#icarus metaphors (you're doomed from the start)

[melit0n]

Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 6

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

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

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

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters ->

Prologue

Chapter 1: For Whom The Bell Tolls

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast

Chapter 4: Something Forgotten

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious (you're already here!)

Chapter 7: Heavy is The Head that Mourns The Past

Chapter 8: Be Not Afraid

Chapter 9: Eye for an Eye

- Status: Work In Progress.

- Obessive!Demon OC/Reader

- Word Count (for chp): 6.9k

- Warnings (for chp): None.

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/150657787

“So, are you sure you don’t want to tell me about this little love story of yours now?”

Helen giggles softly behind you. It echoes loudly in the cracking concrete bowels you trek through.

“Yes. I can assure you, the only way you will be hearing it is if you come back to Greece with me.” Something snaps under someone’s foot, either glass or the dried remains of some bug. 

You both know very well it’s a thinly veiled act of persuasion, a not-so-subtle play on your curiosity. So, somewhat determined to get whatever she had been keeping secret out of her, you put on your best pout and turn to her.

She walks right past you.

Shaking her head back and forth with a hidden knowing smile, she replies, “Making sad faces will get you nowhere, I am afraid.”

“So mean…” you grumble. Considering Helen's typical openness in her thoughts and experiences, you were genuinely intrigued. While it wasn’t mandatory, it was rare she’d hide topics she’d happily chatter about if given the chance. That said, your main aim–hidden under glass and dust–was simply to keep a conversation going. You’ve learnt very quickly that you don’t like the silence here, either. For both of your benefit, you’d much rather keep aimless chatter bouncing off the walls instead of some distant radio show. Keep your mind focused on replies and not the sickly sweet stench of flowers blooming in the middle of winter.

Of empty sockets that stare right at you.

Helen shoots a hand out, “Careful.” Puzzled, you send her a confused glance.

However, the moment she puts a foot down on the wood, you get your answer: the floorboards creaking and groaning loudly with the simple weight. While it wasn’t unexpected–every step you’d taken for the last hour or so had been accompanied by a loud squeak–what catches your attention is how far the wood visibly bends. That, and how damp it is. Damp enough that the moisture shines under the light of your torches. 

Stretching your own leg out to test them, you’re unsurprised to now physically feel how deeply they bow under your weight; whining something foreboding with each kilo you put down. Through the soles of your shoes, you can practically feel the fibres cracking. 

You sigh to yourself, half out of exasperation and something else you can’t quite pin down. 

Looking up from the rotting floor, you’re not surprised to see the rest of the story was in a similar state.

More household items are scattered across the main hall: old stuffed animals poking their saturated heads out of screeching doors. Legs, maybe once holding up sturdy tables, lean against the walls. Sodden, deflated cushions lying haphazardly on the floor slowly melt into the woodwork; plush becoming indistinguishable from the flooring.

All create a waterlogged tapestry of the past.

The wallpaper, colours faded and mixed with old graffiti not unlike a fresh watercolour, reappear in diseased patches across the walls. Even vines from downstairs creep and crawl through the crumbling structure, anchoring themselves to whatever they can find. From the withering leaves, however, you guess they aren’t having as much success as they are downstairs. 

A floorboard wails loudly from beside you. “This does not look too good.” She steps forward–really only a half-step–and begins to test the strengths of the planks in front of you. Then, she takes a full one forward with sounds from the floor that have you partially reaching your hands out, as if to catch her. You watch with a building level of unease as she attempts to spread out her weight.

Even the air is heavy. Heavy with the calm before a storm: petrichor and an electric buzz that lets you know you shouldn’t be here. Somehow, it overpowers the dust–which you’re sure sits in foetid clumps wherever the rain and wind sees fit–and worms its way into your lungs. 

It’s nothing like the air downstairs: while that was fresh, still holding hints of petrichor, this was thick. Like oil. It’s somehow worse than the stagnant air from the basement. 

Eyeing the wood, you hesitantly do the same. “Yeah.” 

Something viscous is at the back of your throat. Tastes like how decaying autumn leaves smell. 

The thin walls–either on this floor or one of the many others–waver in the wind, and you’re starting to affirm to yourself that Jeanne’s promise of the place being ‘structurally sound’ was another one of her half lies.

Four floors high, including the ground floor–five with the addition of the basement–and you’re sure you’d snap your neck. Bleed out on that ugly cream carpet with wooden wings splayed out beside you. Your only consolation is that you’re pretty sure that the main structure is made of solid concrete, sitting silently under the wood.

The gaping plaster wounds in the walls–rippling wooden muscles and creaking metal bones taught underneath–make you doubt yourself.

At best, you’d break or twist an ankle. At worst, you’ll be a bloated carcass strangled by weeds. A rotting warning to all those who enter.

No way in Hell is this safe. 

You take a few more cautious steps forwards, ears perked for the tell-tale noises of crumbling wood that would rather collapse than hold your weight. “If the rest of the floors are like this, I say we stop.” One creaks loudly, a bit too loud for your taste, and you take one backwards. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we fell straight through.”

Helen’s head lowers to stare at the floor, probably contemplating whether the risk of going crashing through four or five stories was worth taking the chance. “I think,” she takes a step forward, graceful as an onyx chess piece slid across the board. “We will be okay.” She turns to you, optimism in her eyes. It makes your shoulder sag. “We just have to keep our eyes out for any wood that is especially dark, or looks wet on the surface.” Another step forward, and you sigh as you begin to follow behind, dutiful as ever. “Is that okay?”

Kind of hard to do when all the wood looks wet, you think. Even so, you keep your nervous thoughts concealed beneath a cool facade. “Whatever you say,” you feel the cold of the water sink into your soles. “You’re paying my hospital bills if I break something, though.”

It’s sarcasm, but she still takes it somewhat seriously. “It would be my fault, so I would not mind.” She shrugs, before pausing, her weight spread between a few different planks. Then she raises her flashlight.

The centre-piece window–which never fails to draw your eye–is broken: jagged teeth glinting in the light.

A soft hum glides up her throat, “The wind and the rain from the North probably comes in here quite harshly: it is no wonder this place is so wet. Either way, I am surprised this place hasn’t fallen like, what is it- paper mache?”

It’s a simple description, one you’d easily take for an answer if not for one simple fact: both windows on the other floors were broken. Both windows faced North, as all the rest of the windows above you.

So why weren’t those as dilapidated as this one?

Wearily, you take a few more steps, trying to follow her invisible pattern of semi-promised safety. “But what about-” that is, before your feet knock into something. Something solid.

Expecting the worst, you look down with a strained look on your face. You’re met with the sight of a porcelain doll. The pale, once pretty, type you almost always see in charity shops. 

And horror movies.

Part of its silky pallor is cracked and smashed in, leaving an empty void where half its face used to be. Curly blonde hair frames what’s left of it, fading blue eyes rolled absently to the side.

“Are you scared of it?”

There’s a bit of blush on its face, too. Faded, like everything else is at the hands of time and neglect, but still there. 

“What?”

It reminds you of something freshly dead. Eyes and body empty, yet still holding onto the warmth in its fingertips.

Helen crouches down in front of it, repeating herself. “Are you afraid of it?”

You’re surprised the wood holds her weight.

Before you can say anything–let a garbled and probably incoherent answer out of your mouth–she picks it up. Handles it more like a living baby rather than a porcelain resemblance. When she cradles its head, resting stiffly in her palm, one of its eyes rolls. Rolls out of its vacant skull to stare right at you. Glossy and unblinking and reflecting flashing blue and yellow that blinds you.

Beneath light fatigue and a growing sense of alarm that refuses to go away, something rings.

“You’ll get a demon or something attached to you if you hold on to it.” You joke, eyes darting up from the glass one you’re sure sees right through your skin. Or, maybe, sees right past you.

She takes your avoidance as an unspoken yes. She isn’t wrong: if you saw that thing at the end of your hallway in the middle of the night, you’d happily give your apartment up to it.

She fiddles with the stained lace that edges the sleeves and the hem of the forget-me-not dress. “Why?”

It’s a good question–like all of her questions are. You roll thoughts around in your head, seeing how they taste on your tongue. You’d say it’s something embedded in you; embroidered into the intricate tapestry of each twitching muscle and thumping pulse of your heart. You’re afraid of the doll the same way something in the back of your mind, a knowing voice neither old nor young–simply alert–tells you to be afraid of the dark. Tells you to be wary of things that creep and slide.

Tells you to be fearful of things that try to be human.

“Probably because I’ve watched too many shitty horror films with Jeanne.” You reply. Helen simply shakes her head, and you think she knows you aren’t telling the entire truth. Either way, she doesn’t bother to pry a more self-aware answer out of you.

Gingerly, she places the doll back down where she’d found it. Its eye rolls back up into its head, having seen enough. For a few brief moments, you don’t blame it. The untouchable night that resides in its hollow head is probably a more comforting view compared to the sodden floorboards.

Both of you carry on with your hushed agreement to explore the other apartments. Helen glides across the floor with wisp-like grace, barely making a noise, while you stumble over each creaking floorboard and spend every two seconds wondering if you’re going to fall.

You stagger through a few different apartments, eyes skimming over whatever was visible and then moving on, more focused on not falling than searching for anything of interest.

After traversing the hall somewhat aimlessly–chattering to Helen along the way–you find your way into another apartment. One side of the floors has swollen, and the entire place reeks of festering mould. 

A question strikes your mind, worming its way out of your mouth as the conversation threatens to fall flat. “Hey, Helen?”

With growing confidence, you carefully step forth. The living room is lifeless; void of any furniture. It also happens to be the side where the floors rise–something very old and very slow trying to breach the surface–so you make the decision to leave the bedroom unexplored. You value your ankles a bit more than that.

“Yes?”

The kitchen is in a similar state. Woodlice crawl between the splitting wood, and a low wind meanders through the rooms like a death rattle. Between what remains of a cabinet and the wall, a cobweb hangs, weighed down by the ever present moisture that seems to loom over the entire floor. 

Its weaver is absent.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Considering her lack of reaction to your joke earlier, you’d say her answer would be a no. Either that, or she wasn’t afraid of the dead leaning over her shoulder.

“I think so. To believe in ghosts, you have to have a belief in some sort of life after the one you live, yes?”

Eventually, you find a somewhat sturdy path towards the bathroom and storage room. Much to your displeasure, the bathroom is locked tight. Even though the wood crumbles under your hands, it refuses to open. In fact, after a few tugs, the doorknob comes right off, small screws clattering to the floor.

Almost as if to spite you, the lock stays intact.

