now they sit as still as the grave. No urge from your muscles brings any applicable movement. Just trembling. Trembling and shaking. A morbid thought crosses your bleary mind; what if they’re not even attached? Jolts of pain running up your bruised arm answers your mental question; the only thing telling you you’re not numb with death yet.

Everything hurts.

Every breath feels more like a death rattle. Every twitch of every muscle pulled as taught as a halyard sends a shudder crawling up your bruised spine. Your entire being– every cell and every tissue and every twitching muscle– buzzes with anguish.

You feel nothing and everything, and you wonder, with gore-soaked skin, if this is what touching divinity is like. Maybe this is what Icarus felt as he warmed his back with the sun while his father screamed his throat raw underneath the silver clouds.

Deafening silence rings its death toll. A distant bell grows ever closer each time your struggling heart fails to keep its steady rhythm. Each ba-dum sends less and less crimson life to your brain, and you think, no, you know, that you are dying.

You’ve always liked the silence, but now? Now it unnerves you. Life itself rushes around you in a multicolour blur, yet there is nothing but a loud ringing. Nothing and everything.

Your warm back hits the ocean waters. You make no sound; no splash. The waters do not even ripple.

Your buzzing synapses drive a pained whimper from your mouth. No sound arrives, just a hollow feeling of emptiness and the overwhelming twitch of pain in every cell in your body.

You have spent your whole life tired, and, through the feeling of nothing and everything, the idea weighs heavy on your eyelids, heavy as lead. It’s been a long night anyways. Who was going to blame you?

With as little movement as possible, you rest your head, heavy with the ache of your neck and jaw, and look into the wide eyes of your friend. The beautiful, dark blue eyes of your friend who had drunk too much tonight. It surprised you that he hadn't fallen dead asleep on the drive home, but, now, he lies hunched. Quiet.

Ever so quiet.

You don’t think necks should be at that angle- you don’t think his neck should look like your fingers- you don’t think a jaw should be that wide open; unhinged in a scream that was never let out.

He’ll moan about how much his back hurts in the morning, you’re sure of it; rubbing his neck with his spindly fingers and smiling sympathetically at you. He’ll spend the whole day obnoxiously cracking all of his joints and complaining about how old he’s getting, saying that maybe he should stop drinking. And you’ll tell him you hope he does.

But he never will.

And the world continues to turn. Except…except now there is blue. Bright blue flashes, and a large splodge of neon yellow. The neon ink bleeds into the rest of the messy watercolour.

You want to turn to him, turn to him and hit his arm before he hits yours. Get another point in on the game you were playing.

You feel the salt water anchor itself in the bottom of your lungs. Feel the burn of it in your throat. Everything burns.

Get him to change the damn expression on his face. Make his glossy, unblinking eyes close with laughter. Anything to stop him from staring at you.

But you can’t. You can’t. You can’t. You can’t. You-

You are pathetic.

“...they’re still…have to move…get them up and…” Muffled words you can’t make out break the unnerving silence, but not the eye contact you hold with your friend; it’s the only thing keeping you awake. Keeping you from the warm arms of sleep. Keeping you from your drowsy lover’s arms- you can’t help but feel spiteful.

Someone says something about getting up, and your mind– every cell and tissue and every twitching muscle– screams at the thought.

Get up.

GET UP-

“-and out of my fucking apartment, asshole! You’re such a fucking-”

-Jolting awake at the sudden noise, you smash your head into the wood of your headboard.

“Ow…” You cradle your head, brain throbbing with the impact. Eyes wide, pupils dilated like a scared piece of prey, you turn shakily to your cracked and peeling ceiling. Dust and plaster flitter down, almost elegantly, like spring dandelion seeds. It's a pretty image, one your body, already tired of the dreary weather, takes a liking to.

The thick dust that swarms your lungs the moment you inhale, however, ruins the idea. A series of throaty coughs escape your chapped lips, lungs attempting to exhume the ancient grime.

While coughing up a lung, you place a hand to your heart, trying to calm the pumping muscle, forcing in air with heavy inhales and shaky exhales. Eventually, you manage to get the dust out of your already dry throat, and turn to lie on your back. Unblinkingly, you glare at the ceiling and listen to the ever-present shouting of the two people who most definitely shouldn’t live together.

The couple in the apartment above you, if you could even call them that, seemed to love shouting matches more than they loved each other. Most of them ended within fifteen minutes or so, followed by a loud slam of a door and annoyed grumbles that, through the thinning walls, you were ninety percent sure was just a stream of slurs and derogatory terms. Each time their shouts and screams dragged you out of slumber, you prayed that the inevitable door slam would be the last one, but it never was. They always kept coming back for each other, no matter how many times they screamed their throat raw for the sake of it. You had never even seen either of them; they were the noisiest ghosts ever to haunt you.

Slowly, you bring your arm out from underneath the blisteringly warm covers and find your face. Damp hands are met with tears slowly dripping down your flushed cheeks. Warm air swirls around in your lungs, mixed with grime and plaster.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

In…

…out.

Carefully, you eye your fingers: normal. Clenching and unclenching them, you feel the damaged muscles strain under the skin as a few of the bones click into place.

In…

…out.

They’re human hands, not misshapen claws, you reassure yourself. A hand gently rises to tap the sticky skin on your forehead, bringing you back into reality.

In…

…and out.

You’re all here. Good.

As you do so, you listen for the war's end upstairs. Listen for Odysseus to finish his verbal match with war-hungering Athena. And, just like clockwork, someone screams a foul-tasting name– screamed with vile hate and smouldering ash– and slams the front door shut above you.

Silence. Comforting, calm, silence.

…

Your ears are still ringing.

With a small grimace, you settle into bed after the rude awakening and attempt to relax again.

Keyword: Attempt. You had gotten somewhat used to the second part of Troy playing out in the apartment above you, but it still woke you nonetheless. However, you considered the few hours of sleep you managed to get each night precious, and you preferred not to be interrupted by petty feuds.

Sleep was a nymph you chased after each night, hoping she’d be willing to open her arms to you. You typically had two choices - either be permitted to lay in her embrace, sleeping like a corpse but then unable to rest properly for days, or to be cast away from her and made to lay in a too-warm bed until the sun rose. It’d been that way since you were young, and, despite your best efforts, it seemingly wasn’t something you were able to change.

Eyes closing, you attempt to gain some semblance of peace again.

Bzz bzz.

…Nevermind.

One dazed, E/C eye cracks open, fuzzy pupils darting over to your phone. The bright light of your home screen, illuminated by some sort of notification, begs you to get out of bed. Get up and out and glimpse at what was happening, or what your friends were talking about.

Sighing dramatically, you begin to move your cramped muscles in an attempt to get up. You didn’t particularly want to move from your warm bed, mattress moulded to your body, but a nagging, annoying voice in the back of your head insisted on it. One that sounded eerily like your old maths teacher. You never really liked her; she felt more like a whiny drill instructor rather than a secondary-school teacher.

