#a dark ritual that makes u think a little more fondly of me....

[sanchoyo]

literally so excited/nervous abt artfight ive been wanting to join for years and years and finally feel hyped up enough 2 do it and its happening tomorrow ...yay :")

[thecrownedlioness]

our past: after the ultrasound.

Summer emerges from the room, looking tired. As medically advanced as the Sanctuary is, Dr. Mason had been forced to use unconventional methods in order to be 100% sure, but she'd told him to do whatever it took. There was no room for any mistakes when it came to the paternity of her child.

Well, her children, as it turns out. One boy belonging to her husband, and the other to her worst nightmare.. 

Summer turns immediately to Michael as he sits overwhelmed in the chair of the waiting room, and stands in front of him. She lowers herself onto one knee in front of him, damning what Abbadon will say or do. 

"Your Majesty," she says to him, with a little smile. Summer knows he already knows the news, the full news, but she's wanted to say these words for so long, that she will NOT be cheated out of the joy of saying them. "I am carrying your son."

Michael looks into her eyes, and there is joy. It’s a golden light shining through the dark. He smiles, taking her hand and kissing it, then bringing her to her feet and embracing her. “We’re having a baby, my only. Our son.” 

“That’s nice and all,” Abbadon says callously. “But my life is on the line here.”

Summer pulls away and turns to him, her face firm. “And I am carrying your son as well... who is an heir of Satan and a royal child, and who will be raised with the love and care that my husband's son will receive. As for your life? I can't speak to that."

“Mikey,” he immediately turns away from her. “Come on, I’m having a son! You can’t just kill me like that, can you?” 

“It was quite easy for you to just kill me.” ...

He is half of you. Summer touches her temple gently as the sensation fills her, the sensation of being spoken to by a power higher than she is. But she doesn't say anything. This is Michael's call... no matter how badly Summer wishes he would have Abbadon executed. Wait... or does she? 

Michael would recognize the voice far more easily and quickly than his wife when it says, simply: He is your brother.

He killed me and raped my wife. How can I be expected to abide that, Father? What he has done is treason. How can you say that after he murdered your anointed king? Abused the prophesied mother of my children? I don’t understand. Open my eyes.

His silence makes it clear that they will need to commune more... extensively... for this to be made plain to Michael. Summer takes his hand, sending him the signal, you don't have to decide right now.

He nods, standing and looking to the guards, “Take Prince Abbadon back to his home. We’ll call again once a final decision has been made.” The guards lead Abbadon towards the door. 

“You can’t kill me, Mikey. You know you can’t!”

@theuncrowneddestroyer @thecrownedbeast

Michael

Once they’ve celebrated, in their own way, Summer lays down on the chaise in his office to rest. Michael makes sure she’s asleep comfortably, and then his ritual room calls to him.

Michael kisses her forehead before walking down the stairs towards the basement where his ritual room resides. It's a room entirely sealed by concrete and lead with no door. The only way in is transmutation. 

Once inside, he takes a deep breath and removes his clothes, getting on his hands and knees, splaying his fingers out over the pentagram in the obsidian floor in a sign of reverence. He retrieves the dagger beside him and drags the razor edge up his forearm, letting the crimson flood pour to the ground. 

"Rise from the void, Father..." he grunts through the pain, "Grant me wisdom and eyes to see thy will and strength to follow it..."

A darkness comes to the room, deep and pervasive, one that would be horrifying to anyone but the son who seems comfort in it's embrace. There is a long silence, the presence preparing itself to "speak." 

He is your brother. He is my son.

“And what of my kingdom? This will not be the last time he attempts something like this. How can I allow the New World to be thrown into such chaos?” He keeps himself steady, reverent, “His crimes against me and my wife cannot go unpunished, Father.”

He is needed to populate the world with the next generation of my heirs.

Michael ponders this. That makes far more sense to him than keeping him alive for sentiment only. He pities the poor woman who must be the mother of his children. Then he remembers Summer...but that was a consequence of his absence. Nothing more. 

