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wandixx · 1 year ago

Text

Ghost of fries and hero of cookies part 6

All work words count: 14 643

Words in this part: 2 686

Summary of whole work: Duke wasn't expecting to wake up from his quick rooftop nap to some meta kid with fries. He also wasn't expecting kid to stay

Danny asked Dani to stay safe while she was in Gotham. Where would she be safer than under the wing of local hero? And he looked like he needed bad day combo anyway

This part summary: Batman wants an explanation. His kids however, wouldn't be themselves if they did add some chaos

Beta read by @audhumla-sailor though English is second language for both of us, so proceed with this in mind. I also know all of the charaters through fics alone, so probably ooc. Stay catious if it's something you don't like

First part, Previous part

“Signal.”

Duke bit back a sigh as his last hope to leave Cave undiscovered disappeared. He shot Steph message of:

Having The Talk. Come as moral support

and turned around to face Bruce.

“Yes?”

B grunted in disapproving and ‘Signal report’ way but Duke decided to buy some time and answer only questions that were actually asked. He slowly sat at the briefing table and looked at the man expectantly.

Lift chimed and moments later Tim and Cass went to Batcomputer and training mats respectively. Duke was, like, 80% sure they were there to eavesdrop. He knew them well enough. He knew them well enough.

“The girl”

“Izzy?” Was Duke annoying on purpose? Yes. He really didn’t want to have this talk. Like, at all. Psychological warfare it was “I mean, I know she is civilian and you don’t approve but at least she isn’t doing anything illegal, right? Like, you know, robbing museums or killing people?”

Bruce looked repulsed and Tim snorted.

“Low blow Narrows, low blow” Jason announced through speakers. He was slightly winded as if he just finished a fight “Good job kid”

“So you’re listening too, great” Duke muttered under his breath before louder he added “Is everyone who wants in on a show, here already?”

“Give me a sec- here Dick you’re going live now”

“Thanks Babs, you’re the best”

“I know. Donuts, you know which one”

“Of course. Glad we’re finally going to talk about Duke’s kid”

“Shut up, she is not my kid!”

“Steph ETA 2 minutes” Cass interrupted.

At least Damian didn’t show up- as if summoned by this thought Damian stomped down the stares, Alfred the Cat curled in his arms. Maybe others had a point, calling him Demon kid and stuff.

“What is an emergency?” he demanded and Duke decided to take what little relief he could from the fact that Bruce seemed equally defeated by sheer number of people around for this talk.

“It seems like… oh, literally everyone lost an adoption bet” Babs explained. Huh, so Steph didn’t change her stance.

Damian looked genuinely terrified as he muttered “No” eyes darting between everyone present in silent calculation.

“Oh, shut up” Duke whined knowing all too well his stalling had to come to the end. Maybe it was wishful thinking but he almost heard roar of engine of Steph’s motorcycle. Her presence would be double edged sword but she would help him advocate for Dani and that was more important.

“Thomas, what have you done?!” if it was anyone other than Damian, Duke would call sound he made a whine. As it was, he preferred his entrails to stay inside and since the boy showed up, called by thought, the older boy preferred not to take risks.

“Nothing, Babs is overreacting”

“Don’t deny it. She went about it kinda Tim Lite style but it worked”

“I don’t even know her surname, where she stays or really, anything about her life outside of our patrols, how do you expect me to go about adoption?!”

“B knew even less about me when he decided, yes this tire thief is my new son!” Jason chimed in and Duke knew he was grinning despite voice modulator.

“What from my origin story was lost to make Lite version?”

“Identities weren't breached as far as we're aware. Just ‘came one day and refuses to leave’ part and some light stalking. She was smart about it, invisible, keeping out of sight and to the hot spots. Wouldn't find her if I didn't know she was there”

“She could still just not tell, I mean I knew for years before telling anyone…”

“There is no way. Believe me, she has no brain-mouth filter, I swear”

“But-”

“She introduced herself by her first name,” Duke deadpanned ”She told me civilian names of heroes from her hometown, in context that didn't require me to do any actual research to clue me. I did anyway. I don't think she even realized she did it. If she knew our identities we would know already”

There was a moment of silence as everyone digested the thought of just how gigantic breach Dani accidentally caused.

“Well, it's as good of a proof as we can get for now,” Babs bristled.

“Who let her in on such secrets then?!” Damian sounded genuinely appalled and Duke wasn't too surprised.

Like on a cue, Steph stormed inside on her Spoiler in civies. Bruce looked about ready to get aneurysm. Duke was a bit glad that everyone was doing such good job in distraction department.

“IT’S OKAY, WHY? BECAUSE I AM HERE!” Steph yelled, jumping from before her vehicle fully stopped. She threw something small in general direction of Batcomputer “Timmy plug it in, I made a PowerPoint!”

Duke felt blood leave his face. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know what Steph put together but he probably didn't. Tim opened it anyways.

WHY HOOPOE IS ADORABLE&CHAOTIC BEAN AND SHOULD BE PART OF THE TEAM

The title slide said, one of the clearest photos of Dani from before she started wearing mask in the background. It was close-up of girl smiling, bits of brownie on her cheeks.

“Was this photo taken with a goddamn calculator?” Tim asked with disgust so clear Duke could taste it. Metaphorically of course.

“Nah, just body-cam. Her powers mess with technology a bit”

Tim still looked displeased at the craftsmanship.

“Don't worry, it's not a bad photo. Baby Bird is just being perfectionist,” Dick placated.

Duke didn't realize that Damian froze until he unfroze and made his way to the screen, stopping less than one foot away from it. His movements were rigid, his face scrunched with distress. Alfred the Cat escaped its master probably due to hoe tense he was. Everyone in Cave quietened as soon as boy took first step and expecting mood had to run through microphones because nobody from the on-line crowd quipped in.

“This is the green of Lazarus” he whispered finally, sounding actually scared. Jason swore. Bruce and Cass visibly stiffened. Tim choked and he wasn't even drinking. Dick did his whinny breezy name saying thing when he wanted explanation and felt lightly betrayed.

It was Duke's turn to freeze because… it wasn't. Of course he wasn't all that well versed in the Pit, less alone its color but he did bust quite a few trafficking rings with Jason and he saw his eyes afterwards all raging, toxic, neon green glory and it wasn't the same as Dani’s. As much as he liked English and how good he was at it, it failed him at simple task of describing the obvious difference between each other. He'd have more luck describing tastes with set of color samples from IKEA or something. And really, even if he tried he would lose the fight of competence with Damian. Who wouldn't. But-

“There is no way she has any connection with LOA”

“Why is that?” Damian seemed to misinterpret it as challenge like he always did when emotions were running high. Duke took a deep breath. Well, it was a moment to use all of his diplomatic skills and speak in the language of the demons.

“I've seen her fight. She would be utter disgrace”

“It does not prove-”

“It does” Duke interrupted with the tone and mimic of person who saw too much because he did ”None of you have any say until you watch a tiny and I mean tiny ten year old tackle five Joker goons like it's a joke, by sheer virtue of super strength and intangibility-means-I-can-ignore-bullets-Signal-don’t-be-such-worrywart. She should get shot, like, three times at least. And she kept laughing!” he was low key wheezing at the end because even after all this time (a week) it was fucking horrifying. Bruce made a huff that meant he was laughing and put a hand on his shoulder as a sign of support. Dick's lighthearted laugh sang from the speakers.

“Don't worry Duke, it never gets better” B said with mirth.

He refused to elaborate whether he meant ‘kids keep jumping into danger like there is no tomorrow‘ or ‘it's equally terrifying every time’ and Duke decided to reflect on that sentiment later. It put some things into perspective. A lot of things if he was being honest.

Also, he was not ready for stuff like that to become even semi-normal occurrence. He was ready to give her all of his Alfred cookies if it could change anything. He knew it wouldn't.

“Do you have any other evidence that your new acquaintance does not just fake being less experienced to make you lower your guard?” Damian asked warily.

“I had to teach her out of putting her thumb in her fist,” he deadpanned. Several people hissed in empathetic pain. Steph coughed to bring attention to where she stood in front of Batcomputer, other slide of her Power Point open. Duke recognised video from his body-cam.

“Exhibit A” she announced. She played a video with Dani’s first mugging attempt he witnessed. Let it be said, it was a disaster.

“Exhibit B '' One of Dani’s most epic fails at side-kick that ended with her falling face first to the ground.

“Exhibit C” Dani fumbled with zip-ties, looking at him utterly at loss.