“What do you think of it?”

So, you end up trying the storage room. It’s gutted of all furniture. 

“Of what?”

The air is stagnant. Brackish. You guess it hasn’t been opened in a while. 

“The afterlife. What do you think comes after all this?” Backing up, you attempt to follow your steps back out into the hall. 

“I am not entirely sure,” she hums. As each floorboard keens under your weight, you realise that Helen is practically silent as she walks through different apartments. You only really know she’s doing so because of her voice; ebbing and flowing like a warm summer wind from the hallway. “I believe each living thing has a soul, but I am unsure on how long that soul can last.” Her voice becomes louder, “but, I think it may stay after it does not have a body to support it.” and then quieter. You don’t see her walk past your door. “Perhaps they stay because they forgot to do, or say, something before they went. Maybe they stay because they miss home too much.”

Peeking your head out of the doorframe, you can’t spot her. She must’ve already gone into another apartment. 

Looking down, you find a stuffed animal imitating you. Or, rather, you it. 

You scoff, walking out into the hall and examining the different doors. “What’s home to someone who’s already dead? You’d think a ghost would want to go wherever they please since they have no physical restrictions.” With long strides–you’re sure you look like some sort of awkward stick bug–you pass the elevator. The twin doors are wide open, and even your flashlight can’t illuminate the rubber veins that crawl along its throat.

“Home is not always a place, I think.” Her voice is closer now. 

Each door is in varying states of decay: those closer to the window in the hall are mere fragments, while those nearer to the main stairs retain some semblance to actual entryways. 

Your eyes catch onto one near the elevator: number forty-six. It’s one of the few on the floor still holding on to its once shining number, this floor being numbers thirty-three to forty-eight. Although, the four is crooked–slanted to the left like a loose skull–and the six is ever so slightly lower than it should be.

“What else could it be?”

With a jostle of the knob, you also realise it's one of the few doors that’s locked. The weight in your pockets brings a smile to your face, and you can only hope you have the right key. 

“A person.” Her voice has moved again, now on the opposite side of the hall.

You pause, if only for a second. 

You’d never really thought of it that way. 

With warmed metal under your fingers, you wonder if you’ve ever seen home inside another person. Your thumb glides over engraved numbers, hidden from your eyes underneath years of rust and oily fingers. 

Maybe in Jeanne? Or Helen? Noah? A past lover?

“If you were to die,” you bring a key closer up to your eye, the number indistinguishable. “Away from ‘home’, do you think you’d try to find your way back? Or would you find somewhere else to haunt?”

Maybe…maybe in him.

“I would want to go home, definitely.” Floor six, apt eighty four… “When I do pass, I think it will be nice to be where I grew up. I would want to see the sea again, too. I would not mind staying there after I have passed.”

If so, home is long gone. The grass is dead, and there’s no soft light in the windows anymore.

Just flashing blue and glass in between in your fingers. In your skin.

“And what,”…Floor eighteen, apt two hundred and seventy-nine…not this one either. “What if you’re the type to see home as a person?”

She stays quiet for a few moments.

…Floor three…

You squint. 

“Then I trust I will find them, and them, I.”

…apt forty-eight. Shit. 

Your shoulders fall.

“Just…uhm, let me know when you make a decision about coming with me, okay?” Helen’s voice fades and flickers like candlelight. There’s almost an echo: a second whisper layered underneath her warm tone.

Wait a minute. 

You look back down at the key. Apt forty-eight. 

Slowly, your head turns to the left. 

The last door by the stairs. 

You frown. “Yeah, no- of course.” Answering absentmindedly, you begin to stalk over to the door. You trace invisible lines with your feet, and all seems silent. 

Easily, you find yourself in front of number forty-eight, your light greeting the door: a circular glimpse that pierces through the darkness. 

You feel like you’re sensing a pattern.

It’s closed, and, with a gentle tug, you find it locked as well. 

Half expecting another talking radio, or maybe a miniature desert for this one, you hesitate to even use the key you had been wanting to make use of. You turn it over in your hand: there’s nothing special about it, nor the door itself. Both are in similar stages of disrepair, the door swollen with water and the key elongated with rust. Looking at it closer, you doubt it’ll even open the lock. Hell, the lock itself has probably rusted shut. Either that, or the knob will fall right off, just like the bathroom door’s did. 

You look between the door and the key.

Well…as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

The key slides in, and the mechanism opens with a quiet click. Seems the building has decided to grant you a bit of good luck.

The door opens with an ominous creak. Loud and anguished. 

When light finally enters the morose cave, you’re more than pleased–although admittedly a little disappointed–to see nothing abnormal. No radios, no luscious ferns, and best of all, no buzzing flies. 

Plus, it seemed to house more furniture than the last. The windows are layered thickly with grime and algae, and, even with your torch light, the whole place still feels utterly drenched in darkness. Blinking, it’s as if a thin haze–a light mist–hangs over the room. Or maybe just your eyes. 

Tentatively, you step forward, keeping a careful watch on the floor.

The floorboards whine underneath you, rising and falling like valleys and hills under your feet. 

The first thing that catches your eye is a large, embroidered armchair in the living room. Like the doll, it has dark, frilled edging–colour indistinguishable–at the end of the fabric. While it’s faded, the colours of the threads bleeding into themselves, you can just about make out a floral pattern; deep viridian in the centre, framed by jade and mulberry. 

The legs are made of sturdy wood–not cracking and splintering like the floor–which curls inward at the feet like a snail’s shell. An endless spiral unfurling from itself. It’s exactly the type of chair a grandfather, or maybe some old-money, rich man, would have sitting by the fireplace. You can practically see a soft cat curled up on the seat, slowly nodding off as the wood cackles and crumbles into cinders. 

Quietly, you wonder if anybody in this building had a cat. Or a dog, for that matter.

A board bends underneath you, and you take a step back before continuing. 

Someone must’ve, right? Your own apartment had a policy on them: no pets allowed aside from fish–and the odd reptile, though that depended on how much paperwork you wanted to fill out–but maybe this one didn’t.

The door to the bedroom opens easily.

You wonder if they had to leave them behind when those chemicals got out. If they did, you hadn’t seen–nor heard–any once loved strays on your way here. Then again, nature, aside from her plants, seems to have abandoned this place. Left it to the hands of Time and the ever changing faces of the seasons.

Much to your surprise, the main bedroom is almost fully furnished. The bed frame is still intact. Well, you think it is, until you notice it’s leaning on one side. Looking closer, you find one leg had rotted off, the rest in a similar condition. There’s a tall wardrobe on the left wall and, opening it, you find it empty. That is, if you don’t count the dust. Running your index finger over the flat surface, you find it comes off in one thick clump that sticks to your finger. Reminds you of the gum people always stick under the desks. 

With a look of disgust, you wipe it off and continue looking around. 

A soft wind coming from the smashed balcony doors is the only noise you can hear. 

You wonder what Helens’ doing. 

Then, there’s something in the air. Nothing like the dust or the scent of chocolate, but a noise. It’s some sort of chime; light and soft like the call bell downstairs.

You cross through the main bedroom entryway, intrigued and more awake than you had been a few minutes ago.

Who knows, maybe it’ll be this floor’s anomaly.

You wonder where it’s even coming from: quiet as a breath, it disappears behind each thump of the blood in your ears. Maybe from the storage closet, or the bathroom? Whatever–wherever–it was, you determine it must be close. 

Doing a double take, you quickly discover that the kitchen floor was very close to caving in.

Ah. 

Well, now you know why the ceiling was dipping on the other story. 

Seems the bathroom and storage room are off limits, then. 

Ding.

You turn your head. There it is again.

With only one other traversable room left, at least in this apartment, you find your way into the second bedroom. It’s smaller, and without a window it feels as if you’re staring into the endless throat of space.

The wood hums endless tunes underneath you, and there are shapes dancing in your vision, trying to convince you that they’re stars. Stars, and not hooded eyes of indistinct figures.

In the centre, backed up against the far wall–painted a stormy grey–is a cot. It used to be white, paint now peeling off of the wood and curling like angry fingers. There’s a small heart carved into the headboard. It’s obvious it wasn’t a part of the original design; scratchy, as if done with some knife instead of a well-trained machine. 

You like it better than the carbon copies, though. 

Above it hangs another reminder of one of the parent’s handiwork: something halfway between a traditional wind chime and a baby’s mobile. Falling apart as it is, you can still see the wood carved with pure love and twine threaded with nothing but adoration. Sanded wood and glass clink together, the wind from the hallway their conductor. 

There’s a few animals carved into twirling plaques, as well. At least, you think there is. There’s what looks to be a bird with a comically large beak–maybe a woodpecker?–and another that just looks like a homunculus with stick legs. 

It’s so utterly odd looking that it gets a chuckle out of you.

Asides from that, the only one that vaguely looks like anything living is one near the centre; a pig. It has sharply drawn trotters and floppy ears that cover its eyes. It spins endlessly in some subtle wind you can’t feel, glass frosted with the endless damp that coats everything in place of dust. 

But, from the darkness, something whispers.

You pay it no mind and continue staring at the cot and the home-made baby mobile. Each chime sounds like a baby’s wail: soft and nothing. It sparks something unknown in your chest. Maybe it's mourning. For who and what, you don’t really know. Provoked by some sort of empathy, perhaps.

You’re about to call for Helen–considering the large lack of somewhat interesting things here, you’re sure she’d like this–when there’s another whisper. It's closer this time.

What is that?

At first, you try to shove it off–there’s more broken windows than unbroken in this place. In the dark, it doesn’t take long for a person's mind to convince them that the wind is undead whispers, after all. 

There’s a humming in your ears. Not the sharp ring that usually finds you in calm silences and in the warmth of a sunny street, but constant all the same. It ebbs and flows like a breeze; the low mumble of a class yet to start: the distant hum of cars on the motorway: the eerie clatter of trees in the beginnings of a summer storm. 

It’s not distracting or intrusive like those invisible flies downstairs–buzzing ceaselessly around your ears–but not like the voices from the radio, either.

Sceptically, you walk out of the second bedroom with a growing frown on your face. The elastic of the mask’s straps dig into the back of your ears. 

Staying still, quieting your own breaths and trying not to focus on the constant thumping from the walls, you attempt to decipher what’s being said. 

You come up fruitless. It just sounds like an endless string of gibberish to you: too quiet to pick up and too muddled to unravel. 

Maybe you need to get your ears checked, too. 

Sliding your flashlight under your arm, you press down on a part of your ear, temporarily blocking out the noise. All you hear is the faint thrum of your body: each pulse of your heart, each twitch of your crooked fingers. Taking them away, the noise reappears. 