While rolling around in your tangled sheets, managing to free one arm now groggily grabbing at air, you miserably realise that your half-assed attempts to escape the warm covers were failing. And you looked horrendously pathetic while doing so. Huffing loudly, sounding more like an exhausted labourer rather than a drowsy student, you let your head fall back onto the pillow. Can’t be too important anyways. Who’d even be up telling you something major this early in the morning? Your mind sparks tiredly with an odd feeling of déjà vu, but you ignore it in favour of closing your eyes again. However, something in the corner of your vision catches your eye.

Light. Bright, warm light seeping in from the gap of your blinds.

This early in the morning? In Winter?

You squint and frown.

The yellow beams spread patterns across the thin blinds you’ve had ever since you can remember. Suddenly, the light grows brighter, a cloud most likely shifting away from the sun; aureate rays shine into your room, just above your head. The light chases away the few shadows in your room, sending them skulking under the gap of your door. Even so, they paw, like needy children, at the beams of light. They play across your scuffed floor, casting intricate patterns that seem to shift and change with each small movement you make in your bed.

You wish you could be that excitable this early in the morning.

Blearily, you turn your mummified body over to your trusty alarm, not bothering with your phone since you can’t will yourself out of bed and get it.

1:23 pm. Yeah, checks out, you nod to yourself, letting your head fall back onto the pillow.

1:23 pm.

1:23 pm- hold on a damn minute.

Darting around in your bed again, you squint at the time. Still 1:23 pm. If your memory serves you correct, then that meant you had slept a little over ten hours. Quickly, you rub your eyes and blink once or twice, grimacing at the weird splotches of greens and reds that appear in your vision, before glaring into the bright white numbers of the alarm clock; 1:24 pm.

“Huh…” you huff out, a small grin on your face. Seems you were permitted to enjoy the arms of your elusive lover. Even though she’d been more scarce as of recent, she seemed to find enjoyment in plaguing you with nightmares; lulling you into a false sense of security with the hum of distant conversations and the creaking of floorboards. Even so, you always kept coming back for her. Who wouldn’t?

Something crashes loudly upstairs, followed by a mumbled ‘fuck’.

Despite it all, you smile to yourself widely: it’d been a while since you’d slept that well. That has to mean something- that has to mean something good. You giggle to yourself, lying back down in bed with your eyes crinkling at the sides.

Before you can get too comfortable, however, a phrase trudges through the trenches of your sleepy mind: ‘tomorrow as in today’.

Huh.

Wonder what that could mean- shit.

You jolt upright in your cocoon; tomorrow as in today.

Shit, shit, shit, shit.

With much more vigour and energy, you battle with your covers before you finally free yourself and grab your phone, speedily reading through any messages you’ve been sent, your mind reeling with half-formed memories of agreeing to something you’re now beginning to regret.

The ones from the group chat mainly consisted of Jeanne and Noah going over the logistics of the exploration; times the police– fucking Hell that place is patrolled by the government– would be there, spots to go, easy ways in and out, things to bring, etc. However, all of them were from last night and stopped at around 4 am-ish. You groan loudly: with all that hyper-specific planning, not a single fucking time for anything had been mentioned.

Scanning the messages again, you search for any sort of notion of a time to be there.

Even with the glee of knowing you had managed to get your well-deserved ten hours, you hadn’t expected to be awake this late. Even if ‘late’ was only half-past one, you couldn’t even remember if the place was an hour’s drive away, or five. Plus, considering your friends and especially Jeanne, you wouldn't be surprised if they were determined to arrive early. Bloody morning people and their bloody times- what if they were already halfway there and were expecting you? What if they decide to pick you up and are already waiting for you in the parking lot??

You almost always wake in the early hours of the morning, body’s natural clock tuned for the second the sun begins to rise. You can’t even remember a day from your childhood when you woke up later than seven, even on weekends.

Unfortunately, however, this was most definitely the wrong time for your body to afford those extra hours.

After a stressful five minutes of scrolling, scanning, reading and then re-reading messages, you finally find something.

Jeanne: Yh, I think 4:30pm-ish will be good. Even if Len has day classes theyll finish before that and Y/N is always awake: @/Helen @/Y/N tagging u two so you don’t have to search in the morning (lmk if we should do later!!£

Tagging didn’t do jackshit, quite apparently. Even with your eyebrows twitching downwards with annoyance, your whole body relaxes as you let out a sigh of relief; you weren’t going to be late. Far from it.

Now…you just had to figure out if any trains would be running to the city, or at least the non-abandoned one near it– Rosehalt or something– and how long that would take. Did the place even have a train stati- you pause your thought process. Why on Earth would trains still be running through a fully abandoned city?

“Jeeze, I’m slow today.” You mumble to yourself.

Either way, train strikes were still unexpected and constant. Plus, you didn’t know how many stops it’d take before you’d actually get to the city.

You’re about to check the train times and routes– or maybe you could take the bus?– when you notice a new-ish message from Helen.

Helen: I know you are going to get lost when reading through almost 100 plus messages from the group chat like I did, so I will summarise for you.

You let out a sigh of relief; thank God for that.

Helen: We decided to try to aim to get there for around 4:30pm, since that is when it starts getting dark, if not 5pm.

She reaffirmed what you already got from Jeanne…now you just have to pray that the train ride wouldn’t be too expensive.

Helen: We also plan to all go in the same car; it’ll be easier since we can cut down on gas (do not worry about paying, I have got it) and we won’t have issues with anybody being late. We are going in mine since Noah still doesn’t have his licence and I don’t trust Jeanne’s. Plus, I know you are still not well with driving, especially long distances, so I don’t want to put you through any extra stress.

‘I know you are still not well with driving…so I don’t want to put you through any extra stress.’

You frown.

‘I know you are still not well with driving.’

‘I know you are still not well.’

‘Not well.’

…

Not well.

A pang of…something, something like annoyance and scorn, thumps in your chest. However, you keep reading.

Helen: Further, do not worry about bringing anything; Jeanne and Noah have everything sorted.

With a small sneer on your face, you begin to type out a reply before spotting the final message sent.

Helen: I will pick you up at 3pm-ish? Reply when you can.

Yet again, you make a quick turn to your alarm; 1:37 pm. One hour and twenty-three minutes.

You: Are you sure? I can drive just fine on my |

You pause, back tracking on your message.

You: Are you sure? I can drive, or take the train/bus, It’s no stress

Almost immediately, Helen pops online. You watch with subtle amusement as she types out her answer speedily.

Helen: As I said, it has already been decided. I am picking up Noah in fifteen or so because he lives further out, then Jeanne, then you. Do not worry about it Y/N !

You begin to type out a rebuke, but, unknowingly; she interrupts your response.

Helen: I have full belief that you would be able to drive yourself, it is just a long way. Plus, it will be nice to have a road trip, no :)?