“Exhibit D” the talk about her prior training.

“What’s was that sound?” Dick obviously on the verge of cooing when girl on video growled. Steph stopped video.

“Very angry kitten” Tim stated with soft smile.

“Honestly, furious girl” Cass corrected “She was really mad at you”

“Yeah, I know but promise of Alfred’s cookies was enough to placate her”

“You gave her Alfred’s cookies?!”

“She started by giving me a lot of food on a really shitty patrol, had to repay somehow”

“Was it from your share or-” Dick asked like it was most important thing in the world.

“Miss Hoopoe was added to my plans after she picked her new name” Alfred explained and shit, Duke really should get used to how man just appeared sometimes. Jumpscare the original.

“Alfred, you knew?” Bruce sounded so utterly betrayed.

“I have yet to meet her but I was informed about her presence about two weeks ago”

“He caught me printing mask for her”

“About that” Steph clapped and skipped her slide show “Look at thi clueless child with such horrible disguises and codename ideas” There was whole list of every name Dani wanted to try out and photo of her bare face. Duke kinda repressed his memories of it. It was worse than he remembered.

“Did she really tried kenting that?”

“Got it after her cousin. He used his first name as part of his alias for almost half a year” Duke admitted in carefree tone, knowing it would cause a mess.

“Cousin?!” several people yelled in surprise.

“Caped cousin?!”

“Yup. Small time hero from Illinois. As far as I’m aware she’s alone in Gotham but they’re in regular contact and she has strong believe that he can and will help her if she used her panic button”

“Who in their right mind let’s kid alone in Gotham?!” Jason sounded about ready to strangle Phantom.

“He seems to be fifteen himself. And has anti-meta parents if I’m picking things up correctly. She didn’t mention them much. I highly doubt she has present parents at all, so…”

“What the hell Narrows.”

“I don’t know, it’s just a wild guess”

“Does it call for the rescue?” Steph asked eagerly.

“We’re not going to Illinois to rescue Phantom if he doesn’t ask for it. He has means to it” Bruce interrupted with bone deep sigh.

“How do you know I meant Phantom?” Duke perked up because he never mentioned this name.

“He is from Illinois, looks almost the same as far as I can tell from the photos and they share a lot of powers”

“I didn’t know you knew about random kid hero from other state?”

“He dropped by on few Justice League’s mission. There is still dispute whether we should approach him in his city or not. He was very clear on his opinion that we should stay away. I think we really shouldn’t”

“How you haven’t gone or sent anyone there yet?” Tim teased.

Bruce just stared at him then gestured at mountain of cases they were currently working on. Yes, they were printed. Apparently for man it made it easier to work on them like that.

“Can we focus back on untrained child you let join you on patrol, Duke?”

“You act like I could stop her from doing her own thing if I didn’t let her. Plus, even though she doesn’t have combat training, she can handle herself well enough. And has this damn intangibility that makes her really hard to punch”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t tell anyone other than Alfred and Steph and I wanted to wait a bit before leaving her to the wolfs”

“The bet”

“Shut up Steph”

“When did you plan on letting us know?” Bruce ignored what blonde insinuated. Duke was utterly grateful for that, he knew he would get lecture for that later but he was more than happy to leave it be for now.

“Somewhen next week. I hoped to introduce her gradually but apparently everyone knew already?”

“Kids tell me things. Hoopoe made a good impression on them” Jason explained.

“Hero sightings on Twitter” Dick admitted without a shadow of shame.

“What he said” Tim agreed “This person from crochet dolls made one for your kid too, so in public eyes she’s our already”

“For the last time, she isn’t my kid!” Duke groaned but as always went ignored.

“Nobody expected old man’s tendencies to rub on you so fast, Narrows”

“Shut up and this is half a reason I didn’t let you meet her. All of you”

“With all due respect Duke” Babs started teasingly “You gave us ammo yourself. You improved her diet, you brought her to The Food Track Of Mental Breakdowns, you teach her stuff, you check in on her almost as often as her cousin and their friends do…”

“How did you hack her pho- No, wrong question, why?!”

“We’re all paranoid bastards, I needed to check out the newest bird. She legally doesn’t exist btw so I suspect some shady stuff with her birth but otherwise nothing sus about her. Comms and trackers for her are waiting in drawer C19. You will give it to her tomorrow”

“Aye, aye captain Oracle ma’am” he joked.

“Wait, you showed her The Food Track?”

“She deserved it” he gritted out.

Before this could turn into a fight or something, Alfred demanded:

“Since we are all on the same page now, I would like to extend an invitation for family dinner to miss Hoopoe”

“We’ll eat it down here in full costumes”

“As you wish master Bruce. Master Duke make sure to let her know”

“Of course Alfred”

And he planned to do that but Dani didn’t show up. He hadn’t thought much of it because she was unpredictable like that. She tended to disappear from the face of the Earth for a day or two and return with tales of her “autograph hunting trips”

But then she didn’t show up on the next patrol too. It was unprecedented. And she hadn’t responded to the check in. Three times in the row. He was getting kinda sick from the stress.

He knew Dani well enough, she wouldn’t ghost him like that and in Gotham disappearing meant three things: getting kidnapped, trafficked or six feet under. To their knowledge, Dani didn’t have anyone who would pay ransom for her other than Signal and no demands were made so the first option was out.

Bats launched full fledged search.

Duke himself found and busted two trafficking rings in three weeks which was around how much he did in two months on a daily basis.

Thanks to Oracle, they found Dani’s utterly crashed phone in the dead end in the Narrows. It didn’t look any better.

Duke really hoped they wouldn’t be too late.

With each day it seemed more likely.

********

Bruce: *wants to have private conversation with his son about unknown child he's been working with*

All of the Batfam: Hello there

Duke: I managed to keep Dani secret my family of detectives!

Everyone other than Bruce: I knew for past two weeks, but goood job kid

Random o Twitter: I'm sooo disappointed with Signal for letting Hoopoe fight crime. She is just a little child, she shouldn't have to witness Gotham's worst

Other Random: Have you heard about Robin????? Have you seen teories that Signal is teenager???? With proofs????? Are you mad at child for not taking proper care of the other child????? That's messed up my dude/gal

Yell at Batman

Signal: You act like she isn't personification of feral cat I try to coax home so I can prevent her from getting in trouble. I dare you to try and stop her

Phantom: I do too, 100$ if you manage. It would save me from so much stress

Random: Now, who the f*ck are you?!

(Guess who never touched Twitter with 20 meters stick in her life)

Next part

Tag list: @pickleking8 @mynameisnotlaura

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #dani hangs out with duke #signal got new sidekick and he cares about her deeply #it would fit more in part 2 probably but i forgot about it #Signal to Dani: Hydration check!#Dani: What? Why? Other wh words???#Signal: I care about you so I want to make sure you're taking care of yourself #Signal: Drink something #Dani: Okay cool here's a proof i'm drinking *photo of juice*#Dani to Danny: Hydration check! Drink something so I know you're okay #Danny: 👍 *sends photo of unholy mix of coffee red bull and ectoplasm with trice as much caffeine as it's legal in USA*#Dani: Glad you're being nice to your body #wandixx writes #ghost of fries and hero of cookies #have a nice day dear stranger who got to this part

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just-emis-blog · 10 months ago

Text

Searching

He can’t move. He’s lying on his back in the bed, buried under an old fashioned, brocade patterned comforter and an even older handmade quilt. The room is dark, but not completely. The thick, tapestry like curtains on his window are tied back, allowing in a slow blinking beam of light. The brightness of it is further enhanced by the large vanity mirror it keeps striking - a glittering, burning diamond out of the corner of his eye. He wants to get up and close the curtain. His arms are leaden, dead weights at his side. He tries to shift, to rise. Every attempt feels like he is being pushed further down, sinking, his chest caving in from the pressure. But he has not moved, he is perfectly still. He tries to move his head. Move it side to side, to prove he is not paralyzed. His chest tightens with terror at the idea of being unable to move forever. It is painful, in the way that you have a sore muscle after a day of workout, to move his head. He is exhausted from the effort, he is panting, he can barely breathe.

He is not panting. His breathing is completely normal. He has not moved an inch. The light catching the mirror is growing closer, spreading throughout the room, the center a blinding nexus. His eye is pulsating with pain. He is not in pain. The glinting light is in its same position. He wants to close the curtains. He will never be able to fall asleep. He cannot get up. He cannot move.

