#furfur uh probably not so much | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kyuu-rereads-umineko · 7 years

Text

Ep6, Chapter 8 & 9 (Part 1)

“think of her as my daughter” “is it okay if i date her then” “what” “what”

The chapter opens on Kumasawa and Chick in... Uh, Battler’s meta-study? I guess? who even knows anymore

The two of them set out a plate of cookies for Battler. D’aww.

In, uh... i don’t even know anymore but at any rate, Elder comments on Chick “sparing no efforts for the sake of her beloved Father.” Yasu really, truly loved Battler, didn’t she...

“To think that I would give Battler cookies... Why should I, the ruler of the night, do so much for a guest who comes so rarely?” lol

Ooof, and then Battler returns, clearly not too happy to see Chick and Kumasawa there. Kumasawa explains that Chick baked the cookies on the table for him as a gift.

“Battler looked at the plate on the study desk that was piled up with beautiful cookies... and the message card of encouragement lying next to it, and his face twisted with a complex expression, which might have had traces of both sadness and anger contained within it...”

He does thank her for the gift, but goes on to say he “doesn’t like sweets.” “I am grateful for her feelings. ...I’m in the middle of a vital game right now. This is the final game... and it’s vital both for me... and Beato as well. So please. Try not to trouble me any more than is necessary.”

Kumasawa balks and tries convincing Battler to at least try one, clearly quite upset about it. “Master, do you think there might be poison inside them!?”

“...Yeah. If Beato ever came to give me cookies... Of course I’d think that she’d put some kind of crazy poison in them...” I can’t help but feel sympathetic for both of them, here. Battler’s wracked with guilt over the end of the last game and what he did to Beato, and Chick doesn’t understand what she’s done wrong (because she hasn’t, really) to warrant the cold treatment he’s giving her... It’s really sad.

In Featherine’s study, Ange seems unsure of what to think. “I don’t have a clue why Onii-chan and Beato act so friendly together. Right now, I think of Beato as our greatest enemy, the one we must defeat... Still, even so... As a woman, I... can’t say I like Onii-chan’s reaction.”

“Onii-chan’s reason for defeating Beato isn’t to destroy an enemy out of hatred... It feels like he wants to give a sincere answer to her questions.”

“...Beatrice. I want to ask you something.” wait is this

“When Ange asked her question, Beato, who had been reading a Fragment book in the shadows of the study, jumped.” oh fuck it is

i was going to say “so let’s recap here” and go over the like fifty different layers of meta here but i don’t even know where to start, oh well let’s try anyway

so we’re reading a story (umineko) about a story (forgery dawn) written by a character in-universe (tohya) about two characters (featherine and ange) reading a story (kakera dawn) about another character (beato), and ange turns around to ask someone else (also beato) a question about the story she is in

i hate this

Anyways, back on track. Ange cuts right to the point, asking Chick why she calls Battler “Father.” She repeats what she’s said before - that Battler created her - and Ange asks why she’s so dedicated to him in the first place. “It’s almost as though... that’s your goal as a piece.”

“Yes... That is the goal that gave birth to me.” Ange asks if Battler gave her that role, and Featherine clarifies that he merely “set a piece with that goal” on the board - and, furthermore, that the first game master - Beato as we know her - was the one to create Chick to begin with.

“...Aaaah, this is getting confusing.” ANGE

Ange summarizes that Chick calls Battler “Father” affectionately, in part because he was the one to put her on the board to begin with, and then asks who gave her the goal of devoting herself to Battler in the first place - only to realize that the answer is the original Beato, who isn’t around to explain anymore.

“I will... do anything for Father... My existence will bring him happiness. ...That is my one and only pleasure... And... And... if I could one day have Father acknowledge my efforts... it would be my one and only joy...”

oh god hope started playing help

“...What the hell. If you only wanted to serve him, I’d say you’re just another furniture of the witch... but you want him to acknowledge your efforts? That’s less like furniture and more like...” And then it clicks: “That’s less like furniture and more like... you’re just a girl... who loves Onii-chan.”

“The guiding force behind this Beato’s actions... is that of a girl who adores Onii-chan. But then, what does that make this Beato? If the first Beato liked Onii-chan, then she should’ve adored him and done things for him herself. Why would she create ‘a piece of herself,’ a separate entity, to do it...? This way... even if she does attract Onii-chan’s attention, it will be towards the piece version of herself, not the creator who made that piece. [...] It’s as though this love is destined to go unrewarded... No matter how devoted she is, she will never get anything out of it.”

“That’s right... This Beato was created as a ‘piece’... because of an impossible reason...”

Ange and Chick discuss the old Beato a bit more, and Chick decides to start calling Battler “Battler-san” instead of Father. She goes back to reading her Fragment book, as dedicated as ever...

Back in the tale itself, Battler’s sitting alone in the study. “There was no colour in this dimly lit room. However... for just the short time that the plate of cookies had been placed there, the room had seemed at least a little cheery...”