Your head turns to glance out your window. Well, the blind covering your window. Through the thin window panes, you can hear the subtle buzz of traffic from the road below.

Eventually, you nod to yourself and look upwards at your cracked ceiling. As you squint at what you believe to be a new fracture, a spindly one that almost looks like boney fingers, you yet again nod to yourself, and finally type out your reply.

Your car probably didn’t have gas anyways.

After hitting send, with much effort, you bring yourself up from your bed. You crack your back loudly and loosen your joints with a pleased sigh. It was something Noah always complained about you doing, constantly twisting over the back of chairs and cracking your knuckles when there was no fight to be had. Like a helicopter parent, he nagged you, saying how one day you’d end up going too far, and piercing a lung or something. You just laughed it off, but sometimes the thought lingered in the back of your mind, leaving you wondering. Wondering what it would feel like; a lung cracked like an egg or a heart bleeding out inside its ivory cage.

You wondered if…no. Shaking off the thought, flapping your arms around your head as if a swarm of buzzing flies surrounded you, you meander through your dark halls– still cool with the Winter wind– blinds not yet lifted, and make your way to your bathroom. After living here for over four years, you know every hall like the back of your hand. You could walk down each hall in absolute darkness, blind as a bat, and still be able to find each room.

The sink turns on with a squeak, cold water flooding out. Gently, you take some in cupped hands and splash it onto your face, washing away the sweat and grime of the night. Feeling the itch of your dry throat, you decide to take a sip of some as well. While drying the water off, you contemplate the day, or, rather, evening, that awaits you; an entire abandoned city, albeit a small one likely shrunk by the hands of time. Shells of tens, if not hundreds, of abandoned shops, offices and homes to explore. Despite the regret that had begun to creep in this morning, excitement and anticipation was beginning to flood back into you; your whole body filled with an almost drunken buzz.

Glancing at the shower, you shrug and turn on the hot-water, old pipes again creaking loudly as water gushes through them. You pull off your warm sleep clothes and step in, happy to get the sticky sheen of sweat off your body. You scrub soap suds off from your body, relishing in the feeling of being clean once again, and reach for the shampoo.

From the back of your sleep-deprived memory, you half remember a section from the article. Something about ghosts…quite admittedly, you’ve always had an interest in ghosts and such, even if some stories you heard sounded so stupidly unbelievable that they put you off the idea for months. With believing in ghosts, demons etc., you were always fifty-fifty on the topic. There were occasions where the idea seemed very real and convincing. Both the subtle things that made your heart thump with something primal in the back of your head telling you something is there- and the more scientific reasoning on EMF waves, memory loops and attachments.

Other times, mainly when you watched clickbait content on Youtube or when Jeanne and you sat down for a shitty horror movie for some entertainment, you found yourself bored and unenthusiastic. Although, you always got a good laugh at the…theatrical expressions of the content creators.

Having finally washed out all the shampoo, you reach for the conditioner. As you squeeze the thick liquid into your palm, the bottle makes a pathetic wheezing sound; empty. You’ll have to buy some more soon.

However, when it came to the supernatural, specifically ghosts, you’d have to also ask the question of where does someone go when they die? Is it being judged by an omnipotent being and sent to an eternal paradise in the clouds, or down to suffering and damnation in fiery pits? Is it a soul, sparkling with old stardust, passing through thousands of different bodies over millions of lifetimes, or is every human to ever exist a reincarnation of one person? Is there some sort of in-between that souls rest in if they choose to?

It was a question you could never decide an answer to, so, you never really gave one when asked.

Turning off the water, you step into the now steamy bathroom and reach for your towel; drying yourself off thoroughly. You breeze through your morning routine, cleaning your face off again and drying your hair. Time tended to blur like an unfinished watercolour whenever you were in the shower, especially since you had decided to have a contemplation session, so you were wary of how much time you had left.

You glance downwards at the damp tiles of the floor and frown to yourself; you’d forgotten to bring clothes in. Grumbling, you make your way back to the bedroom, unconsciously avoiding the windows despite the blinds still being drawn, and shrug on an outfit.

It was an unspoken rule that, when going exploring, the lot of you were to wear baggy black clothes. Or dark-coloured clothes in the least. It wouldn’t show off whatever figure you had, so, on the high chance you’d be running like a bat out of Hell away from the police, they hopefully wouldn’t be able to tell your gender.

In the end, after struggling significantly with your pants leg, you ended up in dark cargos, a worn but trusty t-shirt and a plain zip-up hoodie over it, along with a pair of odd socks that you couldn’t care to find the pair for. Like usual, you planned on using a pair of aged hiking boots that always seemed to have a small rock in the insole. You’re pretty sure you’d snagged them off of Jeanne a year or two ago, the outsole on your old boots came off midway through climbing up a steep hill– littered with brambles which you still have the odd scar from– and Jeanne had simply given you her spares…of which you never gave back.

It was one of her tendencies to give items of clothing, and occasionally jewellery, to her friends and just never ask for it back. She always seemed so happy to see you, Noah or even Helen– on the odd chance she accepted them– in them and you never truly understood why. None of your friends could count on two hands the amount of jumpers, hoodies and oddly high number of socks you all had from her.

Noah, ever the analysis of the human mind, always said it was linked to some sort of attachment issue. She gave up parts of herself to see them on you and, if you two were ever to part ways, she’d still be there, in a sense. You’d end up looking at what has become your favourite shirt and realise it was hers. Is hers. Even if she were gone, you would still think of her. Fondly, hopefully.

She always did seem to have an obsession with being remembered. In all the years you’ve known her, right from childhood when you could barely understand her accent, you could never figure out why. Even in the years where she’d changed, becoming the excited extravert she is now, you still couldn’t fully understand her. You were best friends, through and through, but sometimes you felt as if you conversed with an elaborate mask rather than a person. It was almost like she was pretending to be a step behind while being two steps ahead, always having some unseen motive that would get her where, who, and what she wanted.

She was smart, she just pretended not to be; putting on a facade of dumb childishness. Smart about what, exactly, you didn’t know, and didn’t think you’d ever know.

In the end, however, no matter how many times you try to give her stuff back, she would make some excuse for you to keep it. A thunderstorm that never came around, a hiking trip that never came to fruition always stopped you from giving what was not yours back. It was like some unapparent friendship bracelet that always had some abstruse stain or the symbol of some obscure band she was determined to make you like on it.

Speaking of, despite her usual music taste, she was currently determined to get you all to like ‘mid-western emo’ music. It’s all you’ve been hearing in her car for the past two months and you couldn’t decide whether the line ‘She hopes I'm cursed forever to sleep on a twin-sized mattress’ made you want to burst a blood vessel or scream it along with her.

After struggling pitiably with your aforementioned pair of odd socks, one of them fitting uncomfortably on that stupid seam that made you want to claw your eyes out, you got up off your squeaky floor and checked the time; 2:26pm. Long ass shower, apparently.