He hears whispering. When did this start? Has he heard it since he noticed the light coming in? How much time has passed? He wants to check the digital clock on the nightstand. All he would need to do is turn his head to see. He tries. He feels so heavy. He can see the red numbers on his clock show 12:05 AM. The numbers shift and blur and are changing and have always been changing. He has never turned his head to see, but he knows that it is at least 12:05 AM. How long has it been since he knew this?

He wants to move his arm at least. His foot. He wants to get up right now. The whispering has gotten louder and faster. He cannot make out what is said. The noise is disintegrating into particles until it is crashing, ocean waves. He feels an icy cold dampness on his forehead. Something is wrapping around his neck and head. The waves are roaring. He struggles harder to get up. He knows that if he does not his neck will be snapped. He fights and fights, the pressure keeping him down like the gravity of the entire planet. He can’t breathe, he is trying so hard. He is breathing.

Slowly, so slowly, his left arm comes up. He is tearing through layers of molasses, fog, webs, flesh. Clawing to rise, clawing at nothing. His right arm comes next. He lifts his head. He is released from…he is released from…he sits all the way up. His head spins, the waves all come down upon him…

Anthony opens his eyes. He sits up, and there is no barrier. His eyes rove around the room frantically as he clutches his grandmother’s quilt. Nothing is amiss. None of the shadows move. There is no trembling in the air, no creaking where there should not be creaking. The curtains are open at his window, allowing in a slow blinking beam of light that bathes the room in a flash of white for the split second it hits the mirror.

Anthony gets out of bed. As he walks, the heaviness in his head and the slight tingling in his limbs are the only evidence of -

Possession, ghosts, demons - these flit through his mind like a candle’s flame (his throat tightens, his breath catches in his chest). They are snuffed out just as quickly.

- the nightmare he just had. At the window now, he can at last see the strange light’s origin. Far In the distance, perched atop a craggy cliff face, is a lighthouse - beacon lit and circling the area in a great, lazy rotation. The lighthouse has not been active since Anthony moved here six months ago. It hasn’t been active for the past fifty years, if not more, according to the few towns people Anthony had spoken to.

He squints into the darkness, and then tries not to blink when the light inevitably flashes into his eyes. The small cabin at the base of the lighthouse (when starbursts aren’t blinding Anthony’s vision) appears still. He knows someone lives there - an older gentleman, who Anthony never caught the name of, even though he has helped him bring in his groceries, along with other chores that, though small, are more suited for younger muscles. He spotted an old photograph there once, the only picture in that cabin that wasn’t some generic painting, of a young man making a silly pose on one side of the giant, imposing lighthouse lamp, while a young woman stood poised and serene on the other. There’s a little blotch in the corner - most likely the photographer’s thumb. It’s fairly cute, especially for an old timey photo. This story told him that the old man was probably the Lighthouse Keeper back in the day…and maybe something sadder. He is a quiet man, with a slump in his shoulder, a furrow in his brow, a wetness in his steel blue eyes, like he is perpetually on the verge of tears. Raw grief engulfed the man like a shroud. A shroud Anthony, who barely knew him, could not begin to lift. He has danced this dance before, though. So Anthony never asks. He is done poking his nose where it does not belong.

Anthony continues to stare out the window. His slightly annoyed curiosity starts to morph into worry as he sees no sign of the old man leaving the lighthouse. Not that he could make out anything from this distance, and at this time of night. He contemplates fetching his binoculars as more concerning scenarios run through his mind. Had the old man wandered up there by accident - sleepwalking? In the throes of a bad memory? Is he hurt? Is he stuck? If he climbs down now, will he even be safe? Anthony can’t imagine the stairs were all that steady even in the lighthouses’ heyday, let alone now.

Is it even the old man up there, Anthony wonders. It could easily be one of the townspeople. Some punk college kid. One of the grouchier adults. Everyone seems to have a silent, but no less obvious, grudge against the man. Listening in on gossip and the like has not brought Anthony any closer towards finding out why. He has had to bite his tongue several times against asking directly.

The glowing red numbers of his clock catch his attention in his peripherals. 2:15 AM. First of the month - gotta bring the rent check down to Mark tomorrow…later today. There is a post-it note on his front door with the reminder, and two alarms set on his phone, but he can’t help the mental note as well. Not since he was scolded so thoroughly by the Landlord when he delivered his very first check late, and the even worse scolding he got for asking if he could send the money to him electronically.

Between the late hour, and his resolve not to interfere in things needlessly, the anxiety riddled concern starts to fade away. No amount of staring and speculating is going to help him figure out what’s going on. Not unless he wants to go out there and make the three mile journey to the lighthouse himself. Only to find nothing, and be a bother to everyone.

Not tonight, he thinks. Not anymore.

He closes the curtains. The light continues to hit it out of spite, but at least it is now reduced to a dull glow. He goes back to his bed. He freezes, one knee balanced on the edge. The memory of what awoke him is crystal clear in his mind. Not a moment faded around the edges like all of his other dreams and nightmares before it. He climbs the rest of the way into bed, tense, eyes searching the even darker room for answers. He has never experienced anything like that in his life, and he does not want it to happen again. His mind cycles through his limited medical knowledge, skitters and crawls towards supernatural explanations, before being forcefully ricocheted back into the rational hope that he imagined everything. This goes on and on, until he finally falls asleep.

That morning dawns gray and foggy. Anthony finds himself no worse for wear despite the unplanned wake up call.

(No pressure keeping him down. Nothing wrapped around his neck)

He goes through his morning ablutions with the intent to put last night behind him. There is much to do today, even more so than usual since he slept in.

Stepping outside of the master bedroom is like stepping into a different house entirely. Much of the living room, hallway, and guest bathroom has been stripped to its foundation. The kitchen’s renovation is the only thing nearly complete - with new hardwood flooring, the walls and cabinets repainted, and a brand new stove, refrigerator and microwave installed. He kept the vintage, cottage like, aesthetic as it was before, and the electronics were updated but lacking any complex bells and whistles. This is still his grandmother’s house, after all, and Anthony has kept in mind her ability to function in it during every step of this construction.

Anthony spends the next couple of hours hard at work under the sink. The house fills with the noise of metal clanging against metal, and he loses himself in the familiar motions. By the time his alarm goes off he is nearly done with the plumbing. He pulls his phone out of his back pocket, panting as he wipes his sweaty brow with his other forearm. There are several missed text messages from his siblings and friends, a voicemail from his mother and a more than likely similar voicemail from his grandmother, and a notification on Instagram saying that Eric has recently added to his Story -

He deletes the notification, scowling fiercely at his phone. Of all the remote, coastal towns smack in the middle of nowhere, this one just has to have perfect service.

Anthony’s finger hovers over the app. He’s already wiped away every other trace of Eric - phone number, gifts, pictures (electronic and physical) - but the instagram Follow remains like a deeply embedded splinter in his palm.

His second reminder alarm goes off, making him jump. TIME TO PAY RENT, the notification says. He scowls again, irritated that he spent at least thirty minutes brooding about his ex, like the pathetic “try hard” Eric accused him of being. He ruthlessly pushes all thoughts of him away as he washes up for a second time that day. Thoughts of Eric creep up and crowd his mind, as they always do, regardless of his wants, and he knows they will not disappear until he is back in the throes of manual labor. So he rushes out the door, grumbling in annoyance at himself as he notices it was left unlocked. It’s a gray and misty day and the wind is cold and biting. He shivers, having forgotten his jacket in his hurry, but trudges down the gravel path to his truck. It’s fine. He just needs to run into town to drop off the check, grab a sandwich, and then get back to work. He will warm up once he gets back to work. Everything will be fine once he gets back to work.

His eyes are drawn, nearly against his will, to the lighthouse in the distance. The beacon is still lit, cutting through the fog and towards the ocean. He doesn’t know what it means that the light is still instead of rotating like a police siren as it was last night (his Digital Art classes didn’t cover lighthouse maintenance at University), nor does he know if a lamp should be lit for 24 hours after not being lit for over fifty years. Concern for the old man crashes into him like the violent waves against the cliff face. He will grab a sandwich, check the old man’s little cabin, and then get back to work. He is sure that he will find nothing amiss. But he will bear the likely scenario that he is being paranoid and a bother, because at this point he knows that he will have to appease his worry (this weird, annoying, obsessive tendency that he can’t seem to carve out of himself, even for the sake of his relationship) or he will not be productive today.