He summons an image of the cookies on the desk and just sorta looks at them... then summons a piece of the old Beato. “Come ooon, have a bite~ It’s not every day that I’ll make these by hand...! Have no fear, I’m confident in how well they’ve turned out.”

One by one, he summons a few of the other magic characters - Ronove, Virgilia, Gaap, etc. - and has them make a pithy comment of some sort. Battler ends up reaching out for the plate, only for everyone to disappear just before he touches it... that is, everyone except for Beato.

Even though this is basically a conversation Battler’s having with himself, there’s a lot of interest to it. “...The more the new ‘me’ differs from the form you wished for... the more you are reminded that I can never be revived again, correct...?” Battler starts crying, though he also says, “If you never appear again... that’d be a relief.”

“The ‘me’ you were expecting... has already disappeared. My soul, femininity, sparkling personality, and splendid character were cultivated in a thousand years spent as a witch. Unless an exactly identical thousand years is traversed, it is impossible to become me.” Battler comments that Bern’s already guaranteed Beato will never be revived, and Beato retorts that Battler’s hoping for it regardless.

“One day, the new ‘me’ trips and lands on her head, and all her memories of the past are restored! ...You were hoping for something like that, weren’t you? Ahahahahahaha! A delusional plot like that wouldn’t even pass in a light novel these days!”

Battler comments that Beato was hoping for pretty much the same thing from him in the past, and she goes silent. “Does this mean... that our relationship... is exactly the opposite now of how it once was...?”

“...Well, at times, I did continue the game believing that you would eventually notice and remember, that a miracle would occur.” Battler asks her how it felt, and she cackles and tells him to “look inside his own heart.”

Battler reflects on how maybe he’d be able to cope better if Chick didn’t like the same as Beato herself, and she says, “Well, do as you wish. In the past, I toyed with you and tormented you... Now’s your chance for revenge against me.”

“...I would if it was you. It’d probably make me feel a lot better. ...But... that Beato... isn’t you.”

“Because the new Beato seems like a different person, I can’t accept her. Even though I know she’s a different person... she keeps reminding me of Beato’s face.”

“In that case... why not think of her as my daughter?”

oh no thanks for being born is playing now I’m actually crying

“She does share my blood, so consider her a daughter that closely resembles me. After all, she is my double, but hasn’t lived a thousand years, so calling her that is not incongruous. Imagine that I have died, left behind a daughter... and entrusted her to you. That way, won’t it become a little easier to think of how to deal with her?”

“You are free to press my likeness upon her. You may also let loose your pent up resentment on her in my place. Making her bear my sins and torturing her as you please may calm your grudge. If that doesn’t match your tastes, you can also guide her down the right path so that she does not end up on the inhumane road that I have tread. [...] ...With a miracle of a thousand years, she might even become me.”

With that, Battler realizes just how harsh he was being to Chick earlier, and notices that the card she left with her cookies is on the floor... except he can’t read it through his tears (or the ink is smudged by his tears, I’m not entirely sure which tbh).

Meanwhile, back on the board, Shannon, George, Kanon, and Jessica have been transported into Zepar and Furfur’s smoking room... lounge... thing. magic gonna magic

Shannon’s apparently told George a bit about what’s going to happen, leaving Jessica as the only one completely in the dark. He mentions “a test for a pair of lovers,” though.

Shannon and Kanon put the two halves of the brooch back together, and it shatters, unleashing Zepar and Furfur. YESSSS HERE WE GO

BEAAATORIIIIIIIIICHEEE

And then the two Beatos appear, right... Elder introduces Chick as her “double and little sister.” bern wasn’t kidding when she said beatrice didn’t necessarily mean “a single woman” back in ????1 huh

Zepar and Furfur explain that with the brooch broken, their work is almost done - “It was decided when the contract was made. It was decided that we must lend our power one more time before our final farewell.”

“So, this is truly the final miracle!”

Elder goes on to explain. “Those gathered here are ones cursed to have unsuccessful love unless a miracle occurs. The power of the golden butterfly brooch, which can grant this miracle, is your last chance, and like it or not, this chance is limited to this evening! This miracle can be given only to a single pair!”

Jessica does not take this well at all, understandably. When Shannon asks, Kanon says, “I didn’t know... how I should explain it.” Chick expresses confusion as well, asking Elder if she can’t explain it any better.

“With our blessing, the pair can cultivate their love at their leisure! No need to worry about suspicious demons!” “However, without our blessing, your love will vanish, disappear, wither, and decay.” Jessica angrily asks why.

“Because it is fate!! You may choose not to accept it, you may choose not to resist it!!” yeah i feel like i should have something to say here but really this is pretty blatant isn’t it

“Ushiromiya Jessica, the future you two share is far more grim than you realize.” YEAH NO KIDDING

Elder repeats what’s been said before - unless he and Jessica win, Kanon will end up leaving the island, never to return. “You will probably leave the island yourself in search of the one you love, but such a venture will doubtless be in vain!”

Jessica’s pretty angry, but she remembers something Kanon told her a long time ago - namely, that if Shannon were to ever stop working on Rokkenjima, he’d probably quit as well. Yasu really did think of everything, didn’t she?