“Yes, Father. I understand,” he furrows his brow, the next words difficult to say, “He will not be executed.”

In my wisdom and authority I have chosen the Mother of the New World, and the mother of my heirs.

The words fall on his ears, but they are like static at first, buzzing incomprehensible noise that only becomes clear after he repeats them over and over again in his mind. Even then, they are astounding. 

Summer is the Mother of the New World... 

No, no, no, no, no... 

"Father, you can't mean... please, I beg you..."

In exchange...

"Father, please..." He places his forehead on the ground, nearly prostrating himself.

...I will grant her immortality. To live with you for eternity, by your side, as your queen. You will never have to see her grow old and die. You will never lose her. She will be yours, forever.

He looks up, tears in his eyes, "In exchange for his life?" Somehow he knows that's not the only condition.

In exchange for the lives they will give the world.

It's a nightmare. It's not real. It can't be. His Father couldn't... He's going to force him to choose between a mortal lifetime of love and comfort or an eternity of suffering for his wife. His beloved. His best friend. The girl he walked in the garden with and watched movies with on her couch. The one he's been trying to protect from Abbadon for all these years. 

She is the Mother of the New World. 

It's obvious that Satan plans on raising her to a near demigod-like status. She will be far more than just a ruler for her lifetime, to be remembered fondly for a few years after her death and then forgotten by all but schoolchildren. She will be the Eternal Queen. She will be the Eternal Mother. She will always be young and beautiful, intelligent and fertile. She will always be witty and elegant and wise. 

And Michael will never be unloved.

It would only prove fruitless and stupid to try and run away from his Father's will. He is his Father's will. It is his duty to enforce it. He has to trust that she will find happiness still. That they will still be happy. That the New World will thrive.

He bows again, closing his eyes, "Thy will be done, Father."

Michael's wounds slowly close, the obsidian floor drinking in his blood until there isn't a drop left. 

Your son will be blessed. 

With that, the darkness withdraws.

Summer

My child. 

Summer stirs a little in her sleep, her eyes moving back and forth. 

You are the Mother of my world. 

She's standing in an empty stone room, with candles lining the edge. It looks... feels... like a ritual room. 

"Yes, my lord." 

My sons are each half of you, they and their children making up the whole of who you are. 

"I am married to your eldest son. My liaison with your youngest was an accident. A fluke." 

Without it, you would not have his son, who will bring you great joy. 

She considers this, caressing her stomach. 

All of his children will bring you great joy. 

Summer looks up, alarmed. “There will be more?" 

He and his children will make up half of who you are, for all eternity. 

She staggers backwards, shaking her head. "My lord... please...” 

I chose you for this before you even came into the Old World. This is your destiny. I have two sons who will live forever. You, too, will live forever, and the three of you will populate the New World with my heirs, who will rule unchallenged in far-reaching places and continents. An heir of Satan, birthed by the Mother of the New World, on every throne overseeing humanity's new rise in my power.

She is silent. Well, it all makes perfect sense when he says it like that. When you look at it from a bird's eye view, looking far into the future, it makes perfect sense. They don't have to worry about Abbadon giving heirs to every whore who comes to his penthouse, heirs of Satan born with diseases and flaws, maybe even ones that won't even follow Satanism to begin with. All of the heirs will be blessed, and healthy, and destined to rule forever. 

But... to get Abbadon's heirs... she has to... 

Summer starts to cry, both in her dream and in the real world. "I am yours to command, my lord," she says, bowing her head. 

Your children will be blessed, and I will protect you. 

She opens her eyes.

Abbadon

Abbadon paces his balcony with a cigarette in his hand as always, trying to think of a way he can get out of this. Michael probably won't execute him... ...maybe.  But he also might keep him under house arrest until the day he dies and god he can't stay cooped up here any longer. There has to be something to get him a little more freedom...

Suddenly the cigarette falls out of his fingers and onto the marble of his balcony, followed swiftly by his knees as Satan floods his mind with a deep, swallowing darkness he's only felt before a few times in his life. 