His grandmother’s house is on the outskirts of the little town of Soker. Behind her house is a forest ridden mountain, with a two way windy, three hour road that leads to the main freeway. Off the north side of the house is a bumpy, narrow path with a fork. One way leads into the main town (about a ten minute drive assuming no sheep or ducks were lazily crossing), the other leads to the lighthouse, with several paths and old staircases leading to the beach down the hill along the way.

Anthony has his hand on the door handle when it feels like the fog has suddenly coalesced into a thick blanket. He grimaces, the embarrassing memory of crashing into a fence on a relatively straight path the last time he drove in fog this bad immediately surfacing. With a begrudging sigh, he lets go of the handle and starts the long trek into town. Better to speed walk for twenty minutes than to wait for two hours to be roasted by the sole tow truck driver.

The wind whips through his short dark hair and roars in his ears incessantly. The spring months had been a cold, sopping wet, and summer had only the slightest increase in temperature - meaning he could get away with stepping outside in a long sleeve shirt and pants. From the condensation he is puffing out and the almost insistent chill, he did not foresee October ushering in a gentle autumn.

‘You can be a sweet dream or a beautiful nightmare…’

His ring tone cut through the wind faintly. Anthony let another lyric belt out, giving him time to uncross his arms and shake out his slightly numb hands, before taking the call.

“Kuyaaaaaa,” came the expected, reedy whine of his younger sister. The record for her not calling after he didn’t respond to a text was about twenty-eight hours. Mr. Guinness would not be contacting her this day. “Are you coming home? Did you get my message?”

“No, Steph,” he replies, trying and failing to keep out the exasperation in his voice. This wasn’t the first time she’s asked, and he can’t even blame her for the pestering. When he first came out here to Grandma’s it was with the intention of patching up some shingles on her roof. A mere once over inside the house quickly revealed that it was actually practically unlivable. He was horror stricken at the thought of his grandmother living this way, and all alone at that. So, with barely a second thought (and perhaps he needed a second more, according to his siblings) he essentially had them switch places - his grandmother living in his modest little apartment across the State, while he stayed here and repaired her home. The next thing he knows, a couple of weeks turns into a few months, then a month more and a month more kept getting added on, as more problems made themselves apparent. “I told you last week, I still have a lot of work to do.”

“No - ughhhh! I don’t mean, like, for forever. Just for the Halloween weekend. Didn’t you see my text? Are you avoiding my messages? That’s toxic. You’re being toxic right now.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not being toxic.”

“So you’ll come, then?”

“...I dunno - ”

“Come onnnnnnnnnnn. You haven’t taken a break for a year -”

“Six months.”

“Plus you’re isolating yourself. You need to have fun and relax and talk to people - ”

“I talk to the people out here all the time.”

“Uhhh. No. You said that everyone out there was standoffish and cold, so that means you’re not having proper social interactions and stuff…”

Damn. He remembers that little rant he went on. It was after a night of visiting the only bar in a first and last attempt to interact with something aside from power tools. Not his finest moment, nor his soberest.

“...you’re probably not even taking care of yourself either.”

“I’m taking care of myself fine,” he counters, hoping she can’t tell he’s trudging down an icy cold road in a t-shirt from his voice. Who was the older sibling here again? Good grief. “I’m on my way to get lunch right now.”

“Mm,” she says curtly. He fears that she can tell after all. This is the last kind of news he wants to get back to his parents and grandmother. Nevermind demanding he return, they would hop on the first mode of transportation available - be it van, speedboat or skateboard - and pick him up themselves.

Instead of continuing down that train of accusation, Stephanie switches tracks completely. “Kuya…are you really out there to fix Grammy’s house…or is it because of that cheating jackass?”

“Don’t swear,” he stalls. He’s not dumb. She’s not dumb. There is no doubt who the “Jackass” in question is.

“Clout chasing pancake guzzler, then.”

“You’re pushing it, child.”

“Whatever - my point is you don’t deserve to be run out of town like some bandit in a cowboy movie when you didn’t even do anything wrong!”

“I haven’t been run out of town. Her house really is taking longer than expected to fix - all the wiring is pretty much eroded and I found a colony of bees in some of the walls and…” he grits his teeth, and decides to give a little. The topic will just keep coming up, now that its been stated so blatantly, and the gut punch of it will not get any lighter. “The alone time has been helping me…think things through.”

There’s a pause on the other line. “...ok,” she concedes quietly, like he hoped. Steph is fairly mature for a sophomore in highschool. “I hate that he hurt you so bad.”

Anthony swallows. “I know,” he says, hating that he made how much the breakup affected him so obvious. “It’s not your fault. I’ll figure myself out.”

“Will you figure yourself out faster if I whoop his ass?” came the voice of his older brother Junior, meaning Stephanie likely has the phone on speaker. Fantastic.

“No. No, no. Thank you, Junior. I’m good. I promise,” he says firmly. Junior is built like a tank, a casual MMA fighter, and a successful Prosecutor - which is the worst amalgamation of skills you can possess if you are protective with a short temper. Anthony hates Eric’s guts right now, but he does not want to be the reason for his guts to be spilled on the floor, perhaps while also being wrongfully imprisoned.

“If you say so…” he says in a tone that clearly states the option for violence is always open. Why is his family like this?

“I do.”

“Hey Ant…you sure you’re doing alright? You don’t sound so great.”

The fog is thinning out. The wind a brisk pulse instead of a grueling howl now that he is further away from the sea. He is getting closer to town - can already see the roof of the Post Office as he starts walking down the final hill. He is going to respond with something dismissive about not sleeping well last night, but he pauses as the excuse starts to form at the tip of his tongue. Last night. He is still curious about the lighthouse. Junior is a true jack of all trades kind of guy - if anyone would know the effects of a very old, giant, lamp being lit all of a sudden it would be him.

And maybe he could slip in the topic of…something incredibly strange and terrifying that happens in your sleep.

“Yea, I’m alright. I actually wanted to ask you - should a lighthouse - ”

SCREEEEECH.

Anthony jerks his phone away from his ear. The noise was piercing - some horrible mix of birdlike and electronic. It rings in his head. There’s a pounding pain in his ear and temple that makes him squeeze his eyes shut against it.

Thankfully, the pain doesn’t last long. He hears his own sharp, indrawn breath through his teeth. Thankfully he hasn’t gone deaf either. Reoriented, he looks down at his phone.

The call has dropped.

Anthony walks the rest of the way into town, absentmindedly waving his phone in the air. He tries to text and call Stepahnie and Junior, but nothing gets through. The miraculous service of the past six months has abandoned him at last. Maybe the high winds of Fall and Winter were screwing with the signal? That happened plenty of times in the City during a bad storm. He pockets his phone. He’ll try again when he gets back to his grandmother’s - now is as good a time as any to install the high speed router.

It isn’t until he arrives at Mark Hangleton’s home that Anthony feels like something is off. The streets are quiet, aside from the wind and the distant crying of gulls. It is never quiet during the day, especially during the peak lunch hour. There is always chattering gossip, always haggling and arguing. Always someone hoisting this week's catch somewhere with grunts and crows of satisfaction, always the crunch crunch of boots and old sneakers pounding against gravel. But today there is simply…nothing.

Anthony knocks on Mark’s dingy, scratched up door. A tightness steadily forms in his chest the longer there is no answer. He can’t help looking over his shoulder, straining his ears for the normal ambient noise of Soker. He hears nothing. He pounds on the door with his fist. “Hello?” he calls, “Mr. Hangleton? It’s Anthony Battaglieri. I’m here to drop off this month’s rent.”

Still nothing. “HELLO!” he bellows, his voice echoes eerily off the walls. He winces, feeling like a rude idiot, and whips his head around self consciously. Expecting to be glared at, maybe scolded if someone was feeling particularly grumpy today. But no one says anything, because no one is there.

Anthony stepped off the porch, not sure what he should do next. He has not been late with rent since that first month, and he knows that Mark would be curmudgeonly enough to count it as such if he didn’t have it in his hands by 3:00PM on the dot. Desperation has him wandering towards the side of the house where Mark’s bay windows are. He stands on his tiptoes to peak inside, feeling foolish and half his age with these antics. If Mark is merely in the kitchen then he would easily hear the ruckus he made…

Mark is slumped over his table, unmoving. Anthony wants to dismiss this. This isn’t the worst case scenario that he thinks it is, like he always thinks it is. He is about to try knocking again, perhaps even risk leaving the check under his doormat with a note, when he sees the knocked over mug of coffee, and the steam shooting out angrily from a kettle on the stove.