It’s somewhat of a relief to know that the noises weren’t phantoms created by your tired mind. But still, it begs the question of what, exactly, it was. Let alone where it was coming from. It could be an apartment on this floor, or maybe on one of the others. The staircase wasn’t exactly closed off, after all. 

Even so, you’re still sure it's close. A thin wall or two away close. 

So, you lightly step back to the main bedroom, expecting to pick up on some sort of change.

Nothing happens. 

A gentle gust of wind scrapes against the broken glass, and for a split second, you try your hardest to convince yourself that is all it is; the wind.

A gust pushes you forward and, wondering if the noise was coming from the bathroom or storage room, you try the kitchen.

Well, you get as close as you can to it without falling through.

Still no change. 

Mind busy with the hushed buzz, you temporarily disregard your fear of the boards underneath you and peek out into the hallway. As you swivel your head left and right–half searching for the source of the noise and half looking for Helen–you find nothing but air and rotting walls. 

Your light illuminates the staircase, almost hoping to see someone hiding in the darkness. It’d scare the shit out of you, Helen or stranger aside, but you’d rather find an obvious source than be left–quite literally–in the dark. 

You find no one.

Then, you try the other end of the hall. The lambent glow of the moon seems centuries away. 

Still no one.

“Helen?” Your voice cracks in your throat. “Helen! Do you,” You swallow something down. A clump of twitching nerves and bile. “Do you hear that?”

You wait a few moments for a response. You’re greeted with heavy silence. It’s deafening; somehow worse than being told a direct ‘no’. 

Wearily, you step out of the doorway, out of your damp burrow, and into the hallway. The creaking of the floor–of the walls–feels so quiet. 

Has it gotten any louder? Are you getting any closer?

Your light darts in and out of the different apartments. “Helen?”

Or is it getting closer to you?

“Helen! Where are you?” 

Passing by another apartment, you still can’t manage to find her. Either your eyesight is going, or she’s suddenly become one of the best hide and seek players you’ve known since primary school. That has to be it. She must be hiding from you for some reason, ready to jump out at you any moment.

Inside, you’re divided. Part paranoid, part annoyed–what if she just left you here?–and part confused. Both at the noise, and her sudden disappearance: you don’t remember her being a relative of Houdini. 

“I’m meant to be the one doing the scaring here!” You raise your voice, hoping to reach her. The faint whispers are your only response. “Jeeze, do you really hate me that much?” You try to play on her empathetic side, draw her out with offhanded self-deprecation that always makes her rebuke, but even that wields nothing. 

Brows furrowed, you begin to make another round. This time, you hastily search inside the different apartments too, hoping to catch a glimpse of her silky hair or the toe of her trainers.

You examine another apartment, almost skidding on the wet wood. There’s the flat face of a table leaning against a wall–legs missing–and another grimy, smashed window.

After practically running up and down the hallway, you can’t help the way your heart jumps in its marrow cage when you realise the volume of that uncanny noise hasn’t changed. At all. It’s not louder, nor quieter; just that same, off-putting, low mumble. 

“Helen! Come on, this isn’t funny. Just come out already.” You say it with a worried smile on your face and end it with a pathetic half-laugh.

Where could she be? You know you’re only skimming the apartments, wandering in and out of each room like a pacing animal, but with how many you’ve searched, you should’ve seen something by now. Plus, with how long you’ve been calling out for her, she would’ve come out of whatever dank hole she was hiding in.

If you were searching for Jeanne, you would understand. Unless you were gravely injured, she would continue playing her game for as long as she could. She was a proud winner who liked losing as much as she liked getting an injection: doing her best to avoid it by any means necessary. But this was Helen. Helen who doesn’t like silence. Helen who hates the dark.

There’s nothing in the next apartment, either. 

It strikes you then and there that the only other reason that she wasn’t responding was because she was hurt. Hurt to the point of being knocked out.

With the revelation, it doesn’t take long for your mind to dive into a worried spiral. What if the floor finally gave way? What if she’s already on the ground floor? Neck bent like your fingers. Face contorted with some unheard screech you’d been too distracted to hear. Broken and soulless, and bleeding and turning that ugly cream carpet red.

Suddenly, warm air blows over the shell of your ear, something teasing that sends a sharp spike of fear through every muscle. 

You jolt, veins thrumming with fear and relief, “Helen, you-”

Your flashlight illuminates nothing but air. 

That jumbled mumbling, that damned whispering, has risen: gotten louder without you even noticing it. It pounds against your eardrums and buzzes under your skin. It feels so close, yet so far, echoing out from every crevice. Coming from everywhere and nowhere.

With a war drum in your chest, you beg yourself to just calm down. All you’re doing by overthinking is making things worse for yourself, and probably Helen, too. It’s just the wind–just a creation of your overly-active imagination. Just that stupid, stupid effect Noah was talking about. 

What scares you, though, is that you begin to hear words. 

Last time you checked, the wind didn’t speak to anyone other than those fated for tragedy. As far as you were aware, you were no Orpheus. 

It’s like the radio all over again, yet somehow worse.

Thick, clotted air fills your lungs. Inhale and exhale. Stop yourself from getting so worked up: just inhale and exhale-

-But it’s so loud. 

You have a walkie-talkie in your pocket, don’t you? How about you put it to use? That’s what it’s-

-Louder. 

If she’s hurt, you’ll probably have to call-

-And louder.

You knew you shouldn-

-and louder. 

“Shut up!”

All goes quiet.

After all the noise, it feels wrong. 

In the blink of an eye, the class quietens, the motorway stands still, and the trees omit themselves to a vow of silence. 

There’s only you. You, your flashlight, the keys and your panicked breaths. It comes out in mist-like puffs in front of your face. 

You don’t remember dropping your flashlight. You don’t remember pressing your hands to your ears, either.

You take a few deep inhales. “I’m losing it. I’m absolutely losing it.” Bringing a hand to your eyes, you rub them, as if trying to dispel the lingering fingers of some sort of mania. You do it much more harshly than you really meant to. Feeling the soft tissue squish and scrape against the cavities of your skull, you hope it brings some sense back to you. 

You crouch down to grasp your flashlight again. You see your face, distorted, in a puddle on the wood. With your back constantly to some sort of darkness, you feel yourself teetering on some sort of edge, standing stock still as not to fall. Still as those looming trees that pray to Gods your mind is too young to even know the name of. 

A red hot blanket of indignation drapes itself over your fear for a moment. Whoever the Hell this was, whatever dim-witted asshole and their friends, was going to get an earful. Maybe even a right hook, if you were feeling ballsy. 

You scan the halls up and down, keeping a careful ear for any sort of movement, any sort of amused giggle. You almost expect a TV show presenter to appear with a bunch of cameras or something. Even something as outlandish as that would ease your mind.

Anything that gives you a logical explanation as to what you just heard.

You begin to even search the walls, almost expecting to find grinning eyes staring at you from behind the rotting pipework. What an absurd thought.

Then you see something move.

It's from the corner of your eye, and you pray to see Helen, or just someone, there.

You don’t. 

A chasmal wound sits before you, cracking at the edges like spindly fingers clawing their way up the walls.

Something skitters. Something dark and fat. Something with beady eyes and tiny feet. 

There's droning under the floorboards. A muted thrum that, for a few seconds, only your feet can pick up.

Then you see a tail.

And a foot.

And a snout.

And you realise with horror that there is something in the walls. Something that is speaking to you.

At first, it’s as indistinguishable as ever; that same endless murmur from before as thousands of voices speak over each other. 

But, slowly–like a church choir–they all come together, whispering in their whiny voices one great chant.

“We are small. We are many.”

And you finally begin to understand the words.

“We have teeth. We have tails.”

And all you can really do is stand in silent terror.

“We were here before. We will be forevermore.”

Over and over and over they repeat it: an unending mantra accompanied by chattering teeth and pattering feet.

You can’t even bring yourself to move, body completely unsure how to react. It’s like the flies; worming their way into your ears and resounding off of your skull.

There’s laughter there, too. High-pitched, shrill sniggering. Sniggering of a thousand strangers that you’re sure are mocking you. 

And they just keep getting louder. 

What are you even meant to do? You have to be hallucinating at this point–encouraged by a weird mix of sleep deprivation and sloping paranoia. 

You feel like you’re in some type of morbid comedy, and the joke is absolutely on you. 

It doesn’t take long before your synapses finally snap into action, forcing your legs forwards. It begins with a brisk walk and easily turns into a jog. You aim for the staircase, unsure whether you’ll be going up or down.

Abruptly, their chant changes, a few voices slow to catch onto the shift. 

“India, Tango-”

It almost makes you stop dead in your tracks: even more confused with the seemingly random words they begin chittering.

“-Kilo, November-”

You refuse to listen, just blocking it out. No need to make yourself more fearful than you already are.

“-Oscar, Whiskey, Sierra-”

And you’re almost at the staircase, when-

SNAP.

-The floor finally collapses under your weight. 

“Y/N!”

You feel your head slam against the wet, wooden flooring. For a split second, no longer than a blink, everything goes blank. 

Then there’s a strain in your ankle. And water soaking into your hoodie.

And you are very much so awake. 

“Γαμώτο- Y/N? Y/N! Are you alright?”

Your brain throbs underneath your sweat sheened skin. Something wet slides down your cheek, and you wonder if it's blood. Looking up, partially balanced on your hands, all you can really do is stare at Helen with a mixture of utter horror and confusion. You open your mouth. Your jaw whines like one of the doors, and you taste wood on your tongue. “What the fuck.”

She hooks her arms under your shoulders, mumbling apologies under her breath as she drags you forward like a limp corpse. Easily, your foot is freed. Back on your feet, you wipe any residue off of your hands and face with frantic fingers. 

Turning and looking down, you see that your luck had quickly run out: the wood had finally broken through.

Knowing that there’s concrete under it doesn’t bring you as much comfort as you thought it would. 

A cold buzz overtakes the hot pain.

“Is your foot normal? Does it hurt?”

You swing your head back around. “Where were you?”

Her face twitches in surprise, not expecting your harsh tone. “Where were you? I was asking for you to see if you wanted to go up to the next floor to see if it was like this one. I couldn’t find you so I went up to see if you were there: I came down when I heard the wood snap.”

You watch her for a moment, thinking. ‘I came down when I heard the wood’, not ‘I came down when I heard you calling for me.’

Did she…did she not hear you?

Did she not hear that?