My son.

Not being as used to the presence as Michael, Abbadon trembles, every fear synapse in his brain firing. "F-F-Father..."

You tried to kill my son.

"Yes..." he tries to think through the primal, bone-chilling terror, "I wanted the throne, Father." He can't come up with any justification in this moment.

It is natural. You are you. You are who they need. You are who she needs.

"What? What do you mean?"

I have selected her for a specific purpose: to populate the world with my heirs. Your children will be rulers of the New World, as will his, and she will be the mother of them all. You will give her your seed, and she will be half yours.

The shock temporarily drags him out of his fear, a scoff exiting his throat. “No fucking way...” He believes him, and he’s thrilled, but it’s astonishing.

You are called to a higher purpose than whores and toys, Son. I will not have the seed of my heirs squandered on the wombs of the unworthy. 

He pauses, letting this sink in. After months of wondering whether he will live or die, his father confirms it. 

Your brother cannot kill you. He knows it is not my will for you to die, but to live, and take the Queen for yourself as much as necessary to produce your heirs.

His eyes gleam with that same wickedness that made him strangle Summer in the pool all those years ago. “And this is...forever? Will I and her live forever like Michael?”

The three of you will rule the world together, in this way, for eternity.

The three of you.  He... rules the world. Abbadon mouth splits into an evil grin. “Thy will be done, Father.”

Abbadon, his father snaps, with a pay attention to what I'm about to tell you tone.

He pouts, but stays silent to listen.

You are the Prince of the New World. They are the King and Queen. Do what you must to provide her with heirs; you are you, and you will do your part for the New World. But your brother is King.

It's a little blow to his ego, but he still has something to hold onto. He can have so much fun with this... and of course, his life has been not only spared... but immortalized. "Yes, Father."

Your heirs will be blessed.

With that, the dark withdraws, and Abbadon comes to on his knees, the cigarette still burning in front of him.

[artificialqueens]

cirque d'amour - chapter one (trixya) - cal

AN: *tw: mild drug references* hello, hi! this is my first fic & my first time posting to Ao3 & AQ! the story is hugely inspired by the greatest showman & my love of drama simultaneously. latrice owns a Big Gay Circus where katya features as a provocative/gymnastics dancer. (u r welcome) but what happens when a cute little stranger captures her interest?

i am on Ao3 as https://archiveofourown.org/users/moastar

*huuuuge thank you to my proof-reader & supporter, elliot! ;)*

It was a beautiful night in Los Angeles.

Katya was staring dreamily at the crescent moon, a cigarette lingering between her index and middle fingers. Every time she took a hit, she watched the vapour rise into the sky and evaporate amongst the stars. She closed her eyes and took a moment to really breathe - she fondly called this exercise her ‘pre-show chill’. She knew she was due to command the stage at any minute, but this ritual was sacred, and should not be rushed.

She was rudely disturbed by a loud crashing behind her, and a muffled curse. The rooftop door swung open, and revealed a heavily sweating man, in full, unapologetic drag. Katya turned on her heels, her eyebrow raised as she took in the scene. Roy - no, Bianca - was fumbling with her towering ginger wig at the same time as trying to tug her ridiculously long gown from where it was caught in the door. “Fuck!” she rasped, sounding much more like Roy right now than Bianca, Katya thought fondly.

“Oh, mama,” Katya grinned at her friend, noticing the vein in his head throbbing. “What a mess.”

“You!” Bianca swung an accusing claw at her. “Get in here now, you witchy bitch! You’re on any minute, and I couldn’t find you anywhere! And for fuck sake, will you help me with this - agh - friggin' GOWN?”

Katya’s face broke out into a grimace, and she slapped her knee with amusement. “Oh, Bee,” she flicked the end of her cigarette out into the dark abyss, and she took a moment to watch the ash fly slowly out of sight before trotting over to her damsel in distress.