Adrenaline surges through him. He rushes back to the door without thinking. He grabs the knob, turning it on reflex as he surges his shoulder forward to break through. He barely catches himself from crashing into the floor as he careens inside. The door is unlocked. He runs into the kitchen and up to Mark’s prone form - dressed in a woolen coat and trousers, papers strewn around him and under his hand. There are no outward signs of any wounds. He quickly checks for a pulse - hears a short snort. Steady, soft snores follow that sound normal enough. Is he…asleep? He snaps his fingers by the middle aged Landlord’s large ear. He calls his name loudly a few more times. His hands hover uselessly over him. Should he move him? Is he unconscious? Did he have a stroke? Anthony is not a doctor. He barely knows basic first aid.

He gives his head a stern shake. Ok. Worrying about what he can’t do will help no one. He moves on to what he can. He goes over to the stove and turns it off. The whistling peters out, leaving Anthony’s panicked breathing and Mark’s soft snores a deafening orchestra. He goes to the old landline phone on the wall. Call for help. This is definitely a call for an ambulance type of situation.

The phone is dead. It does not come back to life no matter how frantically he presses the switch hook. He hangs it up, checks his own cell phone for service. Nothing. Of course. His eyes rove over Mark again. He hasn’t moved. His skin doesn’t look different, and his breathing sounds the same. Those were the signs of your condition worsening, right? Would he be alright if he left him here? Every moment not acting in some way felt like a countdown against Mr. Hangleton’s life.

He decides to leave. Anthony is not at all equipped to help, so the best choice should be to get to the people who are, as fast as he can.

He runs outside, his boots against the gravel a cacophony in the silence, and goes across the street to the neighbor’s door. He hesitates, noticing a weird array of scratches in the fresh paint. It looks like a long, upside down checkmark, with three short lines crossing neatly in the middle, and a small circle at the bottom of the line, bisecting it evenly into two halves. He shakes his head again. This is no time to examine random graffiti.

He pounds on the door strongly. “Excuse me!” he yells, hoping his voice conveys steady urgency, and nothing untoward. “I’m sorry! There’s an emergency! Mark Hangleton is hurt and I need to use your phone! Hello!” He knocks on the door continuously, raising his voice higher the longer there is no answer. Again, on reflex, he tries the door knob. Again, the door swings open, unlocked.

The panic for Mr. Hangleton recedes, and a different kind of uneasiness starts to build in Anthony’s gut.

“Hello?” he calls again, looking hesitantly through the doorway. He crosses the threshold. “My name’s Anthony - I’m Allison Battaglieri’s grandson, she lives up the hill? By the edge of the forest?” he says, hoping to immediately deescalate. He walks further into the house, slow, hands raised, feeling like an idiot and a criminal all at once. It is shadowed and dim. The green paisley wallpaper is decorated with pictures of a husband and wife, enclosed in gilded frames of varying sizes. There are some square shaped empty spaces, noticeable by the dusty perimeter, that likely other pictures or trinkets once hung. He passes a room with the door wide open.

“I’m so sorry!!” he gasps out, jumping back a step and out of view of the definitely inhabited bedroom. “Your door was o-open and - I’m so sorry! There’s an emergency! I don’t know what’s wrong with Mr. Hangleton - could I please use…your…phone…”

He trails off. Braces for indignant yells, or at least an answer to his request. Nothing. The seconds creep by. He controls his fast paced breathing. Maybe he can’t hear them because he’s over here panting like an asthmatic. Nothing.

Slowly, carefully, he peaks into the room. He knocks on the door as yet another courtesy, the noise booming like thunder. The couple from the pictures is laying tucked under the covers, presumably still in their pajamas - the man even has an old fashioned night cap on. Anthony stands in their doorway, nonplussed. The couple remains in place, still, aside from the gentle rise and fall of the comforter. How could they sleep through all this?

“I - ” Anthony pauses, unsure. Unnerved. “I’m sorry, I just - I need to use your phone real quick. Um…” He starts to leave. He jerks back, checking the bed again for any sign of movement. “I’m really sorry for bothering you. Really.” He waits.

Nothing.

Anthony blows out a breath. Ok. Ok. He meanders throughout the house, being as loud and obvious as possible, just in case, until he finds another landline on an antique side table. Dead again.

He slams down the receiver. What the hell is going on here? Is there a power outage? He quickly flicks on the living room lights. All of the lamps come on without issue. Fine. Ok. So the power isn’t a problem. Maybe it’s just these two houses?

So he tries the next house, and the next. He gets the same results - all of the phones dead, all of the inhabitants asleep (presumably. Hopefully). Some of them were still in their beds, others looked like they simply passed out in the middle of a task. Boom. Just like that.

And every door is unlocked, and every door has that strange symbol carved into it.

A virus? Anthony thinks as he walks out of the last house on the block. His mind doesn’t linger on this idea long. If this were some airborne epidemic (attack?), then why isn’t he affected now? And what kind of virus knocks you out with no other visible symptoms?

He catches sight of the symbol, carved onto a red door across the street. He is trying valiantly not to jump to illogical conclusions but…

A cult! That’s what this all reminds him of! He is not filled with any less dread at this new epiphany, but it is as grounded in reality as he can bear right now, as the lack of human activity seems to heighten every noise, seems to bring every shadow or movement he sees from the corner of his eyes into sharp focus. He rushes back to Mark’s home with a new sense of urgency, the symbol on his door a stark marker now that he has seen it so many times. He searches around the kitchen, not sure what he is looking for. Robes? An old, antique looking book? He’s seen plenty of Netflix documentaries as much as the next guy, but they didn’t exactly provide a bullet point list of signs to look for.

He picks up the coffee cup, sniffs it. What? Does he hope to smell arsenic? Some other poison he is completely unfamiliar with? He feels so incredibly dumb by the action that he sets the cup back down and checks to see if Mark has seen him fumbling around.

The Landlord snuffles, but otherwise offers no comment.

Anthony does see what looks like a marking in the table where the cup was previously. It is covered by the dark brown liquid. He grabs some paper towels and wipes it away, also taking the time to wipe the rest of the spill from the floor and the edges of the table (there is nothing quite worse than coming back to a mess after you are sick). The mark looks like an F, with the top two lines slanted down. But it is so small and innocuous, it may very well be a normal scratch.

He cannot dismiss this so easily though, not when there are patterns and meanings unfolding before him (non-detective that he is).

He sighs deeply. What he wouldn’t give to be able to take a simple picture of these symbols with his phone, and summarily have all the answers handed to him on a silver, digital platter. Or to ask it what are the top 5 reasons an entire town would fall asleep simultaneously.

At that moment, his stomach chooses to growl. He suddenly becomes aware of how achy he is from the initial adrenaline rush, of how clammy his skin is from running around in the cold. His body clearly does not care about these mysterious happenings - it is still tired and it is still long overdue for some lunch.

Before he leaves, he spares one last glance at Mark. He is a little less worried that there will be some magical deterioration once he is out of Anthony’s sight. Unthinkingly, he also gathers up all of the loose leaf papers on the table and shoves them haphazardly into his pocket. Maybe their contents would provide a clue, maybe they were his tax returns. Regardless, Anthony needed a sandwich.

The walk down to the Market Square remains tense. Anthony’s thoughts are in turmoil even as he scans every corner, half expecting someone or something to jump out at him. He keeps circling around his limited knowledge of illnesses and poisons, tied in with the symbols. If they were some sort of language, then he didn’t recognize them. Junior might, if they were. He knew four other languages. Or if they were star signs, Stephanie would know for sure. She is a deep believer in all that stuff, and they certainly had the look of those astrology squiggles she was always drawing in her notebooks.

He arrives at the market to, unfortunately, unmanned stalls and empty stores. He feels a flare of hope when he sees all of the fish and sealife on display, stacked atop ice filled barrels and crates, or crawling around and swimming in large schools in tanks. Not a day has gone by, since he arrived in Soker, has there ever been a shortage of fish. He didn’t know if that meant the seas were plentiful, or if Soker’s fishermen had a grit that others were lacking, but at this moment it meant that someone had to leave their house to set this all up. Anthony ran up to the first vendor in sight, past the MARKET sign that hung on the giant arch. It is the booth he visits most often whenever he comes into town, the second being the various hardware shops. Julianna, the owner of the booth, sells the best crab sandwiches in Soker, as far he’s concerned. On more than one occasion her sandwiches have served as his breakfast, lunch and dinner. He makes a beeline for her little shop behind the booth that held all of her wares and a mini kitchen. He has his hand on the glass pane part of the door to push it open when he sees Julianna’s body crumpled just behind the stall.