Peering at your phone, you spot that Helen had replied with a simple thumbs-up emoji in true dad fashion. Smiling to yourself, you yet again crack your back and sigh satisfactorily at the loud creaks of your bones, sounding more like willow branches clacking in the wind rather than bubbles of air in your joints.

Blind by blind, you open the thin curtains and let the odd amount of afternoon winter sunlight glimmer through the windows and grace your apartment. It had been frosting over the past couple of weeks, everyone hoping for snow that never seemed to come, so you were surprised to feel the warm light on your cheeks after spending so long bundled up and shivering at every gust of wind.

It was nice, to say the least. A break from dreary, cold, mostly wet Winter.

As you reach your small kitchen, the one thing Helen, ever her mother’s daughter, seemed to despise about your apartment, you open the shutters and briefly glimpse out of the window to the bustling city below. Your apartment wasn’t the highest, 16th out of 40 odd floors, but you still got a damn good view. Cars raced back and forth on the roads next to your apartment block. Far below, a family gets out of their mud splattered car and makes their way to the front entrance of your building. The sun was high in the sky and seemed more golden than usual; framed with gilded clouds reaching for the bright blue above.

Your stomach growling loudly interrupts your people-watching. Giving in easily, you pop a slice of bread into the toaster and reach over to one of your cupboards, finding your favourite cereal. As you wait for bread to become toast, you grab a small bowl– a ceramic, Bathypelagic one from your mother– and fill it. Turning over to the fridge, you take another quick glance out of the window.

Your friends had picked a damn good day for this little expedition.

Blindly, you paw for the milk while squinting out the window– which definitely needs to be cleaned at some point– and watch for any rain clouds. You find none.

As you pour milk into your bowl, your toast pops up with a ding that makes you jump slightly. Your toaster was old as Jericho, stained and chipped in places that made it look like it’d been through a war, so it never really toasted to the extent you wanted it to. You could leave it for ten minutes and you’d still end up with it being too soft to even be considered toast. Other days you’d leave it in for five minutes and find yourself with ash to eat. Frowning to yourself, you put your almost-toast on for another round, grab an odd-looking spoon out from your cutlery drawer, and begin to eat.

With the golden sun against your face, slowly beginning its early Winter descent, you only hope that the weather stays clear, and doesn’t leave you wandering the city absolutely drenched. Speaking of, you’re surprised you’d never heard of the city, both the abandoned and occupied one, especially since Jeanne– or was it Noah?– claimed it was only an hour and a half’s drive away.

Your own city was no landmark, but it wasn’t small either. Surely you would’ve heard something from someone about an entire abandoned city, albeit a small one. It sounded like a set for a cult classic 90s horror film about Demons or some shit.

Your bread, hopefully now toast, pings up again; finally done. Though, having been a bit too zealous, it was slightly overcooked. Seems today was one of the days it wanted to play two up with you.

Shrugging and placing down your now empty bowl of cereal, you grab your cutting board, littered with gashes in the wood, and a plate before picking up the toast. At least, attempting to. The moment your fingers touch it you flinch away with a deplorable whine as the burn from the stupidly hot toast hisses on your skin like an angry snake. You move your hand back and forth, contemplating how to approach it without scalding your fingers on the toast or the metal of the toaster. Eventually, you stop acting like a wimp and make a quick grab for it, tossing it haphazardly onto the cutting board and waving your hand around in the air as if it was set ablaze.

“Fucking Hell…” Grumbling with annoyance, half at your toast and half at the sensitivity of your skin, you put on your desired spread, scraping the bottom of the jar. Another thing that had almost run out; another thing you’ll have to buy more of. Your tendency to only go shopping after almost everything in your house was depleted was beginning to become a bit of an issue.

Sighing, you grab a cup of cold water and, quickly, head over to your living room. Before you do, however, you make a quick turn around the corner and squint at the time on your small oven; 2:37pm. Plenty of time.

Smiling to yourself, you sit down on your couch, carefully placing your glass of water on the table in front of you and your plate in your lap– you knew you would never get all the crumbs out of the cracks but it was so much more comfortable– and turn on your TV. It buzzes to life with a bit of static. It was an older thing, and worked half off of you pretending not to care when it was taking forever to work and half off of your neighbour’s…cable job. If you could even call it that. It wasn’t horrendous by any means, still kept the thing running after all. You’re just half sure by the jungle of cables back there that he managed to hook you up to the city’s main grid or something. Either way, it worked. That was all that mattered.

As you begin one of your current shows, a video game made series Noah had recommended to you about zombies, an abrasive fourteen-year-old and a very done-with-it-all middle aged guy, you begin to feel the familiar buzz of adrenaline pump into your bloodstream yet again.

You feel every second. Count every minute in your head. Thirty minutes had never gone slower in your life, and that was saying something. Every five minutes, you checked your phone for any new messages from, well, anyone. However, for once in their life, Noah and Jeanne had decided to be silent; no raving excitement about what was to come, no spam tagging you in messages, no nothing.

After all the time you’d spent with the three of them, it was almost odd to have a silent apartment not filled with the constant ding of notifications.

But, eventually, your phone lit up with the message of ‘Here.’ at four past three, unusually late for Helen. Paired with the message comes three soft knocks at your door.

“Coming!” You call out, as you rush to grab your phone off the table, skidding back and forth between your hallways and your bedroom wondering if you needed anything. A rain coat maybe?

Three more knocks, louder this time, echo throughout the thin walls and you repeat your previous statement with a little more irritability. Feeling slightly pressured, you shake your head and jog over to your door, twisting around corners as fast as you could.

Swiftly, you tie on your scuffed shoes, fiddling around with the worm-like laces in an attempt to tie a tight knot, before sighing loudly.

I’ll just tie them properly in the car.

You make a quick nab for your apartment keys, haphazardly hung up on a nail hammered into your wall– which may or may not have been an elongated bolt– and slip them off the hook. Fiddling with the doorknob, cold and slippery from too much use, you finally manage to open it, letting the bright hallway’s light filter in.

You begin an apology “I’m so-”, only to be met with…air. Confused, you look up and down the well-lit hallway, old carpet stained from the thousands of shoes that have trekked on it, only to find no one. No one but you, standing awkwardly in your door with half tied shoelaces.

You’re about to call out again when you hear the comically eerie giggle of kids, paired with the soft pitter patter of feet that have not yet learned how to be quiet. You huff, a tired frown taking over your face that makes you feel and probably look like a tired parent, and kick the door closed behind you. The half-broken locking mechanism clicks, before another, quieter click– one that reminds you to triple check your door– sounds out. You’d asked for the thing to be fixed about a month ago, but nothing had been done; you’d just gotten into the habit of double checking the lock.

“Very funny, lads.” In response, another spurt of barely contained laughter echoes up from down the staircase at the right end of the hall. One of your neighbours, a woman not much older than you who lived further down the hall, had two kids who had recently discovered the art of ding, dong, ditch-ing someone. They were little copper-haired menaces who managed to get away with everything.