Bianca’s face looked like it was about to explode - even through the pounds of carefully applied make-up, Katya could make out the creeping redness. “Come here,” she wheezed, amusement lacing her words, before tugging lightly on the folds of Bianca’s dress. The trail released easily, and Bianca glared at Katya, who smiled sweetly back at her.

Bianca’s face softened, and she sighed. “Okay, queen,” a tiny smile played on her lips. “I’ve done my number and I’m about ready to get fucked up. It’s your turn. Now get out there, your public awaits.”

*

The crowd was positively buzzing with raw energy.

Katya lingered side-stage, scoping out her audience with interest. She immediately picked out the regular offenders - Raja, Courtney and Jay - and a grin bloomed on Katya’s face. She adored her dysfunctional little family, and it warmed her little gay heart how frequently they came to see the Cirque just to support her.

Katya was embezzled in sequins tonight - giving a dripping in jewels fantasy - and had chosen a very sexy black heel. She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder, knowing she looked good.

Her moment of shameless self-love was broken by an announcement from Latrice - I mean, with that beautiful, booming voice, how could it not be? - now striding centre-stage. “Ladies and gentle-MEN!” the last syllable was little less than a yell. “I am pleased to announce our next act of the evening, here at the fabulous Cirque.”

Katya can���t help but feel a fondness in her bones for the ringmaster - he was nothing less than fabulous himself. He towered above most common folk, was anything but slim, and was louder than a foghorn. That being said, he was the kindest soul Katya had ever had the pleasure to meet.

“She’s bendy, she’s wiry, she’s sexy as hell, bitch,” Latrice waggled his eyebrows and the crowd went wild, spurring him on with their energy. From the sidelines, Katya held her breath.

“It’s -

YEKATERINA

PETROVNA

ZAMO-LOD-CHIK-O-VA!”

Latrice shuffled excitedly off-stage, and the lights dimmed. The crowd were cheering deafeningly now, and Katya swore she could hear Courtney’s screaming above them all.

Lana Del Rey’s “Million Dollar Man” started to play, weaving a spell on the eagerly awaiting crowd. Katya herself became tangled up in the spell, and she gracefully stepped out to meet the booming applause.

She turned to gaze at the many pairs of eyes all trained on her, and she gave a flirtatious smile before biting down on her finger. The reaction of the people at her feet gave her a thrill - she can do the simplest of things, and have them all begging her for more. She threw her arms out gracefully, pulling her hands back to caress her body and lose herself in the song. Her hands ran from her breasts to her torso - slowly, teasingly - and down to her hips. She then licked a finger suggestively, and ran her hand over her crotch, raising her eyebrows at her captivated crowd. She glided closer to the edge of the stage, taking exaggerated steps to show off her boots. She bent her knees and pushed her whole body backwards, so all the people could see was her legs. There was a collective gasp at that, and Katya smiled, before shuffling like a graceful crab to the side so that all could see her body bent impressively in a 'n’ shape. She rose to a stand and glided back to the centre.

Katya leaned against a pole that was placed centre-stage, and dropped slowly to the floor, her legs splaying in the most impressive split. Wolf whistles and screaming filled the air, and Katya grinned at her audience. It was at that moment that her eyes caught sight of someone she’d never seen before - her face illuminated by the dancing lights.

She was petite and reminded Katya instantly of a Barbie-doll. She looked sickeningly innocent and sweet, as if she would taste of honey. She was gazing at Katya with wonder, much like the other faces in the crowd, but Katya sensed something different about her - something almost fairy-like. Katya herself became captivated, and she almost - not quite, but almost - forgot to finish her number. Tearing her eyes away from the adorable stranger, Katya shot a wink in the direction of her friends, who were jumping up and down amongst the madness.

She dropped slowly to the floor, spreading her body provocatively against the wooden stage, and accepted the abundant offering of tips from those closest to her - boy and girl alike.

The song came to an end and Katya rose to stand, and bow, against the thunderous applause. Latrice skittered across the stage to stand at Katya’s side, beads of sweat glistening across his forehead.