He gasps so hard that it’s painful. Julianna rolls onto her other side, smacking her lips almost comically, in response, and in turn prevents Anthony from having a full on meltdown.

Sound asleep. He doesn’t have to look long before he spots the symbol - the upside down check mark is carved into one of the wooden beams holding up the awning. He looks around despondently at all of the other stalls. More symbols carved somewhere, he imagines, and more sleeping townsfolk.

Resolutely, he adjusts Julianna into a more comfortable position, even though every instinct pounded into him from media tells him not to move a person with an unknown ailment. He doesn’t think, however, that this random Sleeping Beauty sickness has anything about letting the victim remain passed out on their neck as a safety measure.

He wanders back aimlessly into the middle of the square, grabbing a sandwich from the carefully wrapped pyramid perched atop an ice barrel along the way. Julianna was never any kinder to him than the other residents of Soker, but she would always give a mildly annoyed hand wave and a nod whenever he forgot to bring enough cash with him. He would pay her back later when she woke up.

Anthony chews on his sandwich, lost in thought, going over his options now. He could make the walk back to his home, take the truck and try to find help - or better yet, take one of the cars here. He grimaces at the thought. Aside from the sketchiness of stealing and trying to explain the situation, he wouldn’t trust any of the hoopties here to make that kind of drive. The lighthouse looks like it is looming over him from this angle, despite the distance. He wonders again if the old man is up there, struck with the same sleeping sickness as his neighbors. Is he draped over the lantern like Mark? Is he sprawled haplessly like Julianna? Is he injured? Has the beam of light grown brighter?

Anthony is a digital artist. He is that one in a million person that, inexplicably, makes a decent living off of commissions. He’s a decent handyman - self taught. At first out of necessity, then as a hobby. That is why Anthony is here. Because his parents are too old, his sister too young, and Junior too important. He will not be able to magically deduce what is going on here.

“What should I do?” he mutters aloud.

“What should you do about what?”

Anthony is not ashamed to admit that he screams. He is ashamed of his stumble backwards as he whirls around, clutching his chest as if it were a pearl necklace about to be snatched.

A woman is standing there, about his age, blinking at him languidly. Her long brown hair is parted down the middle, with a flowery headband wrapped around her forehead. Anthony dosen’t know how long she has been behind him and he doesn’t care. The relief at seeing another person awake is like a flood; quick to wash away any annoyance or confusion he would feel otherwise.

“Adelaide?” he says, unable to keep the tentativeness out of his voice. He doesn’t think he has been alone long enough to warrant a mirage, but one can never be too careful.

Her grin is slow growing and excited. “Yea,” she says, a little breathless, like she can barely believe he is here either. She clears her throat. “Yea. And you’re Anthony, right?”

Anthony nods his head, laughing at the absurdity of it all. He has seen her around, as one does within a small town, but has only spoken directly to her during that disastrous night at the Bar. He doubts he had made the best impression.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

He is unsurprised, but no less crushed, to see her shake her head.

“Is your phone working?”

“Nope. I don’t even have one.”

He sighs, running his hand through his hair. Two miracles is asking for too much, clearly.

He starts to share what he knows with her - how he found Mark, and then the rest of Soker, unconscious, and no amount of noise or jostling would wake them. He told her about the symbols, paused midway at his crappy description, and then led her to Julianna’s booth to show it to her first hand.

“...I saw another symbol on Mark Hangleton’s table. It looked different from all of these - kinda like a capital F, but uh, slanted….” he continues, as Adelaide examines the beam, tilting her head this way and that. “What do you think they are? Hieroglyphs, maybe?” A curse? he thinks.

She turns to him, lips pursed. “Sorry. I haven’t got a clue.”

He starts to slump in defeat, but then jerks up as he is reminded of something. A clue! Right! Under Adelaide’s curious gaze, he yanks out the many sheafs of paper he had grabbed from Mark’s table.

The first paper is a letter, dated for yesterday. ‘Dear Obi,’ it starts, ‘It’s nights like these when I especially yearn for your forgiveness. And yet, how can I ask for yours, when I dare not ask it of myself…’

Anthony is alarmed at how quickly the letter gets personal. He almost doesn’t want to keep reading, but the need to figure things out and plain and simple morbid curiosity keeps him going. It’s riddled with apologies and self depreciation. Anthony never knew Mark Hangleton (who kicks stray chickens and spits when he talks) could be so eloquent.

“What is it?” asks Adelaide.

“They’re a bunch of apology letters…I think? To someone named Obi and…yea. Looks like they’re all addressed to Obi.” Whoever that is. A ‘Margery’ is mentioned a few times, from the context she seems to be Mark’s daughter, or some kind of relation. Her, and Obi’s ‘Caroline’.

‘...It wasn’t supposed to be her, Obi. it wasn’t supposed to be either of them. I knew it then and I know it now. But I was just one man, Obi, against the whole town! I know what we promised. Believe me, it haunts my waking days. What would you have me do? What would you have me do!’

“Ominous,” says Adelaide after reading over his shoulder. “Sounds like something out of an old ghost story.”

“Yah,” he concedes with a drawn out sigh. “A little bit.”

Anthony rifles through the letters again. When no secret cipher reveals itself, he returns them to his pocket once more. Julianna chooses that moment to bellow out a particularly powerful snore from her curled up position on the cold, hard ground. That decides Anthony’s next move.

He bends down and scoops the comatose woman up in a fireman’s carry. He pushes the door of her little shop open with his hip, then gently puts her down in a lawn chair tucked amongst a rack of scarves and novelty postcards. He searches through her various baubles until he finds a hand knit blanket and pillow, to cover her with and tuck under her head respectively.

“What are you doing?” Adelaide asks, having waited outside during the whole ordeal.

“Well…it might rain soon,” he says, marching resolutely to the next stall to repeat what he had done for Julianna. “And I doubt you’re supposed to be outside in the cold when you're sick like this.”

Anthony’s shoulders tense, awaiting accusations - that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, that he’s being “too much” - but they never come. Adelaide just makes an indistinct humming noise, and nothing more. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and continues with his self imposed task.

Adelaide follows him like a diligent sentinel as he plucks up each vendor from their awkward heap and then plops them on the nearest, comfiest surface he can find, as if he is putting a bunch of toddlers down for a nap. She makes zero moves to help the entire time. Anthony doesn’t begrudge her this. From what he has seen, the townspeople were as contemptuous of her as they were to the old Lighthouse Keeper, but in a less overt way. No, they just ignore her existence. Walking past her without a word, speaking around her as if she weren’t there, sometimes directly in front of them. In a small town like this, where the only place you could start over anew and fresh is miles and miles out (and expensive to boot), Anthony thought that this treatment was far crueler than the standard bullying.

Thankfully for Anthony’s lower back, not every vendor has managed to set up today, so he manages to get them all inside in a decent amount of time.

He is still winded from all of the work, so he leans against a stall to catch his breath. Adelaide waves a water bottle under his nose, offering him a wry, unrepentant smile. He snorts, and downs half of it. He tips the bottle back towards her in a silent offer.

“I’m good,” she says. He snorts again. “What?”

“That’s the same thing you said to me at the Bar when I offered to get you an appetizer.” He takes another swig out of the bottle, then says dolefully; “too good for my wings and my water - you’re a cold piece, girl.”

She smirks, eyebrows raising. “Get better at flirting next time, cowboy.”

Anthony almost chokes on his next gulp, to which she laughs an unfair amount at. “Ahem…ah. I definitely wasn’t flirting - don’t worry.”

“Uhhh huuuh…” she drawls.

“Yea you’re uh…not exactly my type,” he says, and hopes he doesn’t have to elaborate. He loathes elaborating.

“Huh - Oh!” Enlightenment fills her blue eyes, and he is grateful that it is nothing more than that. He would really hate for the last conscious person in this town to be homophobic. That was Twilight Zone levels of irony.

He can practically see the “soooo..who’s the lucky guy?” question brewing in the slight twist in her expression, so he starts walking before she can say anything. There are much more important things than ruminating about Eric going on right now - talking about it, even a brief explanation, would only result in him being drawn into a depressive spiral, and would thus slow down getting the people of Soker help. Best to avoid the topic entirely.

“Got a plan?” she says, once she catches up to him.