On the other hand, if Kanon and Jessica were to win, Kanon would stay on the island with her, and they’d be able to develop their relationship from there... but, in return, George and Shannon won’t get together, though it’s not explained why (yet, at least).

“Without the power of the golden butterfly brooch, neither love is fated to bear fruit.”

Jessica, understandably, asks why the hell that is, and Elder replies, “It is due to your sin of falling in love with furniture, which is not allowed to love.”

George suggests looking at it as a test “to see who can display the strength of their feelings more strongly.”

“When I gave Shannon that engagement ring, I swore to fight all trials and barriers that stand in my way. ...No matter how unreasonable or incomprehensible these trials might be... I cannot choose to avoid them.”

“...We must fight openly for that single miracle. Even if I lose at the end... I’ll be able to accept it if we both gave it our all. And because of that, I will be able to cheer on the victors from the bottom of my heart.”

Shannon apologizes, saying that she’s “determined not to flinch in her resolve,” despite knowing what’ll inevitably happen to Jessica and Kanon’s relationship if she and George win. God, I can understand why Yasu would’ve felt so horrible about this...

“Love brings about conflict, and this conflict gives rise to determination. As the demons of love, [Zepar and Furfur] could understand more fully than any others how noble that determination was...” god

And then Elder comments that Chick is just as eligible for this miracle as the other two pairs of lovers. Hey readers are we getting the hint here yet huh

“With the miracle of the golden butterfly brooch... even your wish... your wish that your affection for Battler will be acknowledged, can be granted easily. ...And without a miracle... you also can never be bound to him.”

Zepar and Furfur state that they were planning on including Chick from the beginning. Jessica, Kanon, George, and Shannon all agree to it and restate their resolve, and Elder asks Chick if she feels the same way.

“...Yes... If there is even a small chance that Father - ah, no... that Battler-san will acknowledge me, I’m willing to put myself on the line.”

And so the demons of love declare, “Let’s begin this trial of lovers, the fight over a single miracle of magic...!!”

Meanwhile, Erika’s gone up to her room on the second floor of the guesthouse. This time around, it’s on the other end of the hall from the cousins’ room. gg batora

She tries making some of her duct tape (or packing tape, as of the Mangagamer release, but we haven’t switched to that yet so shhh) seals from the previous game, only to find out it’s not sticky enough to be used for... pretty much anything, let alone her seals.

“Letting Erika get her hands on duct tape gave her a fatal weapon to use against witches.” i’m just quoting this because i love how it sounds out of context

Dlanor points out that in all likelihood, any substitutes for the tape have also been tampered with, meaning Erika’s out of luck. She kinda takes it in stride and flops over on the bed, clearly in a bad mood.

“...Why do you hate magic, Lady Erika? [Maria’s cup-and-candy magic] was nothing more than a foolish trick to deceive CHILDREN. Everyone knew THAT... Was it really necessary to go so far to destroy that ILLUSION?”

Erika replies with, “Well, I am a self-proclaimed intellectual rapist. I can’t stand having magic confuse the truth.” Dlanor can tell that there’s something other than just “pleasure” behind her actions, though. Erika denies it and turns away, then starts talking to... herself, probably.

“I love you.” SHIP SHIP SHIP (nah i don’t actually ship it sorry)

Erika proceeds to go through random bits from her backstory, from the niceties her then-boyfriend told her to some of the strange things that started popping up - a new wallet, new cologne, suddenly having a part-time job, and so on.

“I found tons of evidence that I loved you. I found tons of evidence that you loved me. But I couldn’t find any evidence that you haven’t been cheating on me.”

“If you really find it that hard to trust me, we’re through. Stay away, just go home, bitch, I don’t love you anymore. Don’t cry dammit, it’s disgusting. Just die. Stop shouting, dammit, you’re annoying the neighbourhood. Just get the hell away from me and never come back.”

“...Without love, it cannot be seen? ...Hah. That’s backwards. Because of love, you end up seeing things that don’t even exist. It’s nothing more than an illusion, one that no one except you can see, and one that even you can never touch. Without love, humans would never need to sift through truth and lies.”

I’m pretty sure I already said it, but... Man, even if I’m guilty of not looking at Erika with enough ‘love’, her backstory here falls completely flat for me. For one thing, it’s coming after she had so much fun tormenting Natsuhi in Ep5 and destroying Maria’s illusion in the lounge earlier - it ends up feeling to me like a pithy attempt to make her sympathetic, and... it just doesn’t work. I can’t quite put my finger on why it doesn’t work for Erika, when we’ve got other terrible characters like Rosa and Kinzo (and even Yasu, to an extent) running around, but... it just doesn’t.

Part of that, and the second thing, is that Erika’s backstory just doesn’t make sense to me. While we’re never given an exact number, the narrative does say that she’s younger than Jessica and Battler, putting her around 16 or 17 at the oldest (I’m not sure where I got 14 from, don’t ask). This backstory? Suggests a woman who’s in her 20′s or late teens at the youngest to me, not someone who’s in middle school. I mean, yeah, sure, willing suspension of disbelief, plus as Bern’s piece who knows what the hell kind of person Erika was to begin with, but... it just doesn’t work for me.