After properly locking your door behind you, double-checking by pulling on the handle a couple of times, you make your way down the hall to the stairs still echoing with innocent laughter. Their mum was a good woman despite not being someone you knew personally, only in somewhat aimless chatter in the halls; she tended to over-share with you in what you guessed was hopes of gaining more conversation with you. In a way, you could understand her. The apartment block was mainly filled with older people and the odd nuclear family who kept to themselves, minus the few students like you, so, there wasn’t much community support to be had. You had had a small dinner with her recently though; she made a brilliant stir fry that you had attempted to meet with some Carbonara.

Either way, aside from Helen, she had the largest heart one could hold. Quite simply, she was a good person and deserved good things. You were still fifty-fifty on whether those two kids counted as one of those ‘good things’.

Passing down all the floors of your apartment, already dreading the walk back up, you yet again hear the giggles of the two children and look up just in time to spot their curly ginger hair disappear behind the railing.

Lightly, you shake your head and smile to yourself. As annoying as those two were, of which was most likely to worsen as they got older, they kept your mood up. At least when you weren’t in a hurry. Skipping down the last few steps, you nod to the secretary, too busy with his phone to notice you and walk out the front doors, making sure they lock shut behind you.

As you turn around, you’re immediately met with the distant sight of your friends, the three, of which, who seemed to have been guiding your fate for the past nine years.

The moment Jeanne spots you, she shouts and waves you over, a faraway “there you are!” floating towards you on the wind. Despite the sun, it was still cold out, especially with the harsh breezes that hit your face and body like a freight train. Even with your thick hoodie, now zipped up, the icy Northern winds still bite and claw at your skin through the fabric, a cold that chills you to the core.

You definitely should have checked the temperature before you went outside…and maybe picked up that raincoat.

The moment you’re within range, Jeanne hug-tackles you and somehow doesn’t make you eat concrete while doing so. She stuffs her head in between the crook of your neck, smiling against your goose-bump-ridden skin. Hugging her back, you smile with her as she grips onto your sides, almost like she’s afraid you’ll disappear the moment she lets go.

The weak but musky scent of weed greets your nose, a smell you’ll never miss from her, along with something akin to sandalwood and cigarette smoke. A smell you frown at.

“What took you so fuckin’ long?” Moving back from you, she holds you by the shoulders and gives you a large grin with teeth a little bit too yellow for her age. Deep blue eyes partially obscured by her shabby haircut stare joyfully into your own with a spark you hadn’t seen in them for a while.

“Nice to see you too Jeanne.” Even though you had only seen the blonde– hair recently cut into what you could only describe as a wolfcut– a day or two ago, she acted like it had been a century since she had last glanced at your form.

She snickers, slinging a well-built arm around your shoulder as you spy on your two other friends.

Helen gives you a pearly grin as she leans on her car, a surprisingly clean, black Ford Fiesta. Her olive skin and wavy chestnut hair manages to glint in the morning sun, deprived of her usual rays of sunlight yet still managing to look as if she danced with the early morning star Himself only an hour or so ago. You nod back at her with a smile before Noah comes up for your usual handshake– pale skin, almost on the verge of sickly, lands in contrast to your own S/C.

You begin to make a series of intricate gestures and fists, ones Jeanne laughs to herself at, taking her arm off you and moving to the car. A loud cheer escapes both you and Noah as, somewhat seamlessly, you complete it. It was a mess of weird hand manoeuvres that had been removed, replaced and changed for the past nine years, but it was yours. Afterall, Theseus’ ship was still Theseus’ ship.

“Still got it.” Noah smirks, juniper eyes with a thousand thoughts behind them crinkling in the process.

“Acting as if we haven’t done it in twenty years.” You reply with a laugh.

He smiles again at you, a little too wide with a little too many teeth, a habit he’s always had. A muffled thump reaches your ears and, looking over your shoulder, you see Jeanne lightly punching the car's roof, not so subtly trying to bring attention to herself.

“Alright raccoon eyes, ya’ ready?” Frowning at the childish poke at your eyebags, you bring a hand, digits shaking a bit with the movement, to the almost permanent bags under your eyes.

“Would’ve slept better if you weren’t texting me in the middle of the night-”

“-says the person who almost never sleeps-” A usual quick-fire, defensive reply.

“-But yes. I’m good to go.” Jeanne never really grew out of being a teenager when it came to her insults and responses. Nor did she ever lose that mischievous glint in her eyes that you saw in the two copper-haired kids. So, you mock her with a condescending tone; slowing your words and looking ready to repeat the sentence as if she wouldn’t get it the first time. It was something you’d both grown into over the years, arguing and insulting each other like an old married couple.

Jeanne smiles deviously, fluttering her lashes like ashes and embers, and you prepare yourself for an oddly creative insult, before Helen cuts in; “Okay you two. Jeanne, you were the one who wanted to get there early. As much as I would like to listen to you two insult each other, we have somewhere to be, no?” Raising a well shaped, expectant eyebrow, she shifts her gaze, questioningly, between the two of you like a mildly tired mother. “Good.” She smiles and Jeanne, shaking her head, gets in the car without too much resistance. Noah gets into the front seat, an unspoken rule of him having shotgun, and straps himself in.

Before you get in the back, Helen gives you a knowing glance. She raises her eyebrows in a concerned gesture, opens her perfectly pink lips to let her honeyed voice flow out in worry, but before she can you shake your head and send her a somewhat tight smile, a light tinge of annoyance lifting your lip up slightly.

Letting out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, you open the car door, and close it gently, Helen following behind.

The engine starts with a low rumble, and the jingle of Helen’s many keychains rattle around in your brain. You spot her looking up at you through the rearview mirror, but you focus more on the car's low vibrations. Shifting your feet in your shoes, your brows furrow at the loose feeling of them, before you remember they’re untied. As you begin to tie the roughed-up laces, Helen begins to speak; “So, Jeanne, want to tell everybody why we are not using your car?” Helen questions, tugging the gearstick.

Noah lets out a knowing snort, trying to cover it with his hand. Jeanne sinks into the seat besides you, mumbling something with a red, embarrassed glow on her face.

“I don’t think we heard you.” Helen extends the u mockingly, smiling to herself.

“Fuckin’ totalled it while I was driving away from some pigs.” she mutters, staring out the window and trying to cover her reddened face with her hand. Something sharp, sharp like a shard of glass, pierces your heart at the word ‘totalled’, and an old fear creeps up to the front of your brain. Even so, you can’t help the guffaw that makes its way out of your throat, a stupid and pig-like thing that sends Noah into a snorting fit. And, within all her embarrassment, you notice Jeanne smiles as you do.

“When- when the Hell did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me? Are you good?” You try and speak through your unexpected laughing fit, further spurred by Noah’s snorts and Helen’s charming giggles as she pulls out of the parking lot.