“Barely. I’m going to check the houses again. Maybe there’s different symbols somewhere inside them too - like at Mark’s.”

“Alright,” she draws out slowly, her skepticism dripping from every syllable. Fair enough. He doesn’t know what he will do if/when he finds more of the carvings. Put them all together and see if they form a neat little message? They probably won’t. Maybe they will.

They comb through each house carefully…well. He combs through each house. Adelaide essentially tags along, looking around the houses like a tourist in a museum. Again, he can’t bring himself to be too upset at her lack of help when he notices her gaze land on any of the comatose occupants. Her eyes fill with rage and her pretty face twists into a deep scowl. He has never seen such utter hatred painted so plainly on a person, not even when he confronted Eric about his cheating. Though, Anthony supposes Eric’s was a more patronizing, absent minded kind of hatred. Not the result of being hurt, but of having your time wasted by someone who was so much lesser than you.

“Is that a good idea?” she asks, as he hauls a man (likely in his sixties and probably twice Anthony’s weight) onto a couch, just as he has done with any of the other homeowner’s that had fallen outside their bedrooms.

“No…i…dea…” he pants, bent over with his hands on his knees. “They seem…ok…as long as I’m…careful - ”

“Why bother?” she barks. Her arms are folded, the puffs of her white peasant blouse scrunched up tight. There’s no expression on her face as she awaits his answer. ‘They don’t deserve it’ echoes loudly in the room.

“...They suck, I know, but…” he starts slowly, searching for the right words to convey how he feels. He doesn’t want to say that he’s doing this “out of the goodness of his heart” or that it’s “the right thing to do”. God, how Eric would taunt him, has taunted him, for saying something so cliche (inauthentic, his ex would drawl). For once, Anthony doesn’t feel sad at the thought. He feels irritated.

“I’m not a jackass,” he settles on.

Adelaide huffs, then seems stunned when he offers nothing more than that. “You - !” she pauses, her face softening as she makes up her mind about something. “No, you aren’t, are you?”

Anthony shrugs. “Most of the time.”

She huffs again, then carries on not helping in the midst of this objectively horrible crisis.

Anthony chortles to himself, and carries on as well.

He does not find another symbol for quite a while. In the meantime Anthony can’t help but notice the peculiarities of the houses he is practically turning upside down. Without fail, every one of these houses has an extra bedroom. At first he thought they were guest rooms. Until he saw the personal items - dolls, stuffed animals, posters and toys. Drawings and trophies. Notebooks, diaries. Bassinets, cribs, surrounded by pastel pink walls. Girls rooms. But no girl teenagers, no toddlers, no unconscious babies anywhere in the house. Even the single inhabitants, like Mark, had an additional bedroom. With its cheery yellow walls (a stark contrast to the dreary, fisherman aesthetic he has going on) decorated with posters of ballerinas. Under the window, a desk with ear marked fantasy novels strewn about the surface. In the corner, a neatly made bed covered in a layer of dust. Against the wall across from that, a dresser with a jewelry box on top of it, a necklace with a silver jigsaw piece pendant hanging out of it like an offering for an altar. A life. A young girl’s life.

And then there were the letters. Stacks and stacks of them in every house. Some of them are out in plain sight, others are tucked away like a dirty secret. ‘Dear Obi,’ they all begin. And like Mark’s, they all descend into apologies - to Obi, to his Caroline, to an unnamed ‘her’. They all drop various other names (a Margery, a Greta, a Cynthia), lamenting their loss.

‘...I miss you Penny. So so much,’ Anthony reads, the umpteenth iteration of the same platitudes. ‘I hope you understand. Wherever you are. We’re a seabearing folk - you remember how we used to take you fishing, sweetie? It’s all we have. I can’t imagine what would happen if they were all gone. We couldn’t take that chance. The town would be ruined, darling! There was no choice. By God we had no choice, I swear it.’ He lets this letter fall at his side. He feels a lump forming in his throat. The bedroom door in front of him has a little wooden sign with unicorns drawn on it. PENNY’S ROOM is spelled out in colorful, block letters.

The puzzle pieces were falling into place, and the picture is…impossible. It is hideous.

Anthony briefly considers asking Adelaide’s take on this, if she knows anything about the inexplicable lack of daughters in this town. He banishes the thought just as quickly. On their way to the housing district, Adelaide took nearly every wrong turn, her wide eyed gaze lingering on buildings like she’s never seen them before. She couldn’t have been living here that much longer than Anthony has. No good answers would be coming from her.

The more he investigates, the more Anthony is convinced no good answers would come forth by the end of this, period.

It is at the Sheriff's house that he finally finds another symbol - it is the small, slanted F again. Anthony sees it on the oakwood desk that Sheriff Reed is folded in two over, like he had risen and tipped forward in a single motion. He scoots the heavy set man’s body to the side with more force than he meant to. “They suck,” Anthony had proclaimed earlier. After hours of going through all of those letters, after reading the Sheriff’s sorry’s to Obi, rife with even more excuses and an even angrier tone (‘I lost my girl too, you sanctimonious old fool! I LOST MY GIRL TOO!!!!’), maybe ‘sucking’ wasn’t a strong enough descriptor.

Anthony stares at the symbol. It does not glow. It does not change in any way. A missing link is not revealed between these symbols and all of the grief stricken letters. But there is one more house to check. The Mayor of Soker’s. Ben Palsey. And then…

And then.

When they step outside, the lighthouse’s beam casts an all encompassing glow on the street. Anthony squints against the glare. Adelaide shields her eyes with the back of her hand. It is getting dark, but he can’t believe that this is how a lighthouse normally functions. Maybe the old Lighthouse Keeper is awake after all. Anthony feels guilty for nearly forgetting about him. He will go into the lighthouse next, after he is finished going through this last house.

They find the Mayor’s snoring figure propped up on his couch. On the coffee table in front of it is a turned over bottle of wine. Deep, dark red liquid covers the entire surface in a thin pool, dribbling off the sides and onto the white carpet. There is wine seeping out of the Mayor’s lips and down his throat. It stains the collar of his white, button up shirt. Anthony swallows. He feels unnerved the longer he stares. Adelaide hovers behind him. She looks at the Mayor intensely, like a bug under a microscope, or an animal about to be prepped for taxidermy. There is a glass dangling from his limp fingers, palms and wrists and finger tips stained red from…the wine.

It is wine.

Anthony hurries to find a towel. He mops up the mess on the coffee table. There is a framed picture knocked over on its back. It is in color, but faded, with a brightly smiling, younger version of the Mayor holding up a huge tuna fish by a hook. On the other side of the fish, and helping him hold it up, is an equally cheerful young man. He is making a silly pose. His steel blue eyes are twinkling with glee.

Anthony gently shakes the stray droplets of wine off of the frame and then carefully sets the picture aside. There is, expectedly (inevitably) a letter on the table as well. It is soaked through. He picks it up by the corner, slowly lifting it so it doesn’t dissolve in his grasp. It is heavy and dyed a light pinkish purple, with a majority of the writing smudged or erased completely. He makes out a few words at the top of the page.

Dear Obi,

My dearest friend…I know what you have done…I’ve said enough sorrys…mean’s nothing…I won’t interfere…you believe God will not have mercy on us. I am counting on it…

The bottom half of the paper tears and falls into the puddle with a moist plop. He releases the other half. He keeps wiping away the wine. it sloshes in waves from the sheer amount. He can see the faint etchings of the F symbol through the red puddle.

“Hangleton, Reed and Palsey,” he mutters, thinking aloud. “They’re the only ones with the little F symbol carved near them. Why? Do they have something in common?” They were all residents, obviously. They all had the letters to Obi, but so did everyone else. The same with the uninhabited extra rooms, or…Anthony needs to admit, as painful as it is…formerly inhabited rooms -

“Titles,” Adelaide says faintly. Her face has paled significantly. She is staring out the window, though he doesn’t know how she can bear it. The light is practically blinding. “They have titles…they’re important people…”

Hangleton, Reed and Palsey. A Landlord, a Sheriff and a Mayor. That tracks well enough, he supposes. But what does it mean? He feels like he has been asking that question for an eternity, instead of half a day. What does this all mean? He wipes away the last bit of wine without a thought. The symbol stares back up at him, but offers no further clarity.

“Do you think - ” He is cut off by the thunderous blaring of a fog horn.

He covers his ears, unconsciously curling up. He thinks he hears Adelaide shriek, but he can barely concentrate beyond the noise pounding against his skull.