...Though I suppose it’s kinda funny that one of the themes I like about Umineko so much - how two different, contradictory options are both “true” - is what trips me up with Erika, huh?

At any rate. “Right now, I am happy... Though it may be temporary, I have become the Witch of Truth. ...As I am now... I no longer need to worry about being tormented by non-red words.”

Erika ask Dlanor how she’d respond to her accusations, and the two of them re-enact the “game” Erika had against her boyfriend. It’s horrifically one-sided, in Erika’s favour.

Before leaving, Dlanor says, “A splendid game, Lady Erika. Even before you became Lady Bernkastel’s piece, you truly were a splendid wielder of the blue TRUTH... However, Lady Erika. Humans are only allowed to use the blue TRUTH. The only thing that can counter blue truth is red TRUTH. Humans are not allowed to use the red TRUTH... In that case, how should your opponent have shown his TRUTH?”

Erika just sorta replies with “who knows.” I’ll admit to feeling a pang of sympathy for her here...

“...You certainly were the victor in that GAME. However, allow me to say this as a protector of the TRUTH. [...] ...This game is your VICTORY. However... you still have not denied the six points of blue truth evidence that I showed to claim that I still loved YOU. ...Even you are HUMAN. You cannot use red truth to deny those POINTS.”

Erika smugly replies that she “used the detective’s authority” to have her argument elevated to red truth. “I am human, yet superior to humans. A detective and a witch. I am the Witch of Truth, Furudo Erika. Any other questions? Parting remarks?”

Dlanor hesitantly says no and leaves, leaving Erika laughing bitterly on her own. Glancing at the clock, she notices that it’s almost midnight.

“The curtain has finally opened on the second day, October 5th. ...I wonder if the murder this time is happening somewhere about now. I hope our victims leave us some interesting dying messages this time.” yikes™

Elsewhere, George is confronting Eva about his engagement with Shannon. it’s finally murder time

#kyuutext #umineko #umineko no naku koro ni chiru #dawn of the golden witch

2 notes · View notes

sending-the-message · 7 years

Text

Furfur by Ilunibi

Going to college was hard on both me and Dead Coyote. Of course he was proud of me--he’d watched me juggle exorcisms and calculus the entire time I was in high school--but we’d grown comfortable with one another’s presence. Dependent, I guess is a less nice way to put it in my case. He could take care of himself a bit more than I could take care of me, and I didn’t realize it until I was standing in my dorm with my scant few belongings that I honestly had no idea what the hell I was going to do with myself.

Eighteen. Free. Lucky enough to get a room to myself. Yet, there I was, standing dead in the center of a bare-bones room staring at the full-length mirror on the back of the door, confused and scared and honestly wishing that I could just throw my acceptance letter in the face of the dean and go back home. Home, of course, being Dead Coyote’s couch. I know it smelled like skunk and Camel cigarettes, but it was also warm and cozy and familiar.

And welcoming. I didn’t exactly feel wanted in college.

Most people who practice my particular craft don’t advertise it because it’s a pretty isolating way of living, even with other believers. I found out after trying to join the pagan alliance on campus that the little Wiccan do-gooders who preached about white magic and crystals didn’t fancy the idea of including a newcomer whose entire magical history revolved around the Ars Goetia and necromancy. They heard “left-hand path” and assumed that I was some misguided, edgy freshman or some poor, lost soul who was destined to live a dark and miserable life brought upon me by vengeful demons and restless raccoon ghosts. I told myself they were just intimidated by the fact that I had nearly a decade of experience and actually got results, that they were all fad-witches who’d give it up once it stopped making them feel like manic pixie dream girls, though I knew honestly that I was just bitter and lonely.

I talked pretty frequently to Dead Coyote, though, and that was my respite. Where most college kids would call their mom to ask how to do their laundry or cook a meal that wasn’t ramen and Kraft dinner, I’d call and ask about whether candle color mattered for casual non-Goetic invocations, how to get wax out of carpeting, and how to keep a smoke alarm from going off. The latter he had a few different answers to for several different reasons, and I appreciated his expertise. It probably saved me a fine or two.

One week became two weeks became a month, and I really hadn’t made any friends or done anything beyond my basic, nightly rituals and piles upon piles of homework. Fortunately, by the time August ended and September began, I found that I was perfectly capable of operating like an adult and even found a couple of casual acquaintances who’d wave at me in public. It still wasn’t the same, though. Going back to an empty dorm was a blessing and a curse because, while I didn’t have to worry about somebody asking me why I had satchels of grass drying in my window and candles stockpiled in my closet like I was preparing for Armageddon, I also didn’t have anyone to sit around and shoot the shit with. And honestly, years of being part of a team made magic on my own feel painfully lonely and much less powerful.

“Princess, you are just forty-five minutes away,” Dead Coyote groaned into the phone when I called him, crying.