“Now that,” Latrice boomed into his mic, clasping a strong hand on Katya’s back. “Was enough to turn me straight. HA-HA! No, of course I’m kidding. GIVE IT UP FOR OUR OWN MISS ZAMO-LOD-CHIK-O-VA!”

Katya smiled into the second round of cheers, casting a darting eye into the crowd to find the sweet stranger, only to be mildly disappointed at the realisation that she was gone.

*

“Zamo, you just get better every time.”

Courtney was leaning against the bar, tapping her acrylic nails against the wood as she impatiently awaited her drinks.

Katya smiled at her. “Thanks, mama.”

Courtney eventually handed Katya a cocktail, complete with a tiny umbrella. Katya cocked a questioning eyebrow at her for a heartbeat, before Courtney hissed; “It’s a virgin, girl.”

Katya pursed her lips around the straw, being careful not to smudge her lipstick. “Where’s Jay and Raja?” She mumbled through tentative sips. Courtney tossed her perfect blonde hair over her shoulder with a mildly bored expression.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she sighed dramatically, waving a perfectly manicured hand in a vague direction. “I think they went for a smoke.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Katya grinned, well aware of Courtney’s disdain for the smoker’s break. Courtney’s lip twitched before she mirrored Katya’s smile. “Girl, you deserve it,” She slapped an encouraging hand on Katya’s arm. “You go ahead. I want to watch Violet.”

Violet certainly was one to watch - an aerial artist, who never failed to snatch a few wigs, and a perfect final act of the cirque.

Katya fought through the heaving crowd to the cool evening air outside. She spotted Jay immediately - how could she not, they were wearing all baby pink with glittery platform shoes, complete with a cap that spelled out “werk” in cheap gem stones - talking rapidly with the quietly towering Raja beneath a palm tree. As Katya made her way over to them, flipping a cigarette out from the stash in her bra, she thought (and not for the first time) what a strange couple they made.

“And so I says to him…oh, AYO! SIS!” Jay spun around immediately when they noticed Katya drifting towards them.

Katya saluted at Jay and couldn’t help but notice a scattering of dust beneath his nostrils. Jay threw their arms around Katya and trapped her in a vice-like grip. Katya wound her hand around Jay’s back to pat them gently, glancing at Raja. Raja’s dark, hooded eyes regarded her for a moment, before giving her a little shrug.

“Hey, you were great, as always,” Raja murmured - their voice always sounded like black silk, and Katya loved it. “Jay here was getting their life.”

But Jay wasn’t paying attention - their perfectly shaped eyebrow was raised in questioning, looking past Katya’s shoulder. Katya turned to follow their gaze, and she was surprised to find the sugar plum fairy from the audience - the one who had momentarily captivated her.

“Hey,” she smiled sweetly, her cheeks blooming red with - what? Embarrassment? Warmth? Alcohol? Katya laughed nervously, regretting her actions immediately. “I-uh, sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you, I swear,” Katya’s words came out in a messy tumble, and she was acutely aware that her friends were watching this exchange with barely muted interest.

The girl in front of her looked somewhat taken aback, but she continued none-the-less. “I just wanted to say I really loved your performance. I mean, you probably get this a lot, but your dancing is pretty compelling.”

Katya snorted. “Yeah, it usually compels people to leave the room.”

The girl’s face broke out with glee, and a loud laugh-scream hybrid escaped her lips. Katya felt a buzz from this reaction, and she started to laugh herself, broken by wheezing.

“I’m Trixie,” the girl said, wiping a tear from her eye. Katya took a moment to examine her face - her make-up was a lot, her winged eyeliner creeping across her face and her contour cutting sharp lines into her cheeks. Katya liked it, she realised, and re-visited the idea that this girl could quite literally be a Barbie, complete with all the pink and blonde curls.

“Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova,” Katya grinned, offering Trixie her hand. “But you can call me Katya.”

Trixie took Katya’s hand with amusement - Katya noticed how clammy her hand must’ve felt in Trixie’s cool, soft one - before the air was broken by a loud caterwauling, not dissimilar to a cat. Trixie turned on her cowboy boots to greet the person responsible for the din.