You think your ankle should hurt a lot more than it does. You think there should be pain jumping up your leg when you put your weight down.

“I was…” Swallowing, your eyes search the floor for something you don’t know the name of. Your flashlight has skidded to the foot of the staircase. “...I was in the last apartment by the staircase.”

Her brows furrow. “Why did you not come out when I asked?” 

Your mouth is dry.

You desperately want to explain it to her. Tell her you’d be calling out for her for the last who knows how long, stalking up and down the hall. Tell her that there is something in the walls and you fear they know things you’ve tried to bury. However, the moment you re-run the memories, think over how to even begin to describe what just happened, you realise you sound mad. The epitome of it.

As supportive and believing as Helen was, there was no way she was going to believe you.

“I just…”

There’d be that look on her face. It’d be there for a second, but you’d still see it. It’d be on Noah’s face when she tells him–clear as freshwater–as well. 

“...got scared by some rats.”

You may be human, and it may be right to accept help when you’re hurting, but you still refuse to be seen as mad. 

Sick.

Her face softens. Still somewhat annoyed–for a fair reason from her perspective–but lesser so.

Nobody likes not being believed, after all.

“Rats?”

You nod. 

“I have never liked rats,” there's a smile in her eyes. You think it’s meant to comfort you. “Maybe we should leave if there’s more?”

You hope you do. You pray to Gods who have long averted their gaze from this place of endless night and thumping walls to allow you to leave. 

“Hm…well, we do not scare easy, do we? We aren’t afraid of the dark or,” she pauses for a moment. You don’t know if it's for effect or not. “Rats, are we?”

Something in you wilts when you realise she’s trying to encourage you. Encourage you to go through with things. To overcome what she thinks is just a minor fear. 

You spite August winds and cigarette smoke for sewing your mouth shut.

There’s an attempt at a smile underneath your mask. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah.”

Smoothly, her fingers intertwine with yours. She feels blisteringly warm. 

“Is your foot and ankle okay?”

You can’t bring yourself to lie. 

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

In all their ‘nonsensical’ murmuring, the words the Things speak do have some meaning behind it, if you look close enough.

IMPORTANT: If you, or any of your friends, are going urban exploring, and stumble upon a building like this (incredibly damp, rotting wood, mould etc.) do not enter. Please do not risk an injury, or your life, for the sake of an experience or some cool photos. Further, if you visibly see your friend get injured, actually check them over to make sure they're genuinely okay. 

On note of updates: expect an update every three weeks on a Friday. If it doesn’t come then, expect it on the Saturday, and, if it doesn’t come until then, expect that I’m busy and won’t be able to update until next week. As much as I’d like to write to my heart’s content, I unfortunately don’t have all that time :’]

- Γαμώτο = Damn it

[ambriel-angstwitch]

I Carrion (Icarian) through the lens of Merthur

If the wind turns If I hit a squall Allow the ground to find its brutal way to me

So this is the intro of the song which starts out by introducing the destructive nature of the path of Icarus. Which Merlin himself parallels. Icarus is a lesson that the constant desire for more will lead to one’s destruction. Merlin’s desire to save Arthur was what doomed him in the end

I feel lighter than I have in so much time I've crossed the borderline of weightless One deep breath out from the sky

This describes the feeling of flying from Icarus but also the feeling of a relationship. It demonstrates both as all consuming feelings. Merlin and Arthur’s love for eachother alleviates some of the weight that they both carry.

I've reached a rarer height now That I can confirm All our weight is just a burden Offered to us by the world

Merlin and Arthur are both heavily burdened by destiny. Arthur is expected to be a great king and Merlin is expected to help him become one by guiding and protecting him. So in a sense their weight isn’t truly their own rather something that was thrust upon them. This lyric is also likely a reference to Atlas who unwillingly holds up the sky but it is a burden that he cannot escape without destroying the world.

And though I burn how could I fall?

This line speaks to the naivety of Icarus and Merlin. They realize that there is a burning, there is something dangerous but fail to acknowledge that it will cause them to fail. Merlin in the early seasons was far too trusting, he fell for peoples tricks and he didn’t want to believe people would turn bad.

When I am lifted by every word you say to me

This is the second line in the pre chorus which speaks to the power of the love that the narrator (in this case Merlin) and his lover (Arthur) have for each other in order to support the fact that they will not fall. Merlin feels as though they can soar and do anything through/for their love. Then with Arthur Merlin raises his spirit. It’s worth noting that Merlin is Arthurs number one encourager and advisor. He values his words above pretty much anyone else’s. But since this is an Icarus metaphor being lifted also has a negative connotation. Being high up is what leads to their destruction so while it feels good at the time it will eventually turn sour. This speaks of being willing to take risks, they are willing to risk the fall to fly with eachother

If anything could fall at all. It's the world that falls away from me

Speaks of the ignorance of Icurus and the denial of Merlin. Both don’t believe or don’t want to believe that they can fall. Rather believing or willing anything else to fail instead.

You have me floating like a feather on the sea

In the story of Icarus he dies by hitting the sea this is instead rather peaceful imagery implying that he at least believes that his love will stop him from coming to harm. This is a lot like how Merlin consistently saves Arthur from things that would kill him.

While you're as heavy as the world That you hold your hands beneath

This is a large contrast to the previous line. This shows the perspective of the other lover (Merlin) who carries the burden. While Arthur is saved from harm Merlin has to fight while gaining no respite or recognition. (Just like Atlas who is condemned to hold the sky)

Once I had wondered what was holding up the ground. I can see that all along, love it was you all the way down

Arthur must sometimes wonder how they beat unbeatable odds whether that be randomly fallen bandits or creatures that can only be defeated by magic, and of course he must wonder who sent the light to him in the cave. But once magic is revealed he realizes that it was Merlin all along

Leave it now I am sky-bound If you need to, darling Lean your weight to me

With this revelation he can finally offer Merlin someone to lean on, a respite. He doesn’t need to carry the burden of the entire world all alone anymore.

We'll float away But if we fall, I only pray Don't fall away from me

Eventually it comes to a point where accept any danger their love might cause as long as they stay together. They can fall as long as they stay together

I do not have wings, love I never will Soaring over a world you are carrying If these heights should bring my fall Let me be your own

Merlin’s focus has always been Arthur his love his companionship and his safety to the point where he does not care whether or not he meets his own demise. Where Icarus disregards his safety to see the heavens so does Merlin for love as he prioritizes Arthur’s over his own over and over again

Icarian carrion

Icarian is to share characteristics with Icarus most often excessive ambition. Which Merlin shows by trying to bring back magic but save Arthur though those were both prophesied. Carrion is dead putrifying flesh which shows that though it is hinted throughout the song that lobe might be able to save Arthur still dies (and so does Icarus)

If the wind turns If I hit a squall Allow the ground to find its brutal way to me. If I should fall on that day I only pray, don’t fall away from me

The song ends with a repeat of lyrics that have already been sung. They all emphasize some main points of the song though which is the desperation for love and the inevitable demise

[melit0n]

Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 3

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

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

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

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters ->

Prologue

Chapter 1: For Whom the Bell tolls

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast (you're already here!)

Chapter 4: Something Forgotten

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious

Chapter 7: Heavy is The Head that Mourns The Past

Chapter 8: Be Not Afraid

Chapter 9: Eye for an Eye

- Status: Work In Progress.

- Obsessive! Demon OC/Reader

- Word count (for chp): 8k

- Warnings for chp: None.

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/140685856

Draped in ebony, you peer into the darkness to try to see, well, anything; your flashlight’s lights only reach so far. The slim hallway seems endless, spiralling downwards to more immovable darkness. Even the subtle moonlight from behind you does nothing to illuminate the dank hall, nor whatever resides further down the stairs in the unseen void. You think, if you squint, you can see pearly stars watching you at the bottom of the staircase. 

Maybe, if you tripped, you’d find yourself floating in the cold nothing of the beginning of everything, surrounded by light that you’ll never touch.

Even so, it doesn’t help that the hall is somehow more cold than the outside. Each subtle wind–creeping in from the door behind you–caresses each uncovered inch of your body and sends uncomfortable jitters through each of your fingers, slowly numbing them. With every exhale of warm breath, a puff of misty smoke ascends into the air. Both make you very thankful for the thick hoodie you’re wearing. 

You tuck your uncovered hands up into your sleeves, hoping to gain back some warmth and movement to the shivering digits. Helen follows along, awkwardly shoving her hands up into her jumper with her arm still looped with yours.

“Are you cold?” Noah asks, pointing out the obvious. “You can borrow my jacket if you want?”

You’re about to reply, happy to borrow his fluffy jacket–if only for a few minutes–to stop the goose-bumps somehow still appearing on your flesh, before you realise his concern was for Helen.

“Only a little,” she smiles at him. “I will be fine, though. Thank you.” Unconsciously, she steps closer to you in an attempt to steal what little heat you give off. With another exhale of air, a small shiver racks her body.

Dust motes dance in the disturbed air, your quiet inhales and exhales their unwilling partner as they drift like ocean tides before your very eyes. Thicker particles find home at the bottom of your lungs, waltzing up and down your airways as you give in to your second coughing fit of the day, paired with a few surprisingly painful sneezes. Glancing over at Noah, you can already see the exasperated frown on his face as he sighs, sending even more dust twirling around the four of you.

“Well, this is your last chance to take an inhale of clean air.” Jeanne laughs out, giving you all a toothy grin. “You good?” She looks over at Noah, who gives her a subtle thumbs up, before dramatically turning around and taking a deep inhale of the chilly night air outside the door.

“Peachy.” He turns back around with a smile, earning a laugh from you all.

“Good, good, now-” Jeanne begins.

“-Shouldn’t we close the door?” You interrupt, “In case anybody comes looking?” Glancing between the three of them, you slow your words down closer to the end of your question. You watch Jeanne’s smile grow before she clicks her fingers and ruffles your hair.

“That’s why I bring you along to this sorta stuff.” She squeezes by you, Noah and Helen and back out the doorway.

“I thought you brought me along because you love me.” Grumbling, you do your best to rearrange your hair.

“That too.” She looks left and right before obviously spotting whatever she was searching for with an ‘aha!’ that has you envisioning an evil scientist discovering a new, just as fiendish chemical. The image brings a smile to your face. 

She presents her a find–a rotting plank of wood–like a dog would present a stick to their owner. With a lot of dramatic effort, and denying Noah’s honest help a few times, she shuts the heavy door, wedging it open with the plank and allowing a small slit of hopeful, pale light to seep through.

Noah eyes the crumbling plank sceptically. “Are you sure that’s not going to break?”