“I don’t have a car, DC.”

“Yeah, but you know who does? Me. Do you wanna hang this weekend or what?”

I told him that it would be a waste of gas to drive me back and forth. He told me it would be worth the trip. While he’d enjoyed the calm in my absence for the first few days, the quiet was starting to grate on his nerves. And, if I felt so strongly about him spending his cash on gas, he’d just stop by and visit me to cut down on fuel. If I wanted him to stay the whole weekend, hell, he’d just sleep in his car. He’d slept in worse places, he said, though I told him I’d rather him not elaborate. I didn’t want to know what was more disgusting than the backseat of his Grand Prix.

When he arrived, my RA--who just so happened to be one of the leaders of the pagan alliance--eyeballed him suspiciously in the lobby as she tapped her pen against the clipboard with the visitor registry. I can still remember the look of disbelief on her face, tucking her chin down and glaring up at me over her glasses. All she would have needed was a wad of gum smacking in her mouth and she’d look like an extra in an ‘80s movie.

“So, is he your--?”

I told her that he was my older brother which, in retrospect, was a dumb idea. I’m pretty sure that if somebody was asked to draw the polar opposite of me in every way, they would have had a quick sketch of Dead Coyote. She shifted her gaze between us and offered us the tightest, most unconvincing smile I’ve ever seen a person manage.

“I’ll just put down he’s your… uh, boyfriend.”

Dead Coyote laughed a little harder than he should have.

If he felt awkward stomping around a crowded building full of awkward college girls, he didn’t show it. They definitely felt that he was out of place, though, gawking and whispering as I just kept chirping at the side of his head about local gossip while he listed off my neighbors and classmates who’d gotten knocked up, arrested, and knocked up then arrested. It was satisfying to hear that, after I was off to college to make something of myself, Jessica Schneider had found her final form as a white-trash party girl who had been locked up after being found with cocaine in her possession. I shouldn’t have laughed, but I was petty enough to still hate her.

While we chatted, I noticed Dead Coyote growing more and more distracted the further we went down the hall. My room was situated at the very end next to a dead light but his eyes kept drifting around like he was looking for something--or someone--in particular. By the time we were at the middle of the corridor, he was casting worried glances over his shoulder, and at the end, he was walking completely backwards. The girl who lived across from me cursed at him when he nearly mowed her down, but he didn’t seem to notice she existed. His brows were furrowed, his lip raised in a mix of disgust and bewilderment, but try as I might I could not figure out what he was looking at.

Residents? A chip in the wall? A bug? Somebody’s gaudy door decoration? Given who it was, he honestly could have been distracted by anything. Even after getting clean-ish, his attention span was as bad as his memory.

When I opened the door, he gently bumped me inside with his hip and ducked in after me like getting to my room was a stealth operation. It shut with a bang that echoed like a gunshot and I realized that I hadn’t even had a chance to get my key out of the lock. I stared at him, he stared at me. After a moment of me drawling like an idiot while I tried to decide whether to ask him what his problem was or if I could get my key, he plopped down on my bed and nodded his head toward the door.

“Who’s in room 14B?”

I didn’t know. When I told him, his confusion turned to concern and he immediately began to ransack my desk. Ignoring anything scandalous he found, he dragged out a pad of yellow legal paper and the fattest marker he could find, scribbling a magic triangle dead in the center with a single word of wisdom bolded and underlined directly beneath it.

STOP.

And with that, he was out the door. I followed him through a smattering of freshman girls as he explained, a bit too loudly, that something was very, very wrong in room 14B. I flinched as a few of them tittered when he started into the metaphysics, preaching darkness and bad vibes and demonology. Yet, more than the embarrassment of being exposed to a few nonbelievers, I was intrigued because I couldn’t really wrap my mind around not being the only practitioner on campus who dabbled in anything heavier than aromatherapy and meditating under trees. Hell, I was almost hopeful.

The stuff he told me was admittedly pretty grim, though. There was power coming from that room, like electricity, and he had no idea how I hadn’t noticed before. He thought he’d taught me better than that. Whatever it was, he said he could feel that the air was so charged that it was nearly painful. The kind of static that makes your hair stand on end and your arms break out in goose skin and makes your head pulse and your teeth hurt.

“They’re up to something and they suck at it, and it’s gonna backfire like a sonuvabitch,,” he explained in front of me and a curious blonde clutching a bowl of Captain Crunch. He stopped in front of 14B, glowered at the tacky cork board hanging on the door, and unceremoniously unpinned a happy little note written in glittery purple pen. It was quickly replaced with his warning, a warning he then had to explain to Cereal Girl after she asked with a full mouth what the fancy triangle was for.

The rest of the day went pretty smoothly, thankfully. Dead Coyote taught me a few new invocations, he helped me with some spells I’d been tinkering with, we threw rocks at cars, and I got to eat actual food that wasn’t the prison-slop the dining hall shelled out. It’s hard to imagine that there was ever a day where an A&W burger would make anyone feel like they were sitting at a banquet in the halls of Valhalla, but you do not understand how special it felt to be eating food that wasn’t university pizza.