“Babe,” a girl appeared behind her, fashioning an all-denim body suit that glittered in the yellow light of the streetlamps. “Where were you?”

Katya regarded the new addition to the scene with a stiff lip - she was stunning. Her eyes were painted with glittering blue eye shadow to match her outfit, and her perfect blonde hair was streaked with every colour of the rainbow. “Sorry girl,” Trixie grinned at her, a clear note of admiration in her voice. Katya felt an unexpected stab of jealousy. “I was talking to the star of the show.” The other girl noticed Katya for the first time - she was chewing gum incessantly, and Katya was reminded just how much she hated that.

“Oh, hey,” the girl muttered, sounding bored.

“This is my girlfriend, Willam,” Trixie snaked her arm around the smaller girl, but Willam ducked out of her hug and grasped Trixie’s wrist. “Come on, babe, Violet is due on any minute, and she is fierce!”

Trixie shrugged apologetically at Katya, allowing herself to be lead back to the heat of the club. Katya watched her go, her face pinched sourly. Jay appeared at her side. “You look pissed,” they chortled, slapping Katya playfully on her arm. “Better look next time, sis. You know you can have anyone you want.”

Yes. Katya did know that. The thing is, she didn’t usually want anyone. Not for more than a moment of heat in the club’s bathroom, or gracing a stranger’s bed for a night. But Trixie - Trixie had captivated her interest from the moment she saw her, and Katya was not ready for that. Oh, not at all.

[onceuponanighttime]

Too Close To Home

u/HylianFae Every night at exactly 11:45pm my dog barks at my neighbor. He gets home from work at the same time each night, and it’s been this way for the year that I’ve lived in this neighborhood. It bothered me the first few weeks, but eventually I grew used to it. It’s kind of comforting to know that the old man next door is home for the night.

He was a nice man, my parents quickly befriended him. They had helped me move in my meagre possessions last year, and they ended up sparking a conversation with the neighbor while he checked his mail.

His name was James Barton, and he’d lived in that house his entire life. He was the same age as my father, and apparently they had graduated high school together. They hadn’t been friends back then, but James said he thought he recognized my parents. My mother graduated two years later, so they would still have been attending at the same time.

My parents didn’t recognize James, but he seemed like a great guy. My mother had planned to cook a nice family meal to celebrate my new home, and she invited James to join us for the housewarming. It was nice, there were laughs and pleasant conversation. James didn’t speak a lot, but when he did it never ceased to bring out at least one smile.

Over the last year James has attended a couple of our dinners, and we make pleasant small talk when we see each other outside. He’s become great friends with my father, and often enough I think Dad visits me just as an excuse to make plans with James. It’s nice though, I feel safe when my neighbor is around.

He’s kept me informed about the neighborhood, about how to stay safe when I have to go to work or walk my dog. I didn’t mention it to my parents, but often enough there was somewhere within ten blocks featured on the nightly news. They already thought the place was dangerous, but I didn’t need them to reel me back home after I’d only just decided to make it on my own. More than enough people survive bad neighborhoods.

My dog, Jade, loves our neighbor. She’s always excited when he’s around, and he always had treats because he had his own dog as well. His dog was a small lap dog, nothing like my larger Pitbull-Mastiff mix. His little Smokey was cute at least, but definitely not my type of dog.

Jade was not only strong and protective of me, but she seemed to just be the perfect dog. She kept me safe and in good company, an ideal pet for a woman in her early twenties. She knew the daily routine, and she was smart. My dog was part of the reason that my parents agreed to let me use my savings to move into this one bedroom bungalow. The rent was relatively cheap, and it was close to where I worked, but it was in the “bad part” of town.

I think my parents were put slightly at ease about the neighborhood once they saw it didn’t look entirely destroyed, and having a friendly neighbor nearby in case of an emergency was a plus. I was happy, finally out on my own and working towards building my life. For the longest time I felt entirely safe, as though nothing could get to me through my neighbor and dog.