“Positive! Now…” Jeanne quickly moves on from the subject with confidence, contemplating the dusty, crumbling stairs that lead downwards into the unknown. Helen’s arm tightens around yours.

“Where are we?” You mumble to yourself for the second time today, another cough and slight gag wracking your body as you feel dust coat your tongue. You already hated this place. Hated all the darkness and its stupid dust. 

You flit your torchlight everywhere you can, but you're met with the same sight everywhere; crumbling concrete and linoleum. Crumbling concrete, linoleum and shadows that stick around even if you beam your harsh light on them. They flinch, but they stay unmoving. Whether that be in fear or intrigue, you’re unsure. 

“Well, this,” Jeanne turns around and points her light to the door, “is one of two maintenance doors. If my mate gave me the right floor plan…” She trails off, digging around in her pockets for her phone. She’s the type of person to keep anything and everything in her pockets, no matter how meaningless. They seemed bottomless, with how much she managed to carry in there, pulling out a charging wire, two pennies, a fifty pence, a bent iron nail, a used Vaseline–which you don’t even know why she keeps it in there considering it ran out almost a year ago–and, finally, her phone. 

She makes her way to her photos, and expands said floor plan, significantly less pixelated than the one before. “Down there are the storage rooms,” she jerks her head towards the inky stairwell. “We’ve just gotta follow the hallway that runs along them–which links the two apartment blocks–take a right at the boiler room, and there’ll be a maintenance door that leads us up into the main lobby.” 

“And what if the maintenance door is locked or blocked?” Noah questions, looking up from Jeanne’s phone.

You nod, “Yeah. You said this place was ‘famous’, right? You know how some people are. Plus, if it’s famous to us, it’ll be famous to the police; they might’ve blocked it off for good measure.”

Nonchalantly, Jeanne simply shrugs and gives you both a confident grin. “Well, let’s just get on our knees and pray it ain’t.”

After all these years, you’re used to Jeanne’s confidence and the nature of her ‘lucky guesses’, which, you had to admit, did tend to be right. On the few occasions they weren’t, though, they normally got you into deep shit which you had to claw your way–tooth and nail–to get out of.

You really hope this isn’t one of those times.

Sighing, you nod, and point your flashlight down the horrifying staircase.

“How far down do you think it goes?” You ask to nobody in particular. 

Noah appears beside you, lending your eyes his light, but the bottom of the staircase still sits in total darkness. “Maybe three, four stories?”

Having climbed sixteen or so floors every day for a year or two–your apartment not housing working elevators for a stupid amount of time–you certainly wouldn’t complain about such a short descent. However, it was what sat, hidden, at the bottom of that staircase that put you off. The flashlights you all used weren’t that shitty. They definitely should have been able to illuminate whatever the Hell was at the bottom of those stairs.

A glacial breeze seems to rise from the stairs below, stirring the thick dust yet again. You can’t help but be reminded of static; a low buzz creeping over your skin, almost as if you’re descending into a place a soft creature of flesh and bone shouldn’t go. 

“That is not too bad,” Helen notes, squinting into the darkness. 

You can’t tell if it’s a warning or a beckoning. 

Your mind steadily begins an anxious, downward spiral of what, exactly, patiently waited for you at the bottom of those stairs. What if it was flooded? What if the building had collapsed and now your only point of entry was blocked off? What if there was someone waiting for you down there? Some overzealous explorer or police officer? What if there was a corpse-

“Right,” Jeanne claps her hands together, echoing loudly in the small space, bouncing off of the walls of your skull and dragging you out of your thoughts. Your eyes stay affixed to what lies below. “Off we go then!” Without warning, she grabs your hand–still hidden partially in your sleeve–and drags you forward, Helen being dragged forward as well with a small noise of surprise.

Sometimes, you truly do wish Jeanne was more aware of her mortality and, as you feel rotting wood bend under your weight and hear chips of concrete clatter to an unseen end, you realise this is one of these times.

The staircase is barely wide enough for two people, so, with Helen unceremoniously squished to your side, one arm holding on to you and the other holding her flashlight, you find yourself braced against a peeling, mouldy wall: cold cheek brushing against flakes of old wallpaper. Each peeling sliver that caresses your face feels like boney fingers; nails grown too sharp and skin rubbed thin by the ever present hands of time.

“Hold on-” You begin, but Jeanne only seems to walk faster. You attempt to dig your feet into the bending wood, try to get her to stop before she sends all four of you tumbling down the ancient staircase at break-neck speed, but it seems to be no use. You don’t even know how she’s managing to walk–more like run–down the creaky stairs so fast without tripping.

Every step you take–every brief kilo of weight you press down upon wood and concrete–you hear the steps groan with pain. Pain that echoes, as all pain does, that has you fearing you may fall straight through. Fall straight through and fall down, down, down until left and right, up and down, no longer exist. 

What you believe to be an ugly cream coloured wallpaper–which may or may not have been white at some point in its life–flashes by you swiftly. At some point, you think you stopped registering the steps, letting your legs go to autopilot as you pray with all your might that you don’t trip and end up with a concussion.

Suddenly, the filthy wallpaper morphs into cold concrete and, unceremoniously, you trip over your own feet, dragging Helen down with you. That is, before being caught by Jeanne with a loud snort. Looking up, you see her sly grin and can almost hear the playful insult on the tip of her silver tongue.

“Yeah, yeah…” you mumble, straightening your back and brushing the ancient dust off yourself before turning over to Helen and apologising. 

“No! It is okay! Are you okay? You almost, what do you call, ate concrete there.” She laughs lightly, placing a hand on your shoulder and quietly scanning you for any injuries. You give her a thumbs up, before allowing your eyes to search the room, well, hall, you now find yourself in.

Unlike the staircase now behind you, the bottom of the stairwell is constructed solely from concrete. Thin fractures run across the walls like veins: mould seeping into the structure via the small cracks like bacteria to a cut. In some places, the walls have almost completely crumbled to dust, revealing old pipes and insulation. They’re like gaping wounds, begging to be stitched and cleaned as the skin around it rots in a sickly grey-green colour.

Ba-dump…ba-dump…ba-dump

Now further underground, six feet under and feeling damp dirt under your fingernails, a cold chill yet again finds you. 

Above you, more exposed, rusted pipes run lengthwise along the ceiling, carrying nothing but stagnant air and tetanus. They vary in shape and size, but all run forwards towards another endless hall. Some take abrupt left or right turns into the concrete, hidden by the decaying walls, while others simply stop and fall to the damp ground before you.

“Well, isn’t this place lovely?” Noah jokes, flicking his flashlight around. Helen laughs, which you think is all Noah really wants, and Jeanne squints at the caliginous hall before you.

“This is the hall that follows through all the storage rooms. We follow it until we reach the boiler room, take a right, and then follow the door up and out to the lobby.” Jeanne repeats her earlier explanation, slightly breathy with excitement.

“Easy enough.” You whisper, eyes searching the hallway in front of you for that of which you cannot see.

The cold concrete thrums with excitement underneath you.

Following Jeanne, you walk in silence, concrete and dead woodlice snapping and popping underneath your shoes. Occasionally, you pass the odd room, hidden to you by rotting doors and somewhat collapsed walls. Jeanne’s promise of the building being ‘structurally sound’ seems less true with each step you take. 

“Alright,” Helen begins, her voice in the silence startling you all. “Walking in silence like this makes this all the more creepy.” She looks between the three of you, sighing when you all still stay quiet. 

“Uhm, Jeanne,” you start, bringing everyone’s eyes to you as you attempt to fill the void. “You said you were taking a gap year to travel, yeah? How about we, uh, all plan to go on a trip somewhere? Maybe overseas?” The idea spills out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

They all nod with a smile, Jeanne replying, enthusiastically, “Fuck yeah! I’m so tired of this stupid city.”

“Have you ever been complacent with anything in your life?” Noah jokes. He wasn’t wrong. Jeanne was the type of person who could never keep still; she had a need to see, feel and taste everything the world could offer her. She constantly had her eyes ahead of her, never looking back or even seemingly thinking about what ‘could have been’.

“What can I say?” she shrugs. “I'm like a shark; gotta keep moving.”

She’d wanted to move away so many times…but stuck around for you. She called you her anchor, grounding her to reality when she needed, but you felt more like a useless weight tugging her down more than anything.

“Sharks don’t even function that way.” Noah frowns, their conversation slowly fading into white noise as you scan the different rooms.

Sometimes, as much as you loved her and cherished all the memories she gave you, you wish she would just find some way to- to hate you and drop you. At least, then, she could go where she wanted without ‘worrying’ about you. Even then, you could watch from afar, and maybe, just maybe, catch some of the light she gives off. Maybe it’d be kinder than the rays you currently receive, too; soft gold on your face instead of slowly scalding your back. 

Walking further into the complex, you notice that the doors of each room, instead of being closed and rotted shut, are open, allowing their contents to be seen.

In full admittance, it was why you had begun attaching yourself to Helen more; preparing yourself for when you eventually become too little for Jeanne. She knew how to soar the skies without burning, unlike you.

As you mentally monologue, room after identical room passes by you, filled with moulding and disintegrating boxes. The odd pipe appears, snaking their way in and out of the walls. Other than that, it is simply dust. Dust, dust, and more dust.

What an entertaining trip this is turning out to be. 

Eventually, one room manages to catch your eye. Unlike the previous hollowed spaces, the door is nowhere to be seen. The hinges still remain, rusted and deteriorating just like everything else in this place. Odd, but not entirely unusual. Stopping by the doorway, you flit your flashlight into the mouldy four walls, and find…dust. 

Shrugging, mentally smiling with the internal image of someone dragging an entire door out of this place as a souvenir, you begin to walk away before a disgusting odour hits your nose. Heavy, it creeps in through your nostrils and settles at the back of your throat. The only way you’d be able to describe it would be something akin to rotten eggs. The type that you’ve left at the back of your fridge for too long that have finally begun to decay in their own shells; a smell you wretch at.

Hearing your involuntary noise of disgust, Noah approaches you. “What’s wrong?” He glances at you, then the room, allowing his own torch light to join yours. 

“Nothing,” you frown, “just smells like shit in there.”

He lours, gives you a sidelong look, then leans forwards and sniffs the putrid air. You can feel the scent coat your tongue with each breath.

Watching for his reaction, he turns back to you with a mildly confused look, stating, “I don’t smell anything.” 