After he returned me to my humble abode and picked a parking lot to camp in, I found the RA office empty and the lobby strangely quiet. I tromped up to my floor and started down the hall, taking a quick glance at 14B to see if the message had been received. I half expected it to still be there, but it was gone, ripped off so violently that I could see a shred of lined paper still clinging to the cork board. It was concerning, but I decided I wasn’t the person to fight Dead Coyote’s battles for him.

“Miranda wasn’t happy.”

A voice stopped me and I turned, curious, to see the girl with the bowl of cereal from earlier. This time she had a Hot Pocket, munching as nonchalantly as she had been before. If Dead Coyote ever had a spirit animal, I’m pretty sure it would be Cereal Girl.

I asked who Miranda was and Cereal Girl looked back at room 14B and pursed her sauce-stained lips.

“Miranda? The RA? You really don’t know who she is?”

The RA? That was a shock. I remembered back to my very brief attempt at interacting with the pagan alliance and how she had been so fucking bitter when I told her what it was I did in my spare time. Her, with her pretty auburn curls and her button nose and bohemian earrings and weird, sepia-tinted Instagram selfies. She was the kind of person to shop at Whole Foods and refuse to wear a bra because they were against the will of Mother Gaia. She was not exactly the type of girl I pegged as being capable of setting off all of Dead Coyote’s alarms.

But, I didn’t tell Cereal Girl this. I just told her that, aside from some brief interactions here and there, I wasn’t really familiar with her. I didn’t even know that was her room. I hadn’t even known her name.

“Huh. Weird. ‘Cause she knew exactly who left her that note. I didn’t even have to tell her.”

She gestured at my room at the end of the hall and told me she’d returned the favor. A cold fear filled my stomach and it dropped like a rock straight through the rest of me. While I doubted that somebody on the fast road to fucking up basic ceremonial magic could do much to threaten me, she was still somebody who was on the fast road to fucking up basic ceremonial magic and that was dangerous in and of itself. And if she had it out for me? Hoo, boy, she may not hit me, but with how tedious and detail-oriented it all is, I could imagine what she could do to herself or somebody else.

When I reached my door, though, all that was taped to it was a flowery piece of stationery with a single crest on it: Glasyalabolas. No pentacles, no Sigillum Dei, nothing. Just the crest of Glasylabolas, drawn incorrectly in that same purple gel pen as the note Dead Coyote unpinned from her door. Honestly, it was kind of amusing, but I knew enough to take it as a threat. Even if she was horribly inept, she still had the audacity to try to summon the patron demon of manslaughter in my dorm room. I briefly wondered what she would think if she knew I’d danced with that dog before.

“Okay, what does that mean?” Cereal Girl asked. I untaped the paper, took a pencil out of my bag, and wrote Miss Miranda a note on the back. My new friend trailed me as I walked back to 14B but I never said a word. I just left my new nemesis a friendly little bit of advice for her to find the next morning.

That’s not how this works. Stop it.

As soon as I woke up the following day, I was out at Dead Coyote’s camping spot and climbing in the passenger’s seat of his car. I resolved that I would just spend a lazy Sunday outside of my dorm so I wouldn’t have to think too hard about Miranda and her hypocrisy. We wound up near some nature trail just outside of town and the entire day was spent talking about life and our ambitions and getting back to the basics of him teaching me Spanish profanity and me telling him about my days at school.

We only decided to head back to civilization when the sun started hanging low in the sky, Dead Coyote pitching his last cigarette and sighing, “Well, princess, let’s get you home.”

We only made it partway.

There’s a stretch of road just down the hill from my old dorm that was typically lit up like Vegas at night. I guess enough pedestrians complained that drivers nearly killed them and enough drivers complained about the people-shaped deer that the city council decided it was a good idea to make sure daytime never ended in that one spot. I didn’t immediately get worried when, for the first time in ever, we cruised up the street in pitch-black nothingness, but the closer we got to my final destination for the night I began to feel a prickling across my skin, like static. Side-eying Dead Coyote proved he wasn’t really reacting to it, but the tingle became a burn and that burn became a sharp prick of pain. I flinched in my seat, then smashed into the dashboard as Dead Coyote slammed the brakes.

I would have cussed, but when I looked up, Dead Coyote was staring dead ahead like an alien spacecraft had landed in front of his car. Nose bleeding, I peeked over the edge of the dashboard and struggled to focus my eyes. For a second, all I saw was color and movement: swaying and pale gray. It hurt to look at and the sharp prick of pain grew into a throbbing, stabbing warmth that roiled in my belly and tried to tear its way out of my skin.

“Oh. Shit.”

Dead Coyote’s voice was low, level, but his eyes were pure panic. I saw why when my double vision finally melded together and there, standing in the middle of the road, was a pallid deer with bright, blazing eyes. They were the same color as lightning, hot and white but, for whatever reason, my brain interpreted it as blue.