Things in the neighborhood could be crazy, what with the news of a supposed serial killer roaming the city, and the sheer amount of criminal activity that surrounded this area on a regular basis. I kept to myself for the most part, made friends with a few neighbors and James. Some of the people are odd, but James was never one of them. The oddest thing about James was something he often mumbled to himself.

Sometimes, after we’d have a conversation I’d hear Mister Barton talking to himself quietly. Usually it was nonsense, some small tangent of a memory replaying in his head because of something we’d spoken about. I think that I must have reminded him of someone, because I heard one phrase quite often after we spoke.

”Too close to home.”

He sometimes seemed sad after we spoke to each other, and sometimes I felt bad that I may be triggering a painful memory from his past. He was my best friend in the neighborhood though, since so many of the other neighbors were creepy, they all seemed to blend into the shady environment we lived in. My dog kept me safe from them, and so did Mister Barton.

One night I stopped feeling so safe. I was dancing around my kitchen, music playing and water set to boil on the stove. It was dark, but my house seemed warm and cozy. The kitchen light was bright and it made it hard to see out the windows, but I knew Jade was somewhere sniffing around our small backyard. It was nearly midnight, and I’d been advised by multiple neighbors to avoid walking the streets alone around here. Sure, Jade is pretty tough, but a gun can always beat a dog.

So Jade was confined to the yard until she commenced her nightly ritual of barking at Mister Barton’s car when he pulled in. Those were actually the only times I ever let her out in the small yard instead of going for a walk. The barking didn’t happen though, I put the pasta in the pot, skipped to the next song in my playlist, and then noticed the time. It was a few minutes after midnight, and Jade hadn’t barked. I walked into the small living room to look out the window and see if Mister Barton’s car was there, but it wasn’t. I figured he must be late, and decided to leave Jade outside until I had eaten.

I strained, served, and ate my midnight meal, but still hadn’t heard any barking. When I went to the back door to let Jade in I found her staring into Mister Barton’s yard, just standing still and looking at the lawn. There was nothing there that I could see. It took a minute before she noticed me calling and came lumbering in the house, but she stopped and looked back at his yard as she got to the door. I stared into the yard, then picked up a stone and threw it at the chain fence.

Several birds flew from the overgrown grass of my neighbor’s yard, and I was satisfied with the result. Jade had been transfixed on them. There was no barking at all that night. Jade wasn’t a loud dog, she only barked when a stranger came near the doors of the house or when Mister Barton got home. Neither of those things happened.

Over the next few days I found myself bored, Mister Barton wasn’t around to talk to while I was outside. I tried to occupy the free time, but things were odd without the usual presence. We lived in a part of the country with fair weather pretty much year round, and I tried to fix up my backyard to deal with the boredom.

I’d cleaned out the yard months ago, like nearly every other yard in the neighborhood it had been full of junk. I remember the days I spent cleaning out the yard fondly, because occasionally Mister Barton would see me and help. He was always good conversation while we got rid of useless items left behind by old renters.

Sometimes I’d see him planting things in his yard while I was busy, but it never ceased to look like a jungle. His grass was tall and overgrown, plants and flowers grew at random. It was pretty in a natural way, and that’s exactly how James Barton had wanted it.

I’d asked him once if he wanted me to mow his lawn, but he declined the offer.

“This space is the one place that holds true, natural freedom. It belongs this way,” he had spoken with a smile on his face, his eyes seeming lost in a memory.

After a two days of working in my yard alone I couldn’t take it, I felt so alone and unsafe in the neighborhood. My dog was too quiet, my neighbor had disappeared, and I resorted to stoning birds. It was my only way to fight back against my growing paranoia about the dangerous location I resided in.

Occasionally I have enough spare change to have some recreational fun, and with my neighbor being gone I found myself able to freely have such fun. I didn’t want my smoking habit to get back to my parents, so I usually kept it to my bedroom when I needed to. With my neighbor being gone I was free to sit on the cracked concrete ledge that my landlord dared to call a “patio”.