The moment the words fall out of his mouth, you do a double take, thinking you’d heard wrong. There was absolutely no way someone wouldn’t smell the literal shit storm that seemed to reside inside the room. You spout a dry chuckle, “No way,” before–albeit hesitantly–leaning back inside. The scent still hangs, thickly, in the old storeroom. 

As you lean back out, a disgusted look on your face, you watch Noah shrug from the corner of your eye. 

“You’re messing with me.” He shakes his head back and forth as he walks onwards to catch up with Jeanne and Helen, you following along.

“You seriously didn’t smell that?”

“No,” He laughs lightly, seemingly convinced you’re screwing around with him. “What’d you even smell? It’s probably just a rat rotting in the walls or something.”

The image sends a slight shiver through you. “Rotting eggs.” You grumble, before something sparks in your memory. “Aren’t gas leaks meant to smell like rotting eggs?”

“Well, yes,” he pauses, “but I didn’t smell it; at all. Plus, if it was a gas leak, we’d be able to smell it through this whole hall since that room didn’t even have a door.”

Before you can get another word in, Noah mumbles “shit,” before calling out, “Hey! Helen, Jeanne! Put your masks on!”

You’d completely forgotten about the particle masks. As you catch up to the other two, you slide it up from your neck and onto your face. You really wish you’d remembered it sooner; would’ve saved you the coughing fit. 

“Won’t do shit if there’s a gas leak though…” you mumble to yourself, fiddling with the strings to get them to sit right on your ears. 

As Helen approaches you, gentle hands finding the strings and tightening them for you, she asks, “Gas leak? Is there a gas leak?” She first looks at you, searching your E/C eyes for any notion of danger–a notion you attempt to warn her of with a half begun ‘maybe’, before Noah cuts in.

“No; Y/N just hallucinated the smell of shit, apparently.” He grins at you, like he knows the ways of some game he thinks you’re playing.

“Well, I certainly don’t want to wait five hours in A&E to get you two checked out, so let’s hope there ain’t one.” Jeanne jokes, slinging an arm around your–and Noah’s–shoulders and giving the two of you a hearty pat on the back before walking on.

You end up next to Helen again, conversing in somewhat aimless conversation as you trek through the darkness. Eventually, after passing by more rotting rooms, the straight hallway finally changes into a Y-intersection. As you walk towards it, bored and wary of the smell of rot in the back of your throat, you walk right past the door labelled ‘boiler room’. In your own defence, half the letters were missing and, like the rest of this place, the old sign was covered in a thick layer of dust. Legs on autopilot, you veer right, before Helen calls out, “Is this what we’re looking for?”

Jeanne backtracks, as do you, almost tripping over her feet and squinting at the small sign. “Sure is. Good eye, Len.” She pats her on the shoulder, making a move to turn left. Before you can say anything, Helen takes her by the shoulders, turns her right and–laughing through her mask–pushes her the correct way.

More identical, dusty rooms pass by you at a snail’s pace as Jeanne and Noah’s laughter bounce off of the walls–Helen keeping close to you. You’re amazed that, what was in basics, the basement of two apartment blocks was so utterly large. The hallways seemed endless; nothing changing except the stage of dilapidation of the concrete. It felt less like an extensive basement, and more of an elaborate maze; repeating itself over and over.

You’re about to say something, criticise Jeanne’s terrible navigation skills that have gotten you lost for, what, the seventh time? Before a door, jaw unhinged and open, finds itself directly in front of you. Hanging, it sits–eerily still–on old hinges. A small set of stairs lay underneath it, part old wood and part plastic boxes. It’s much too short in comparison to the other decrepit staircase you descended fifteen, maybe twenty minutes ago. Even if you walked down them at light speed, you still knew you went down at least two stories; Noah had said it himself. 

You look between the three of them, finding Jeanne with a smirk, Noah with his usual worried frown and Helen doing the same as you. Your eyes meet for a split second, and you both seem to come to an unspoken agreement to stick by each other if anything goes awry. 

“Well, seems our prayin’ worked.” Jeanne mutters, taking a step, a quiet shifting of dust and battered soles against concrete, before Noah shoots out a wary hand, stopping her.

While open doors in buildings lost to time aren’t necessarily a bad sign, open doors to the only usable passageway to a ‘famous’ building certainly is. While most explorers were socially acceptably kind, others weren’t; nobody really wants to share a building, after all. Let alone, you wouldn’t doubt the local police had at least enough common sense to set a tripwire or two. 

The subtle click of each of you turning your flashlights off echoes in the endless hall of void and dust.

Helen drags you forward as you put your spare hand out, not wanting to smash your head into a wall. In doing so, you find the rough fabric of Jeanne’s jacket. She jumps slightly and grabs at your hand, cold fingers feeling your crooked digits and calming. You all stare into the unknown darkness before you. Moonwalkers and star gazers, temporary prey animals, you prick your ears and listen for any noise: footsteps, speech, anything.

After a few seconds of quiet, you hear the subtle intake of breath and the beginnings of a ‘hello’ spill out from Jeanne’s mouth. Before you can do it yourself, Helen’s hand automatically clamps over her mask, probably giving her a look in the darkness to ‘stay quiet, dipshit.’ Maybe without the ‘dipshit’ part. Even so, you’re sure Jeanne can feel it, pitch black aside.

You all sit, crouched, in the artificial night for a few more deafening minutes, the only sound the inhales and exhales of your friends through their masks. In the quiet dark, where your brain, deprived of its senses, has nothing to focus on but noise, they are as loud as fire burning, centimetre by centimetre, through dry wood.

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

You think the walls are moving with each thump. Maybe it’s a trick of your tired eyes. Maybe. 

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

Water falls to the ground from somewhere unseen.

After a few more seconds of silence, someone grows restless, and clicks back on their flashlight, promptly blinding you all. 

“Shit, sorry.” Jeanne apologises, flicking her flashlight into the abandoned lobby. For a few moments, she searches around–watches the dark corners and squints at things you can’t see–before she deems it safe. “Looks like we’re all good.” She turns to you all, sending another flash of bright light into your sensitive retinas that earns another loud groan from you three. She quickly points the flashlight away and smiles apologetically.

As you all flick your flashlights back on, yours jammed in its notch, Helen turns to Jeanne. “I am sorry.” She says, eyeing Jeanne sheepishly. “I was- I was just worried about someone being there.”

Jeanne smiles, again, saying, “No sweat, Len.”

Knowing Helen, it was more of an impulse rather than an act of preservation. You think the two are still similar, though.

Following Jeanne, as you always do, you step into the old entryway. 

The lobby, like the stairway and hallway behind you, is covered in striped, dull, light blue and cream wallpaper. In some spots, the paper is slashed open, sagging downwards and brushing the floor. Even so, it’s not the ugliest pairing of colours, but, you had to admit; you were getting a bit tired of the colour cream. 

Stepping up and in, careful to avoid any possible tripwire, you watch as gentle light streams through the cracks of boarded-up windows to the left of you; the front of the building. Smashed in and littering the floor, and its stupid, dirty cream carpet–who even puts a cream carpet in a front entryway?–in tiny mirrors. Creeping, climbing, crawling weeds weave their way through the wood, damp with a forgotten rain, and into the lobby, hoping to find light, and instead finding perpetual night and dust. 

Walking closer to the closed off front entrance, you spot that some of the weeds even end in pretty white flowers, white as a bride's veil, that reach skywards. You step closer, wondering what flowers they were to be blooming at night and feeding off of the pus that oozes from each crack in the concrete, only to be met with a sour smell; something halfway between sickly sweet and foul. 

What’s up with this place and shit smells, you think to yourself, pointing your flashlight to the wooden boards hiding the lobby away, dust floating through the beam of light. 

Helen coughs. “At least there is a little less dust.”

“Yeah,” Noah points his flashlight upwards. “I don’t particularly want to think how much of that is asbestos, though.”

“Well hey,” Jeanne laughs from somewhere behind you, “If it is, we’ll all be just as short of breath as you are, Noah.” She jabs.

“More like you’d get lung cancer,” he pauses for a moment, “though, I guess you’re already half-way there, Jeanne.”

You don’t catch her face, but you imagine it has some form of scowl on it. Either way, unbothered with whatever insults they decide to hurl at each other, both quick to taunts even if they were laughing with each other but moments ago, you let their back-and-forth fade to background noise, as you did before, as you observe the walls. 

Graffiti spans almost all of them, most unreadable, having been partially hidden under layers of even more spray paint and the odd square of solid white; probably an attempt to cover up the vulgar words. As your light traces each colourful line, you note the usual images, well, words, depicted. What you think to be signatures, looped around themselves like yarn, reappear on each wall, marking their territory. You have no doubt that you’ll see them later on in the building. Hidden beneath more paint are a few slurs, phone numbers and unreadable words. However, one catches your eye, painted in fading orange spray paint and slowly being covered by other random words. 

Footsteps approach from behind you and, without turning, you catch Jeanne’s shabby haircut from the corner of your eye, as well as the ever so subtle smell of smoke.

“Hm,” she hums, tracing over the wall with her eyes. “Looks like a really shitty modern art piece.” 

You laugh, “Yeah, certainly isn’t the prettiest graffiti I’ve ever seen.”

Before long, her eyes catch onto what you’d been staring at. Nudging your side, she asks “What’s it say?”

You squint, trying to decipher the neon words. “‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’,” you huff out another laugh. “Not ominous at all.”

“Pretty sure that’s a Bible verse,” Jeanne jokes, “Who even uses ‘ye’ anymore?” she scoffs, shaking her head. 

“This guy, apparently.” You mumble sarcastically.

“Mm, maybe cultists like to fuck around this place.” She replies, flashlight lighting up other pieces of graffiti.

“Mhm.” you hum, half-listening as she points out any other graffiti that catches her eye. Keeping a careful watch for Helen and Noah, you turn from her and observe the rest of the lobby. It spans out in a ‘T’ shape, opening up in the back to two elevators in the centre and a staircase to the left, leading up to the apartments above. You’d come out of the maintenance door on the right side, so you knew there wasn’t another staircase there either. It’s an odd shape, one that doesn’t really fit the exterior of the building. Well, neither did the basement either. You guess buildings from the fifties–or maybe sixties?–just had really weird layouts. 

To your left sits the receptionist’s desk, one of the few pieces of remaining furniture that isn’t overturned or slashed to threads. You can almost imagine the small space in its prime: small potted plants decorating the desk along with knick knacks and maybe a rotary phone, the afternoon sun beaming through the large windows and onto the face of the receptionist and the shiny call bell.