Before Jeanne can reply, Noah cuts in and saves her from the supposed embarrassment, but, by the frown that suddenly appears on her face, you can tell it's a story she'd rather have the glory of telling; “Went out exploring without us, again,” He eyes her with faux annoyance, “and went into a building she didn’t realise was supervised. Got-”

“-Got chased through half place before jumping outta the window and getting in my car,” Jeanne cuts in, sitting up in her seat and moving her hands around to tell her story, sending a snide smile to Noah. Helen watches through the rear-view mirror, finally on the main road, and both Noah and you lean in as if you were kids around a campfire listening to a horror story. “Had a high-speed chase and everything! Blue and red all around me-” Her hands move left and right, “-sirens blasting in my ear as Metallica plays on the radio, before bam!” She slams her hands together, an unexpected noise that causes you to flinch. “The engine fuckin’ explodes-”

Noah turns to you with a worried but factual look on his face, “-It stalled-”

“-And I slammed right into a wall!”

“-she bumped into a wall and it got towed by the cops-” Noah whispers not so discreetly to you.

“-would you let me have one fuckin’ minute of glory you-”

“-Why didn’t you tell me? That sounds horrific.” You look at her with what you can only guess is somewhere between worry and entertainment due to her reaction; something mixed with excitement and a realisation. Of what, you’re not entirely sure. Two steps ahead, as per usual.

She takes a moment to speak, cogs turning and deliberating on the best response. However, when she does begin, her voice suddenly turns comically posh; “Oh, because I knew you’d worry darling, it’s all you ever do.” She sighs theatrically, placing a hand on her forehead as if a damsel in distress.

Both Noah and Helen eye you this time, and you just smile and shake your head, easily matching her energy. “Oh do forgive me, my love. You know what your excursions do to my nerves-” You mock, and go to cradle her face, but both of you burst out laughing, unable to take yourselves seriously. The car descends easily into laughter, Helen trying to hide her louder giggles. By the end of it, you look out the window to find that you’re already on the highway.

There was a certain excitement, a certain electric buzz, that permeated the car as it quietened into comfortable silence. Your group had done trips like these a multitude of times, both for day-outs to other towns and cities, and for sometimes-illegal-sometimes-not urban exploration. If you got lucky, you could get permission from the land’s owner to explore; it was something you always aimed to do, mostly to avoid being chased out by said owner or worse, police threatening lead in your head if you didn’t comply.

Asbestos, rotting wood, seemingly sentient shadows and rats were something you were all very used to. Although Helen never got used to the vermin, neither have you, especially when the little buggers run between your legs out of the darkness.

Eventually, Noah grows tired of the silence that fills in the gaps of each short conversation, and asks, “Can I?” while gesturing to the radio. Helen nods. Almost immediately, the radio blasts the chorus of AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ on full volume, filling the car.

It’s another unexpected thing that causes you all to burst into laughter as Noah turns it down, Helen shaking her head and Jeanne already screaming the lyrics, you eventually joining her and sharing an imaginary microphone.

Smiling to yourself, you glance behind you and spot your city slowly disappearing; a waypoint filled with memories now a small dot on the horizon. Other cars pass by Helen’s in dull blurs of blacks, white and greys with the occasional dark blue or silver. The dreary plant life besides the highway isn’t much better. In the Summer, you might’ve found more life in the trees that line the roads and the hardy bushes growing in the median strip, but in Winter they’re simply dry claws reaching out for the moving bodies of cars, hoping to snatch some unknowing soul up from the pot-hole ridden concrete. Occasionally, a dark evergreen breaks the pattern of sleeping trees and bushes, but the rest of the road spans out in wintery death.

Nothing happens, and nothing changes, until Jeanne’s voice, surprisingly close to your ear, startles you out of your stupor. “How are you?”

“Tired.” You give your usual response. Nothing much to report in the oh so lengthy two days you hadn’t seen each other anyways.

“You’re always tired.” You eye her with a look of ‘no shit, Sherlock.’ “I’m like, 90% sure you’re a clinical example of a chronic insomniac. Are you on meds for that shit yet?”

“I’ve gone to see someone a couple of times, but there’s nothing to verify me for anything proper,” You send her a sad smile, “They just suggest a better sleeping schedule, to limit stress, noise cancelling earbuds and store-bought melatonin gummies if it gets too bad.” Just makes the nightmares worse, though, goes unsaid.

“Man, that’s shit.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I swear you come into college every morning looking like you got drunk, ran a marathon and went to a metal concert the last night.”

“Geez, do I really look that bad?” You frown comically, whipping your head around to the window and squinting at yourself. It gets a laugh out of Jeanne, and a small chuckle from your own still dry throat. You should’ve bought a water bottle along with you.

“No, but honestly,” she leans into you, beginning to whisper, “You ever need a proper prescription, some really powerful shit like Zalepon, just say and I’ll have a chat with my dad, yeah? He’s always liked you. I’m sure I can convince him to get you some-”

“-How about let’s not get your dad to abuse his power and illegally obtain prescription drugs?” Noah cuts in, turning from his small talk with Helen, clear he only tuned into the conversation then.

“Oh, don’t you start talking ‘bout illegal shit!” Jeanne fires back, a wide grin on her face, “We’re literally about to break into an abandoned city patrolled by the state which you agreed to.”

“She has got you there,” Helen adds, taking a left turn, still watching you and Jeanne through the rearview.

Noah huffs sardonically, turning back to face the road, “Yeah, well, you’re the one-” his scream of “-deer!” cuts off the end of his sentence.

Helen swerves quickly, almost crashing into a car going past, earning a loud honk from the cars surrounding her. The swift manoeuvre sends you and Jeanne crashing to the right, an audible thump coming from Jeanne’s head hitting the window.

A jolt of utter panic runs through you like electricity. Starts at the base of your feet and ends at your twisted and trembling fingers. Your muscles twitch with an old memory you wish to forget. Your whole body buzzes with phantom pain like an angry beehive.

A war drum beats in your chest. Telling you that you’re okay. Telling you that you live still. Telling you it has been years, and you’re not on that dingy corner road anymore.

Shocked breathing fills the car, along with some foreign blues tune that sounds too familiar for your liking.

Helen drives on, chest heaving, down the pin-straight road. Jeanne clings onto you and wraps herself the best she can around you, digging her bitten-down nails into your hoodie. Noah braces himself on the left side of the car and the dashboard, sandy blonde hair in disarray.

Warm breaths tickle your ear.

Loud.

So very loud.

Helen gulps. “Is everyone okay?” She turns to Noah, then Jeanne, then to you; staring wide-eyed into nothing and everything.

You thought.

…

What had you thought?

That you were getting better? Because, what? You could drive a car to the supermarket and back now? What a pathetic, miserable wretch you are. On the verge of a panic attack because of a deer. On the verge of crying again because of the sound of those damn tires screeching.