“Oh… shit,” I echoed, watching as the deer--with strangely human confidence--raised its antlered head high and sauntered across the road. Dead Coyote watched quietly, poked his head out of the car window, and mumbled under his breath as it vanished into the trees. Even outside of the glare of his headlights, it still seemed to give off its own ghastly glow.

He pulled over immediately, dug through the trash in his floorboard for his emergency cigarettes, then jumped across me to grab a flashlight from his glove box. And some chalk. And every leftover salt packet he had collected from every fast food restaurant he’d been to in the past twelve months, which he ripped open and dumped into the chest pocket on his flannel jacket.

“Get out of the car, princess. You know what that was.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. We both knew what and who had just traipsed past us and the fact that he was just wandering around freely like a stray dog did not bode well for anyone or anything in his path.

Furfur.

You can go ahead and giggle at the name--it’s kind of stupid--but if you ignore the name and look to the meat of the matter, Furfur is not the kind of demon you’d want to square off with. Grimoire entries about him are vague and make him seem non-threatening--a mischievous deer who compulsively lies and likes shiny rocks and playing Cupid--but the problem with those entries is that they’re so vague because controlling him is an absolute bitch that nobody wants to bother with. Only under very specific circumstances will he work with a conjurer and, even then, you have to have every failsafe in check to keep him honest. If he’s dishonest, he will waste no time in trying to talk you down the most self-destructive path he can manage.

Dead Coyote, in his younger days, found that out the hard way.

More concerning though was that he was physically there, skin, bones, antlers, and all. Now, even though a lot of these stories I’ve told you would make you think that ceremonial magic is flash, pizazz, and physical interaction, you have to remember that the stories I pick out are ones that are unique and interesting. Most people into ceremonial magic never see anything overtly odd in their entire lives, and even those of us who have experience intense feelings more than we actually get a gander at the big guys. Even if you do see them up-close and personal, they’re normally bound. They can’t really leave where they were summoned, at least if you’re doing it right.

But somebody wasn’t doing it right.

I don’t even think we checked to see if anyone was coming before we bolted across the road--Dead Coyote scrambling over the hood of the car in his panic--and we ran a pretty fair distance before either of us thought to turn on the flashlight. Stumbling, hissing, spitting, we tore through the underbrush even as it threatened to tear through us, blackberry briars and switch-worthy shrubs grabbing at our clothes and lashing across our faces. I felt blood dripping down my forehead and my arms and saw Dead Coyote with briar-covered vines wrapped around his jeans and twigs stuck in his hair. The entire time, he was grumbling and groaning like a teenager bitching about doing his chores.

“Stupid goddamn 14B bitch thinks she knows what she’s doin’ but she don’t know, princess, she has no goddamned idea what she’s doin’ and she’s lucky as fuck that I’m here because I actually read more than one goddamned motherfucking piece of shit book on the subject unlike her dumbass and I fucking swear, princess, she better hope I don’t find her ‘cause--”

This went on for a while. One continuous sentence without so much as a pause that lasted all the way to a clearing among the trees that eventually faded into what looked like a local farm. Overgrown wild grass was separated from trimmed grazing ground by a rickety wooden fence, the entire expanse illuminated by the moon. And there, standing proudly like he was waiting for us, was the deer.

Dead Coyote reached for the salt in his pocket. Through some chance miracle, our stomping around in the underbrush between the street and the clearing hadn’t ripped a hole in it. I expressed concern pretty much immediately about how effective salt would be against a bona fide Goetic power, but he just glowered at me and huffed a tangled strand of hair out of his face.

“Princess, the only thing better than salt is holy water, and I ain’t packin’ that today. I do have, like, what? Half a cup of Burger King salt? We make do, a’ight?”

Slowly, we crept toward the deer. Looking back, I’m not quite sure why, as Furfur was watching us the whole time, painfully aware of what we were doing, rigid and strong and unwavering. He didn’t really believe we would do anything to him, or that we could even if we tried. Part of me wants to believe it was out of habit--deer are normally so easily spooked--but I know that I was absolutely petrified. I had never encountered anything so strong that was unbound, and I could still remember that feeling of electricity and pain in my stomach when we nearly hit it with the car. I didn’t want to be near Furfur but I knew in the bottom of my heart that the only person qualified to get rid of him in the area was Dead Coyote, and armed only with salt packets? Well, he sure as shit couldn’t do it alone.

We were almost within salt-throwing distance when Furfur turned to me and smiled. Human teeth in a deer mouth, stretched as wide as it could, grinning at me with a glint of curiosity and maliciousness in its eyes. That tearing feeling in my abdomen came back and every nerve in my skin flared to life like a thousand white-hot pins were being jammed into me. Dead Coyote opened his mouth to speak, but his voice trailed off when I keeled over.

“Lonely. Empty.”

Furfur’s voice was an echoing, monotone whisper. His mouth moved in a way far too human to be anything but horrifying.

“Come to harm me. I can help you.”