Abruptly, the horn ceases its song. Anthony still feels it reverberating through his bones as he slowly rises from his crouched position. The wind howls its rage fiercely against the windows and walls. The pattering of rain is so fast and violent it sounds like gunshots. A sudden storm. Just what they need to complete this nightmare. It’s a good thing he got all the vendors inside earlier, he thinks, as he racks his brain for any memory of any townsfolk laid out in the street. He can recall none. They are all, to the best of his knowledge, accounted for.

Except for the Lighthouse Keeper.

It’s an enclosed space, sure, but it is rundown. Likely leaking, possibly flooding. Maybe even collapsing at this very moment. It is no place for an elderly man on a good day, let alone during a freak storm. Anthony can’t just leave him up there.

He should have checked on him first.

Anthony is moving before his guilt can take root. Adelaide cries out in question, then alarm as he yanks a random coat off a rack by the entryway and flies out the door. The rain is coming down in sheets at a slant, the wind practically blowing him backwards its so strong.

A few moments later, Adelaide appears at his elbow, bumping up close to his side in an attempt to share some warmth. “What are you doing!” She shouts over the winds. She is hunched over, already soaked to the bone.

Anthony whips his too large jacket off and drapes it around her shoulders. It isn’t doing him that much good anyways. “There’s an old man in the lighthouse! It’s too dangerous for him to be up there with the storm!”

It's too dangerous for the two of them to be out in the rain like this on what could very likely be a fool’s quest, as well, but that does not need to be said. The rain is coming down so fast that the water is coming up to their ankles. It is a type of freezing cold that robs you of your warmth, no matter how tightly you tuck your arms in or how much you move. The bright light is dizzying as it reflects against the falling droplets like thousands of diamonds. But she does not ask how he knows for sure if there is anyone in the lighthouse. She follows along. Silent. Steadfast. And so he keeps moving forward.

They march up the hill exiting Sokar, and trudge down the narrow muddy path. Below them the tide is high, the ocean waves crashing and roiling in a fearsome battle. Further out at sea an endlessly long bump of water is rising. It sends a chill up his spine, and sends his feet sloshing through the mud and rain at a faster pace.

When they step into the lighthouse, at last, the cacophony of noise comes to an abrupt halt. So abrupt, that it leaves a continuous, tinny, ringing in Anythony’s ears. It is almost daunting. The smooth, conical walls are cement and very thick, but there should be some indication of the storm outside, right…?

He shakes his head. No time to worry about the acoustics of this building. He moves up the rusty metal stairs. They shake and clatter under his feet. He does not know what he will do if he finds the old man at the top. Carry him back down? The groaning creaks sound like they can barely support him and Adelaide! But he may have to, depending on the state of him. Maybe he can send Adelaide back down first and he can -

His thoughts grind to a screeching halt. It isn’t that the old man is standing, clearly awake, back facing them and manning the lamp. No. The old man looks almost like he…belongs in that position. Like he has always been there - the guiding light for a centuries worth of mariners.

It’s the floor, it’s the walls. They are covered in symbols, little F’s, with the top short lines slanted just so, carved painstakingly by the hundreds, the thousands. They climb up the walls to impossible heights, maybe even covering the shadow touched ceiling. They are carved into the old man’s forearms. The little rivulets of blood dripping down them go unnoticed, form a steadily growing pool at his feet.

“I can find her,” he is muttering. “I can find her, I will find her, I can find her, I will find her…”

He repeats this mantra over and over again, as he adjusts the lamp - an inch to the left, now right, all the way up, and then a smidge down, pointed at the ocean. Anthony is struck dumb by the scene. He isn’t sure if he should interrupt, he doesn’t know how to get his attention without startling him. He is so, so close to the edge of the window. Is he having an episode?

“IcanfindherIcanfindherIcanfindher…”

Through the floor to ceiling, glassless windows (a gaping hole, really), the water has risen to eye level. Terror lances through him. Dear God, that has to be a tsunami…

“H-hey!” Anthony cries. He doesn’t care that his voice is breaking. They have to get down from here. They have to get down from here! Take as much cover as they can, for all the good it would do - no! They have to at least try. He won’t go down not trying, damnit! “HEY! We have to go!”

The old man ignores him. staring at the rising, rising water, his light bathing it in a golden glow.

“Please! We need to leave right now!” Nothing. It’s always been nothing. The water is climbing higher. Will it ever reach its apex? Will it rise all the way into the sky?

“OBI!”

The old man jerk’s his head in Anthony’s direction at his desperate call, the barest hint of acknowledgement.

Well, Anthony thinks hysterically, at least he will die knowing one mystery is solved.

But the water never crashes into them, wiping the three of them from the face of this planet in one, soundless strike.

The water…parts. Like a massive, liquid curtain. Behind which is a figure that has Anthony rooted in place. Long, thick, tentacles protrude out of the back of a skull. The skin wrapped around it is tight and thin and a grayish green, the eyes a bulbous, luminous yellow. Ribs and bone are exposed from the torn and stretched skin of the human like torso. The hips transition into a fish’s tail - a shark’s tail - completely devoid of flesh, an endless amount of bones jammed against each other, to the point of jutting out in painful looking angles.

Some might call this thing a mermaid. Anthony would call it the harbinger of their end.

Somehow, Anthony manages to tear his eyes away from the horrible behemoth. The old man is staring at him fully now. Tears are falling from his steel blue eyes, and his smile is wide and genuine. He nods at him, (why. WHY!) and then turns back to his light, to the monster in the sea.

Before Anthony can try to implore the old man to come with them again, Adelaide grips his hand forcefully and pulls him away.

“COME ON!” she bellows, and drags him down the stairs with a strength that belies her smaller size. The last thing he sees is the old man raising his arms up, blood dripping down into his face, smiling the smile of a man coming home at last.

They run down the stairs. They run out the door and down the muddy path. Adelaide moves them at a punishing pace, her grip on his hand vice like, and damp, and icy, icy cold. It has stopped raining. The tide has gone down. Figures are crawling onto the beach. Their upper halves are that of young women, hair tangled with kelp and debris, skin pale and bloated, eyes white and unseeing, barnacles and crabs sticking to them like a corpses' jewelry. Their lower halves are long, elegant fish tails that wriggle erratically behind them. They are moving slowly, clawing at the mud and sand as they push mindlessly forward, until, one by one, their tails split gruesomely (cracking bones and wet, tearing flesh echoing through the night) into legs. And they rise up, walking jerkily, but much faster, and gaining speed, revealing the split in their bellies. A mouth with rows and rows of sharp teeth.

Anthony can’t keep his eyes away from them, even as Adelaide ruthlessly yanks him down the path, not letting go no matter how many times he stumbles. The creatures are different heights, their hair a variety of blonde and brunette. One of the creature’s that gets halfway up the steps built into the hill sways dazedly from side to side. A necklace with a puzzle piece hangs off of her neck.

Anthony wants to be sick. He wants to scream. What have they done? What has he done? “Keep moving!” Adelaide barks at him. “Don’t stop!”

They arrive at his Grandmother Allison’s house. The sky is clear of fog and clouds. In the distance, the lighthouse beams its saving light out into the ocean. In the distance, the leviathan leans forward, like she will engulf the lighthouse into her endless embrace.

He can hear screams. Rising and falling like the gentle waves of a calm sea.

“Go,” Adelaide says, stern. She gives him a none too gentle push towards his truck. Or maybe he is just so exhausted that a minor touch might send him to the ground. “And never, ever, return.”

She turns around and does something so mad that it takes a few moments for Anthony to comprehend; she starts heading back down the path.

“W-wait. Adela - Adelaide! Where are you - come with me! What are you doing?” He forces his trembling legs to follow her. “You don’t have to - ”

She stops in place. He finds himself stopping a few paces behind. She looks at him over her shoulder, just a peak. Just enough for him to see one steely blue eye.

Anthony wants to ask her, beg her, to come with him again. But he can’t seem to work his jaw, and there is a heaviness in his chest - pressing down on his chest.

“Thank you,” she says, and smiles. It is wide. It is kind. It is stretching further up, too far. Splitting her cheek, revealing too many sharp teeth. “You found her”

#mermay 2024 #creative writing #writblr #writers on tumblr #original writing #fiction #short story #long post #my writing #my ocs #horror #seaside #lighthouse core #mystery #nordic #lgbtq+#dunno if ill continue this #would like to explore Ant's story more in the future #or plop him somewhere else

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