Smiling to yourself, you reach out and press on the top of the bell, sending a cheerful ding throughout the dusty lobby. The noise garners Jeanne’s attention, her laugh filling your ears. She dings it repeatedly, the lighthearted noise quickly becoming irritating as she leans over the counter, looking left and right saying, “Hellooooo? Anyone thereeee?”

As expected, she earns no response; no ghostly figure of a time passed appears behind the desk to fulfil her request, much to your delight. 

“Bad service, huh?” She turns to you, smirking, canines peaking over her bottom lip.

“You say that like it’s a hotel.” You giggle, watching her find her way behind the desk. With her hands on her hips, your flashlight now pointing to the back of her head, she searches through the old desk. Just like your own apartment, old keys hang–like dead men on a noose–against a wooden board, rotten and faded plaques, once marking their flat number, above them. 

Jeanne mumbles almost indistinguishably to herself as she picks the rusted keys, gently, off of the board; all you’re really able to pick up is the odd, seemingly random number. Looking closer, at least, the little you can see behind Jeanne’s fat head, you manage to spot a series of numbers at the top of the board, starting at one and ending at thirty. Seeing the number, you can feel your legs muscles ache at the mere thought of how many floors you’re going to have to climb.

Suddenly, Jeanne turns around with a “Think fast!” and tosses a few keys at you. You fumble to catch them, almost dropping your flashlight, as you open your mouth to question why on Earth you’d need keys when half the doors seemed to be rotting on their own hinges. But, as per usual, she beats you to it. 

“I know this place is old as Hell, and a fuck ton of people have been here before us, so, most of the doors will probably be wide open. However,” she slinks back around the desk, “I wanna take my chances with a coupla’ random keys and see if we can get into some locked ones.”  

“Fair,” putting your flashlight under your arm, you sift through the different keys, attempting to find numbers and letters hidden under the years of grime. As Jeanne leans into you, offering her light and comparing which keys you have, you catch the scent of smoke again. With an inhale, you begin, “Hey, Jeanne?”

“Yeah?” she replies, bringing a particularly rusty key closer to her eye.

“I thought you said you were gonna stop.” It’s more of a statement, rather than a question, posed casually and calmly if not to keep that intricate mask of hers from coming up.

From behind the key, she peers at you, searching your face for something. Maybe disappointment. She always hated when you were disappointed instead of angry. Hated the furrow in your brows and the slump of your shoulders more than anything, you think. All you do, sometimes, is think and guess with her, and you feel that you’ll spend the rest of your life doing it.

You think she smiles, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I was just out with a coupla’ other friends, some of the other girls from baseball, the other day; didn’t change my clothes.” She huffs a small laugh. “I…I haven’t-” she swallows, looking into your eyes with what you could almost describe as fear as she fumbles slightly with her words. “I haven’t…been smoking.” She pauses.

She hesitates. 

“Promise,” she adds on, smiling wider; a pathetic attempt to convince you.

“Good,” you smile back at her, as genuine as you can manage. 

You really do wish, sometimes, you could crawl into her mind and understand. Understand what made her think she needed to lie to you, and that you wouldn’t be able to pick it up. 

Who knew the age of fifteen and a whole Summer could change a person so much?

Before you can dwell on what, or, rather, who, you lost warm winds and August afternoons, a loud clang reverberates from behind you, causing you to jolt. Spinning around, you see Helen, boredly, standing in front of the pair of rickety elevators, and Noah climbing–suspiciously Gollum-like–out of the maintenance door. 

“What on Earth are you doing?” Jeanne laughs out, probably happy for the change in topic, as you stuff keys into your pocket and get a proper hold on your flashlight.

Noah smiles, eyes crinkling, and shows off an incredibly rusty crowbar being held by his sleeve covered hands. “Going to try to pry open one of the elevators.”

“His idea, not mine.” Helen laughs, a mildly worried look on her face as you approach. 

Easily, he hooks one side of the crowbar in the small gap between the two elevator doors, rust flaking off as he does so.

“I think you’ve got more of a chance of snapping that thing in half than opening the doors.” Jeanne jokes, watching with entertainment.

“Where did he even get that?” You turn to Helen, who offers you a shrug. As the piece of metal bends more, she subtly steps in front of you. You don’t know if she even notices the movement; it sends a warm feeling to your chest, even if it’s only something small. She’s always been that way, at least, for as long as you’ve known her; ready to lose a limb if only to see someone smile when they’re hurting. 

You think someday she’ll get hurt from that mindset, but, for now, you bask in the feeling of being loved. 

“Need some help there?” Jeanne joins him, pulling up her sleeves, even though he shakes his head no.

With much pulling and tugging, some very overly dramatic noises coming out of the both of them that get a good laugh out of both you and Helen, even if you are slowly inching away to avoid getting half a crowbar to the head, they pry the door open a crack.

Leaning back in, you watch as they hook the crowbar onto the door again and, like in some great tug of war, the door opens, bit by bit, with a gritty screech. Suddenly, it slides completely to one side, Noah and Jeanne falling onto each other, not prepared for the sudden lack of pull, with a laugh. 

Helping the two of them up, you peer into the mechanical cavern of rusted iron and dismembered pulleys. The cold air, probably the same air that was in there in the fifties, sends a shiver up your spine. 

“Where’s the elevator?” Jeanne mumbles, brows furrowed, before Noah turns to her comically slowly and points his flashlight downwards, revealing the caved in lid of the elevator, disintegrating at the bottom of the shaft. “Oh.”

“Remind me to never get stuck in an elevator with you.” He grumbles, leaning forward slightly, trying to get a better look at some wire or pipe. From the corner of your eye, you see Helen take a careful bundle of his coat in her spare hand.

“What is that, a threat?” 

“Maybe.” He looks up, the almost familiar frown appearing on his face. Confused, you lean forwards yourself, keeping a tight grip on the sides of the still-stuck door.

“I’d like to remind you who’s currently leaning over the elevator shaft here.”

It’s exactly how they look in every spy movie ever, albeit much more eroded, unclean and unsafe looking. Metal beams run vertically along the concrete walls–either covered in soot or black mould–along with old wires and broken pulleys. Upwards, there are openings leading to the upper floors, some still hidden by closed doors and others letting subtle light stream into the concrete trachea. 

“How many floors did you say this place had?” Noah says, suddenly, his flashlight angled upwards. 

“Thirty.” For once, you beat Jeanne to it. “Why?”

“It looks a lot more than thirty.” Helen whispers.

Looking upward, you mumble to yourself, doing your best to count the floors. At some point, somewhere between sixteen and twenty-two, the angle becomes too steep and you’re unable to see any more floors. You have half the mind to lean further forwards–feel the cool air of an archaic exhale–but you don’t trust your grip, nor the crumbling walls.

“You think we can get it to work again?” Jeanne grips your shoulder, anchoring her to you as she gazes at the elevator, as if her eyes can pierce straight through the morose tunnel. 

“Oh, definitely.” You grumble sarcastically. The roof of it had caved in and was clearly detached from any pulleys that could haul it, well, anywhere. Plus, you could only imagine what the fuse box for this place would look like. Probably something similar to the behind of your TV. 

Suddenly, she sends a knock to your back, a harsh one that has you automatically loosen your grip–hands preparing to catch you–and for a split second you see your broken body bleeding out at the bottom of an elevator shaft, before her hold on your shoulder keeps you steady. Another hand also dashes out, one holding the back of your shirt, which you find to be Helen.

While you glare at Jeanne over your shoulder, heart thumping with a spike of adrenaline, she offers you a pat on your shoulder and a muffled, “Told you I’d get you back, Oiseau.”

Noah scoffs, completely unaware that–if not for your friend’s quick reflexes–you could’ve just been added to this town’s death toll, saying “It’s been abandoned since the seventies; I’m pretty sure all that remains of the fuse box is dust and disintegrating rubber.”

For a while, the four of you simply stare into the abandoned elevator shaft in silence, none of you really knowing what to say.

That is, before Jeanne leans back, dragging you and Helen backwards with her with a “Okay.” Once the focus is on her, loud voice like that of a preacher’s, she begins again. “So, game-plan: I vote we split up-”

Immediately, her words are met with a groan from you and Noah–Helen too kind to vocalise the sour feeling she displays on her face. 

“Hold on, I thought you said we were doing this as a group?” You eye her, wary of the frigid air that rises and sinks from the elevator shaft. Helen nods from beside you, wary of being split up since Jeanne’s main argument to get her to come was to have you do it as a group.

“We are, we are,” she assures. “Just- thought it'd be easier if we did each side of the building in twos, y’know? Like, two do block A, two do block B, and then we switch.”

“Thought you also said we have six hours, if not more,” Noah interjects. “One side of a building would take, what, forty minutes? Maybe an hour? We have plenty of time.”

Jeanne shows one of her confident smiles from underneath her mask, though, having traced each smile line and crinkled eye for these past years, you swear you see a hint of nervousness in it. The type of nervousness where she’s offhandedly lied about something minor, and it’s coming back to bite her in the ass. 

You have the feeling you might just have a little less than six hours. 

“Sure we do, I just…” she shrugs, searching for the right words to try to convince you all to agree to a nonsensical decision. “Thought it would be more fun.” She trails off slightly at the end, before hiding her unsure demeanour–a thing you only get glances of nowadays–underneath smooth words and a confident posture. 

You lick your lips, going over the logistics of the idea as Noah begins to argue with her, Helen sighing and simply watching the half-serious altercation, probably tired of intervening. You were sure this was a stupid, miniscule detail that she’d end up getting hung up on for no particular reason. She’s always been the type of person to, when making a decision, stick to it no matter what. 

“It would be so much easier to just do it as the four of us-”

“-It could also help us out if the pigs decided to show up! We could alert each other instead of all getting done in-”

“-I thought you said the police were lazy and we had nothing to worry about-”

While you wanted to do things as a group, as you always have, you’d rather avoid trying to argue with Jeanne when you knew most of her points would be simply made for the sake of it. You’d also like to avoid any sort of mildly serious debates between Jeanne and Noah: it was like watching a human and a robot try to argue that they are nothing alike, something that would go on forever with neither being able to come to a satisfactory point. 

“-Can you not agree with me for once?” she throws up her hands, body language exasperated but eyes filled with entertainment. 

“Why do you always get stuck up on the smallest points?-”

Interrupting the growing noise of Jeanne and Noah, you begin. “-Okay! Okay. Split into twos, yeah?” you say, mentally throwing up your hands as Helen sighs next to you. 

You couldn’t hold an argument with her, anyway. While she had grown to take the world by her teeth and chew until she could swallow, you had learnt that you’d rather accept what you were given and grin as you choked it down. 