Come on, be strong; you’re better than this. You know you’re better than this. You don’t need to be babied; you don’t need to be pitied.

Get up.

Get up-

“-Close call,” Noah mumbles, still in shock.

Shimmying your way out of Jeanne’s iron grip, you sit upright.

Noah watches you carefully like you’re fine China, ready to hold together your broken pieces, analyse each fracture, and put you back together again.

“Yeah.” Jeanne mumbles.

Unnerved by the tension permeating the small space, all eyes seeming to watch you for some sort of crack, some sort of fracture that will have them turning on the next roundabout and taking you back home, you decide to ease it yourself. “Too bad. Would’ve made a great addition to your collection, Noah.”

Sensing the tactic, and your own unease with his not-so-subtle pity, he decides to play along. “Did you see the antlers on that thing? Would’ve been perfect to mount.” He crosses his arms and acts annoyed. Maybe he really is.

Jeanne, wanting to move away from the occurrence, jokes back with “Y’know, sometimes I’m sure you were some rich Southern Uncle who went out hunting on Sundays with his buddies in another life.” Noah whips his head around at the statement, so fast he looks like a pale blur of alabaster and blonde, and gives Jeanne an incredulous look, firing back with how she looks like she could be drawn with his broken left hand, among other things.

Their verbal fight immediately takes your mind off things, focusing more on laughing rather than the ache of your fingers.

Then the ringing in your ears.

Conversation fades easily into the background, and you watch as the wintery landscape passes by you in an icy blur.

Maybe you’ll get the train home.

---------------

The sun had set a long time ago, bringing the chilly night out with His inky fingers and soft, whistling winds. Traffic had kept you up longer than you all thought it would, so the plans of hoping to have at least a little daylight went out the window the moment that massive long-haul truck decided to blow a tire way ahead of you.

You had passed by Rosholt about half an hour ago, now travelling down overgrown, dirt back roads with Noah and Jeanne both trying to give directions. You had seen the same tree stump four times and passed by the same sign, grown over with thick moss and lichen, at least two. From the little you could see outside, Helen keeping her headlights low, thick forest and dense shrubbery surrounded you, looming over the car and laughing in the wind at your expense.

Eventually, however, their directing came to fruition, and Jeanne points to where to park. Looking out, you find yourself in the middle of a darkened forest, obelisks of dark wood towering menacingly over Helen’s car.

Helen berates the two of them for backseat driving, then parks the car between a tall pine and a group of ragged bushes, frosted over from the encroaching, cold night. You’re confused for a moment. Only half an hour away was the glowing city of Rosholt, and you’ve somehow ended up in a forest that looks straight out of The Blair Witch Project.

As the clicking of seatbelts fills the air, you mumble, mostly to yourself, “Where the Hell even are we?”

Your question garners a response from Noah. “Not too far away from Neuhaven, surprisingly. It’s practically surrounded by a massive forest now; we’re just parking here so we have a lesser chance of being caught.” He smiles at you before opening the door.

“Come on.” Jeanne nudges you slightly in the side, before stepping out of the car herself. Despite all the previous excitement you held for the place not only this morning, you felt…off put, all of a sudden.

Maybe it was the towering trees, maybe it was that stupid deer from before that put you on edge, or maybe it was the scratching, the clawing, at the back of your mind telling you to turn tail and run.

Something childish but old past its years mumbles in the back of your head.

Wearily, you stepped out of the car, dried pine needles crunching loudly underfoot. Noah and Jeanne laugh to themselves in the background as you stare up at the starless sky. A crescent moon illuminates your tired face and chases away any eerie shadows of the night. Oddly vibrant for a new moon.

The trees tower above like colossal waves, creaking in the night wind. Too large, too sturdy, and too dark for their age. Too large, too sturdy and too sentient feeling for your liking.

“Hey, Noah-”

“-Y/N! Get over here.” Jeanne calls out, unknowingly cutting you off, waving you over to the trunk. You glance upwards at the trees again, and make your way to the back of the car. Looking into it, you see it absolutely stuffed to the brim with items, illuminated by the soft yellow of the car’s inner lights.

“Looks like we’re preparing for nuclear fallout or something.” You joke, earning a proud chuckle from Jeanne as she explains and distributes all the items. You’re handed a torch– with new batteries on hand– a walkie talkie, one you’ve used many times before, a particle mask and a Geiger counter. As you flip the little thing around in your hand, you catch Helen frowning in the corner of your eye.

“You said this place wasn't irradiated, didn't you?” She raises an annoyed eyebrow, taking on a condescending tone while softly glaring at Noah and Jeanne. Noah looks away abashedly, pale ears going red.

“We’re just being careful, Len.” Jeanne smiles, not mischievous like her usual grins are, but instead empathetic. Helen’s brow falls, and she simply nods in response.

“Oh! Before I forget…” Jeanne reaches into the trunk, opening up a small black case that shines sinisterly in the moonlight. Four battered-looking pocket knives greet your eye, one handed to each of you. You shimmy the notch on the side, and release the surprisingly long blade carefully, winking at you in the darkness. The handles were roughed up, sure, but the blade looked brand new.

You all eye her questioningly; walkie talkies and particle masks were usual precautions, but a pocket knife was new. It didn’t help the pit in your gut, either. “Just in case we have to…cut through anything, yeah?” Jeanne looks between the three of you. Specification on what was to be cut was left unsaid, but the threat of over protective explorers and police hung over your heads still.

You look between all your items, doing a routine check on your torch and walkie talkies and all setting them to the same radio channel. Easily, you sling your particle mask around your neck before letting the pocket knife snap shut, and stuff it into your cargo pocket.

Jeanne closes the trunk with a slam, loud as a Church Bell calling its followers to fill the empty pews. It bounces off of the old trees, boughs bent in eternal supplication to the darkness above. You can’t help but feel you’ve disrupted them in their quiet worship to that of which you cannot see. In the dead silence of the forest, a place all too quiet for the life it should house, you all flinch at the sudden noise and eye her with annoyance.

Well, there goes any stealth you would’ve had.

She whispers out a quiet sorry, an empathetic smile on her face, as she begins to lead the way through the maze of pines. It was almost as if there was an unseen barrier between here and the city. You could hear– feel– the ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum of Rosholt’s heart from the car, yet here?

Silence.

No soft beating of a hunting owl’s wings, no scurrying of midnight critters, not even wind carrying messages to the trees.

Even though you’re sure it’s only you and your friends in these woods, you can’t help but hunch in on yourself, make your body as small as possible, and watch carefully as to where you step. You keep your head bowed, focused on the beam of light you make sure to keep low in front of you. You are riddled with the sense that your group is interrupting something. Something much bigger than you. If you said that out loud, you’re sure you’d be teased, Jeanne would probably call you a pussy again and Noah would still manage to look at you with pity.

Speaking of the Devil, his voice, so, so loud in the silence of the woods, meets your ears.