So that’s what I did, I sat in my yard. A stoned girl throwing rocks at the birds who landed in the yard next door. I’d stare at the yard and wonder if James Barton was dead, buried in a cemetery under flowers that were arranged neatly. I felt like he’d rather let his grave become overgrown, hidden among natural beauty.

I didn’t like thinking that way though. He was the same age as my parents, only in his mid-fifties. I didn’t like knowing that someone that age could suddenly drop without a warning, Mister Barton couldn’t be dead.

It was four days after my dog stopped barking, a warm morning. I got up, got dressed, poured a coffee, and put Jade on the leash for her morning walk. We walked to the mailbox where I stood and looked through my mail, and then Jade whimpered. I looked to her, then to the driveway she was staring at. Mister Barton’s car was back.

I was excited, I wanted to know the reason behind his sudden absence. I went and knocked on his door, Jade jumping around excitedly at my feet. No one answered, and I left to take Jade on her walk after several minutes of waiting. Perhaps he was asleep.

After work I knocked again, only to find the same thing. I was disappointed. He had been gone for days, but it seemed that I would have to wait to figure out why. Before dinner I sat in my yard and smoked, the sun was setting. All the lights in Mister Barton’s house were off, and it still felt empty to me.

I threw stones at the birds and watched a cluster fly up and circle overhead, I felt myself make a face of disgust– I hated birds flying over my head. I watched as they came back down, and for some reason it sent a chill through me. My friend and neighbor had been replaced by a flock of beady eyed creatures. Maybe it was because I smoked too much, but the birds made me feel afraid. What if they were mad about the rocks?

I shut myself into the house for the night, planning on discussing the birds with Mister Barton the next day. I didn’t want them to hurt the garden he loved so much. Unfortunately the next morning was the same as the last, and I found myself spending another few days wondering why Mister Barton was avoiding me.

Sunday​ came along, and with it brought my parents. They asked about Mister Barton, apparently my father had been trying to get in touch and make plans. I told them what I knew, and my mother took it upon herself to knock at his door. She received the same response as I did, and we all questioned the strange behavior of James Barton over dinner.

Another few days of smoke, stones, birds, and dogs that didn’t bark. That’s when the woman who lived on the other side of James Barton called someone. She had noticed the car remain still, and the mail overflow from its box. She was concerned, worried that the old man might be trapped in his home and hurt. I hadn’t thought of it that way, I had taken the first part of his absence heavily into consideration and assumed that it was all connected, which made it seem like he was avoiding everyone.

They didn’t find an injured Mister Barton, but they found many other things. They found Smokey, Mister Barton’s small terrier-mix. I was horrified when I heard the news, someone had actually strangled the dog. I still can’t understand how anyone could be so cruel.

Someone at the scene noticed the curious amount of scavenger birds circling the backyard​, and it wasn’t long until they decided to look deeper. Deeper as in, they dug up the overgrown yard. They destroyed the wild beauty and revealed organized decay. Neat rows of bodies were buried in the yard, most of which have been identified as people who were suspected victims of a local serial killer.

One body in particular stood out, the body of James Barton. James Barton, who had lived in the house next to mine for his entire life, who had attended the same high school as my parents. James Barton, who still kept the yearbook from his senior year in his house, the same year that my father graduated. James Barton, who should have looked familiar to my parents, because he was actually on the football team with my father. James Barton, who was murdered in his home and buried in his backyard. James Barton, who had his identity stolen.

I’ve seen pictures of the real James Barton since then, and the imposter was quite accurate in his impersonation. The true James had been dead around three years, and the man I knew had kept his cover all that time. The person who had made me feel safe in an unsafe place happened to be the most dangerous person possible.

They haven’t found the imposter. He seems to have moved on to his next set of victims, or maybe into permanent hiding. If you’re a young woman in your early twenties, then you match the type of victim that he seems to favor. When I heard the description of his victims it made my blood run cold, and sent a wave of realization through me.

I understood what he meant when he walked away from me muttering under his breath.

”Too close to home.”

Reddit"