I still don’t know why I remember everything he said. Maybe it’s because of the fact he was so powerful and supernatural that he just willed his little speech to burn itself into my mind. Maybe I did it myself, seeing as trauma can be a bitch. But, while I was rolling on the ground, clutching my stomach, vision blurry and nerve endings screaming, he spoke to me. Slow, rhythmic, almost taunting, and every word made my heart squeeze like it would burst.

He told me how disgusting I was. He told me how I made my mother miserable, how much she wished that she had aborted me. He told me that my father had forgotten I existed and was glad to be in prison, away from me. He harped about how I would one day die alone, forgotten and unloved, in the same shithole apartments I grew up in and that it would be just like Cheryl. I’d choke on my own vomit and nobody would find me for days, the victim of a low and savage upbringing. And about Cheryl? Oh, he talked on and on about Cheryl, smiling and speaking in a melodious, almost sing-song pattern that was somehow still as flat as its words before.

“You hated her, did you not?”

I choked that I didn’t.

“No. You did. You were jealous. She was stealing him, yes? You are glad she is dead.”

Dead Coyote’s lips were a tight line, his muscles taut. It was as though he was frozen in time, though I know it was just the mention of Cheryl that choked him up. There was something furious in him, a fire I could almost feel. I was afraid, so fucking afraid, that he hated me because of everything that fucking deer was spewing out of its mouth. Tears welled up in my eyes and I sobbed, loudly, that I didn’t want Cheryl dead.

“No. No. You wish for something else. Tell me what it is… princess.”

He snapped. It had been a long time since I had seen Dead Coyote lose his absolute shit, but he exploded toward Furfur like he was launched out of a cannon, salt balled up in his fist like he was planning on punching a deer in the face. Furfur only tilted his head and chuckled, perfectly still even as Dead Coyote began to bark dispelling incantations at him and shovel handfuls of salt in his face.

When the salt-well ran dry, he pulled a folding knife out of his pants pocket and took it to his arm. I didn’t see what he carved. I found out much later on that he now has a nice, jagged, but rather impressive scar in the shape of a magic triangle hiding amongst his tattoos. It’s the one seal that can control Furfur, the one that can make him play nice and go home.

But I missed the excitement afterward, being curled into a ball on the grass and heaving sobs into my knees until I heard Dead Coyote stop screaming. I hardly even noticed the pain receding over Furfur’s voice still ringing in my head, only snapping out of my trance when I felt something thud to the ground next to me.

A deer skull, with half-finished carvings riddling the bone that were redone with smudged paint marker. Furfur’s crest was right smack in the middle of its forehead, in metallic silver. A smaller, almost insignificant Seal of Solomon was beneath it, perfectly centered and meticulously drawn. I sniffled as I cursed Miranda the RA for being too stupid to realize that placement and sizing in sigils were more important than aesthetics. You don’t make the demon more powerful than the controller, and you better use the right damn pentacle. No wonder her pet was running wild.

I think the most pain I ever suffered was still aching from Furfur’s aura and trekking back to the car, and I almost begged Dead Coyote to let me just sleep it off in the clearing. It was worth it to go back to campus--me hobbling in and clutching my everything while he strolled in behind me holding his trophy by the antlers--to watch as he walked straight to the RA’s office, found little Miranda sitting at the desk watching Youtube videos, and slammed the skull so hard into the ground that the bone splintered and shattered in a dozen different directions. Miranda screamed and jumped out of her seat.

Dead Coyote snarled.

“If you don’t know how to walk the left-hand path, stay on your own goddamn road. And if I ever hear you have tried to summon some bullshit again, or if you think about hexing my girl, I will throw out every single goddamn reservation I have about doing harm unto others. Do you understand?”

She didn’t call campus police, for whatever reason. Maybe because she knew she fucked up. Either way, when aspirin and Tylenol did nothing to make me stop jittering and groaning, I decided to skip my dorm for the night and head down to Dead Coyote’s camp site at the parking lot down the road. We sat up for hours upon hours, blazing through a secret stash of dashboard weed despite his insistence that I not touch the stuff. It was the only thing that made me stop hurting, though, and that was all he cared about in the end.

I apologized, again and again, bawling in a cloud of smoke about all of the things Furfur said, everything about Cheryl. He watched me, eyebrow raised, before handing me a napkin from the center console.

“Ah, princess. C’mon. It’s Furfur. He lies about everything if he ain’t sealed properly. I know you didn’t hate Cher. You cried as much as I did when she died.”

He took a drag off his joint.

“You were jealous, though.”

When the weed was gone and he’d given me one of his patented, stoned-out-of-his-mind, how-are-you-this-goddamn-wise-when-you-can’t-even-remember-your-phone-number pep talks, he dropped me back off at my dorm. Miranda was gone, the RA’s office empty, and the lobby deserted. When I got to the hall, only Cereal Girl remained, staring at my door with half a Twix sticking out of her mouth like a cigar. Our eyes met, but she didn’t have to say a word. She just smirked and laughed, crumbs splattering across the ground and, probably because I was high as fuck, I couldn’t help but laugh, too.

Taped to my door was another crest of Glasyalabolas.

Yet again, Miranda had drawn it wrong.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

0 notes