“Are you okay, Y/N?”

You take a second, a second too long, to reply “Do you hear that?” Your mind goes to speak normally, but your mouth instead whispers. It still echoes. It still bounces. And you still feel like an intruder.

Noah listens for a moment, both of you pausing in your walking. “...No?”

“Exactly.” You turn to face him, and begin walking again. “Why is it so fucking quiet?”

“Didn’t you read the article?”

“Yeah, at like, 3 in the morning.”

He stares at you with exasperation, something like the look of a disappointed science teacher, looking like he’s waiting for something, anything, to click in your brain.

Almost as if in response, a cold wind gently whistles between the trees, a susurrus echoing from the ancient pines. The noise slithers up your spine and stays curled in the crook of your neck.

A lightbulb suddenly goes off in your head, and you feel like a bit of an idiot for forgetting such an important piece of information.

“The chemicals…” You bring a hand up to wipe your tired face, groaning at your forgetfulness.

“Mhm,” Noah takes a subtle inhale, “As the article said-” he sends a joking glare to you, “-the chemicals released caused the place to become uninhabitable for most life. People went mad, coughing up their own lungs, and swore Demons had come for their hearts-”

A thought crosses your mind,“-Do you believe in that?” You interrupt him.

“Pardon?”

“Demons- do you believe in that sort of thing?”

He gives you an incredulous look, “You know I’m not religious, nor am I like you or Jeanne; believing in Ghosts and such.” He scoffs. “Sudden paranoia, hallucinations, things moving- it’s all either an unknown mental condition or Carbon Monoxide poisoning or something of the like.”

“I’ll take that as a definite no then…” You mumble, almost bumping into a tree.

You both walk in silence for a moment, thinking over his words. He was always the logical one; he would be the first to admit he was all left brain and had little to no space for creativity. Jeanne always made the joke that his mother had dropped him on his right side when he was younger, and you can see by the side-long glance he’s giving you that he expects it to stumble out of your own mouth, but you decide against it.

Your ears are still ringing.

He coughs, clearing his throat, “As I was saying…People went mad, their bodies mentally and physically failing, and animals seemed to bleed from the inside out. Everything, and everybody, left and vowed not to come back.”

“Hold on, you- you said, the article said, the chemicals were airborne, right? Gaseous?”

“Yeah?”

An odd chill passes over you.

“Then how come they’re still around?” You both look up at the watchful trees above you, leaves now chattering in the North wind. Noah was a biology fanatic, eager to know how every cell and tissue worked together, so surely he would know, right?

However, as he frowns at the pines, melting skyward, you notice a twitch of his brows. It dawns on you that you have discovered something that Noah-the-know-it-all cannot provide a definite explanation for. You want to make a jab at him for it, finally something he can’t lecture you about, but you can’t find it in you.

Instead, you just end up feeling very, very small. Very small and very insignificant.

Yet, to your surprise, he begins talking, albeit slowly, again, “...Radiation can cause plant growth to either rapidly increase, decrease, or freeze in time. It happened quite commonly in Pripyat after Chernobyl exploded; decorative trees stuck where they were in the 80s, but others the size of redwoods. Whatever the chemical was, it’s possible it- it could’ve, that-” He stumbles over his words for a moment, an odd look of fear in his eyes, “That it could’ve been mixed with Radon or some other radioactive material, combining to create an isotope that didn’t negatively affect their rate of photosynthesis.”

Jeanne barks out a laugh ahead of you.

“But what if it wasn’t?”

Helen’s words from before ring out inside your head; ‘You said this place wasn't radiated, didn't you?’

Noah frowns again, not knowing an answer for something for once in his life, and stays silent, simply keeping an eye on Helen and Jeanne now far ahead of the both of you, torch light moving up and down with their steps.

The unspoken I don’t know manages to make the trees much more terrifying.

“Hey! Slow pokes-!” Jeanne calls out loudly.

"-Quiet down-" Helen's voice interjects with a whispered shout.

“-Come on!” She waves the two of you over.

The both of you speed up your walk, each footstep sending loud crunches– loud as the snapping of bread in quiet Church halls– echoing, bouncing, against the pines. They creak in discontent, and you bring yourself to walk faster, Noah treating it as some sort of game as he strides faster than you, sending a snide smirk over his shoulder as the pines thin out around you.

Eventually, you reach Helen and Jeanne, and find yourself on the brink of the forest, sat tall upon what you now know to be a hill. Not so far in the distance, the heart of Rosholt shines brighter than the sun, and clears the sky of stars, leaving only a new moon, floating white as a rib, above. From what you saw of it as you passed by, and the small spec that you can see now, it was a city alive in the truest sense; pulsing in artificial blue and yellow. It was such a harsh contrast to the barren ghost town that now stood below you.

The city lies in ruins, a skeletal remnant of its former self. Its streets, once alive with the hum of daily life, are now silent; the echoes of the past, of so many people’s past, haunting every corner. Buildings, once towering symbols of progress, stand in varying states of decay, their windows shattered, and walls cracked and weathered. Senescent buildings crowded the wide space before you; it almost felt as if that walk through the woods was a walk through time, allowing you to step into an abandoned version of a decade you never existed in. A life you never lived.

Old concrete buildings tower into the sky, smaller than the trees, but somehow just as ominous in the darkness. The new moon barely illuminates the roads, and you swear the shadows of the vessels of buildings dance in a silent waltz. Eternally left without a partner to brighten their despondent dance. Even from here, you can see the ladders of ivy that ascend each wall; seeping into the weak spots, the spindly, crumbling cracks, and latching on to what does not need them. What cannot house them without falling apart into dust.

The yellow police tape glints in the moonlight, yet, you see no-one around. For a place ‘patrolled by the state’, the area was pretty damn empty. Even so, you keep to the shadows, even if you feel smokey hands with boney fingers pushing you forward.

Ba-dump…Ba-dump…Ba-dump.

Through the soles of your worn shoes, you feel the persistent throb, almost like the beat of a distant drum. The sound seems to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once, a haunting reminder of what was and a curious hint of what might still be.

Someone lets out a low whistle, probably either Jeanne or Noah, and you feel someone nudge you in your side.

“Worth it, am I right?” Jeanne smirks at you, eyes glinting in the low-light of her torch.

Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.

“Definitely.” You breathe out, an odd sense of wonder filling you at the inky sight of the small derelict city. Yet, as you stand amidst the ruins, you can't help but wonder: is what you feel the ghostly heartbeat of a city refusing to die, or the vibrant life of the city that thrives beyond the horizon?

---------------------

And so it begins. I wanted to say sorry for this taking nearly an entire month; I hit a bit of writer’s block near the end of writing this lol. Hope you guys like long chapters. Fun fact! I planned this to originally be double the length it is now, but cut it down.

Anyways, what’s you guys’ opinions on ghosts and demons? You believe in them, or no?

As per usual, thank you for reading <33

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