They both turn to you, Noah’s brows furrowed and Jeanne seemingly sporting a somewhat sadistic grin on her face, which grows when she sees you agreeing. 

“Yeah,” she breathes out. “Split into twos, each do one block, then we meet up at a spot and switch. Then we can do whatever afterwards.”

You glance towards Helen, searching her eyes and her habitual furrowing of brows and pouting of lips as she mulls over the decision. She glances towards you, then Noah, then Jeanne. Eventually, she sighs, shrugs, and lets her face fall back into her peaceful expression. “Yes, why not?”

Noah huffs as Jeanne laughs, happy to have won the trivial argument. “Majority vote wins, I’m afraid.”

You think you’ve spoiled her over the years, playing the thin threads of her little games to help her get where she wishes. 

“Since when was this a democracy…” Noah shoves it off, scratching his wrist. 

You’d say you were simply being a loyal friend, but you think Jeanne would say differently.

“Since forever.” She pats his shoulder, maybe easing her smile into something kinder, and probably mumbles something about buying him food later to make up for it.

Say what, you didn’t know, and like everything else infinitesimal about her, you didn’t think you’d ever know, nor understand.

As are the intricacies of the human condition, you suppose. 

“So!” she claps her hands together, and you can almost imagine the rosary entangled in her calloused palms. “I’ll go with-”

“-I will go with Y/N?” Helen interrupts, soft hand intertwining with your own, unlike her. After all, her interrupting was rare. Rare, but very conscious. 

“I’m good with that.” You smile at her. You already knew what Jeanne was planning to ask, but you’ve spent your lifetime attached to her hip, so you’re sure she can take a few hours without you. 

If you were smarter, maybe you’d realise that once you fill a dog’s bowl high, it is all it ever expects. Give less, and even if you are a hand that feeds, it’ll bite.

Though, that’s more Noah’s forte than yours. 

Jeanne’s shoulder’s slump, and she opens her mouth as if she’ll say something to rebuke before she catches your eyes. You don’t know what she sees in your E/C iris, but it makes her close her mouth and nod. 

“Seems like you're stuck with me, Bonesy.” She slings an arm over Noah’s shoulder, and he rolls his eyes. 

“Lucky me.” He chuckles at the end of his sentence. 

The four of you check over your battered walkie-talkies, double checking they’re still set to the same frequency and, of course, that they still have power. Each of them hum to life with crackling static as you each send a quick word to each other, even though you all stand in a tight-knit circle. Well, technically more of a square, but who cares for the specifics? 

“How do we get to the other building, again?” Noah questions, fiddling with the back of his walkie-talkie after inserting new batteries. 

“Simple; take a left instead of a right.” Jeanne replies, shrugging. Noah huffs under his mask at the prospect of being in those dingy maintenance tunnels again, and you don’t blame him.

Afterwards, with a nod, you agree on a meeting spot: the overgrown courtyard in front of the buildings, as well as devise a ‘danger’ word, which is insisted to be ‘pineapple’, for whatever reason.

As each pair walks away, you and Helen walking backwards to the staircase, and Noah and Jeanne walking back to the dusty tunnels, you wave to each other.

“Promise not to get eaten by rats?” Jeanne calls out, waving her flashlight back and forth. 

You exhale a cold puff of air. “Only if you promise not to get crushed by the walls.” You half-joke back, mildly worried about exactly how much more, or less, intact block B was. 

“Promise!” Jeanne says.

Noah flashes you a thumbs up, followed by a “Don’t get lost!”

Helen smiles, replying, “Of course not!”

As you approach the staircase, Helen joking about aforementioned rats, you’re sure, in the hour or so that those two have together, they can find it in themselves to not tear each other to shreds over the tiniest thing. 

Hopefully. 

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

I hate dialogue, but the show must go on.

Now the real fun begins! I'm super excited to write out the scenes I've got planed; I've had them stored away for almost half a year lol.

I also wanted to say thank you for so much love, both on here and Ao3 and Tumblr! All of the lovely comments really boost my confidence; I'm so happy so many people enjoy this. Almost 140 hearts is insane.

[melit0n]

Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 2

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

Over the years however, the place has become a hotspot for urban explorers and crime junkies alike. Whispers of reanimated bodies stalking the dead streets and brutal murders worm their way into your friend's ears and, having nothing to do on your Winter break, you reluctantly agree to go exploring the abandoned city with them.

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters ->

Prologue

Chapter 1: For Whom the Bell tolls

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater (you're already here!)

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast

Chapter 4: Something Forgotten

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious

Chapter 7: Heavy is The Head that Mourns The Past

Chapter 8: Be Not Afraid

Chapter 9: Eye for an Eye

- Status: Work In Progress.

- Obsessive! Demon OC/Reader

- Word count (for chp): 7.2k

- Warnings for chp: None.

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

“Come on then!” Jeanne exclaims, loose rocks clattering down the grassy hill as she makes her descent. 

“Wait a second-” Noah grabs onto the collar of her crinkled jacket, using you as an anchor as he holds Jeanne in place, keeping her from slipping. It’s quite a funny scene; Jeanne slipping and grabbing onto Noah’s arm for dear life as he attempts to pull her back up…with very little success.

“Proper Heracles you are.” You giggle out. As much as you find their suffering amusing, you make the decision to help, Helen shaking her head and making a move to follow. Stepping out of the gloom–charcoal and old incense layered thickly on your clothes–you three hoist Jeanne up from the point of no return and back into the tree line.

“Let's-” Noah lets out a puff of air, “-think about this first, yeah?” he begins, looking between the three of you. “We know, for a fact, that the police patrol the borderlines. If we get caught, we’re done for.” He eyes Jeanne, who rolls her own in response. “So-”

“-What you’re forgettin’ about, Bonsey, is how lazy cops are when it comes to shit like this,” Jeanne interrupts. “That article was like, at least six months old.” 

“Brilliantly encouraging to know you gave us out-of-date information.” You mumble to yourself, Helen nodding along. The adrenaline pumping through your veins at simply seeing the town was slowly ebbing away, your more rational side, worried about gunpowder and jail time, taking over.

She glances upwards and immediately begins attempting to placate you and Helen. “If anything, they probably have, like, one person on watch sat in his car half asleep.”

You begin another rebuttal, about how that was probably just one of her ‘lucky guesses’, but she beats you to it. 

“Plus, I had a chat with a coupla’ people who’ve been here before, and, fun fact, they said that the cops don’t even bother patrollin’ this side because of the hill.” She pats her hands against the ground. “And the thick ass forest.” She nods her head back to the woods. Then, she goes on to talk about how ‘most people get lost’ before they even get here, and that they park their cars on the road outside the woods; a place the police patrol regularly. 

Besides her thoughtful and strategic notes on avoiding getting caught, one thing stuck with you; most people got lost before they could even get to this point. You were sure you walked a pin straight route from the car right to here, following an old deer trail right to this point. But, as you look behind you, you see no trail in sight. No dirt road trodden by thousands of animals who will never again return to their burrows, no pine needle ridden route; no nothing. 

Just darkness. Darkness and the trees overhead.

You think, no, you know, that it’s just lingering paranoia, but you can’t help but want to move back out into the cool moonlight. Swathe yourself in Her lambent glow and hide away from that of which you cannot see.

You feel more seen draped in shadows than you do surrounded by light.

Jeanne drags you out of your thoughts with a puppy eyed look towards you followed by, “You’ve just gotta trust me on this one, okay, Oiseau?”

Oiseau. It was a–or rather the–nickname she’d called you ever since she was a kid; Bird. Per her own words, it was because you were ‘too afraid to leave the nest, but sky bound nonetheless’. You disliked it at first, but, as you grew older, you began to understand that Jeanne could see right through you, right down to your thrumming veins and ebbing viscera. Too bad you couldn’t do the same for her.

She also knew using nicknames could ease your head on almost anything.

With a small sigh, you let your shoulders fall and nod. 

“We ready, then?” Jeanne looks between the three of you and raises a questioning eyebrow. With hair still tussled from her previous escapade, it disappears behind her slightly wavy, dirty blonde locks.

You snort at the mental image of Jeanne without eyebrows, something you’re sure she’d do given enough encouragement. “Yeah.” 

“The fuck you laughin’ at, huh?” She says, a toothy smile on her face.

“Nothing for you to worry about.” You grab Jeanne by the hand, helping her up from her still seated position, as you all walk over to the edge of the hill, and begin your downhill trek. For once, you’re happy that Jeanne let you keep these hiking boots. Even if the toe tip is scuffed and gradually fading to dust, they keep you steady as ever on the decline, even if a few old rabbit burrows attempt to trip you up.

“Remind you of anythin’?” Speaking of the Devil, she appears beside you, keeping two arms out for stability.

You frown, “What, Hell Hill?” She loses her balance for a second, almost trips and grabs onto one of your arms to regain it. 

“Since when did you give it such a dumb-ass nickname?” She snorts, bitten down fingernails with chipping nail polish digging into your arm; she always had an iron grip, seemingly never knowing the proper time to execute it. You remember doing rock-climbing with her in primary school, and you found out quickly that she’d hold on to your hand harder than she would the anchors; you’d never been more glad for safety ropes in your life.

You huff loudly, “Since I fell down it twice and got thousands of brambles stuck on me. Still have the scars from all the brambles-”

“-the scars from all the brambles. I know.” Talking in tandem, she glances over her shoulder with a glint in her eye.

“Oh shut up.” You giggle. Feeling petty, you pretend to lose your own balance, and almost send her tumbling down the hill as well.

“You ass!” She pushes you right back, not caring how her voice somehow manages to get louder. Somehow manages to make the trees creak with annoyance above you. Looking back, they truly do tower over the four of you now; great shadows clawing at your heels and boughs groaning in the wind. Jeanne’s giggles are louder, though, taking your mind off of what looms over you. If only for a moment, at least.

With much tumult, something you probably could’ve avoided if you walked with Helen over the embodiment of pure energy known as Jeanne next to you, you finally reach the bottom of the somewhat steep hill. It wasn’t as hard as you thought it’d be, but you dreaded the climb back up. Still, easily, through the quiet, you can hear Noah huffing and puffing as if he just climbed Mount Everest.

Jeanne laughs, and knocks his back hard, taking even more air out of him. “Come on Noah, wasn’t that hard.”

“Says the person who’s got a set of properly working lungs.” He huffs with a smile, pulling his inhaler out of his back pocket. His asthma has gotten worse over the years, worsened by city smog and the few allergies he had. Jeanne poked fun at it often, but always kept a spare inhaler for him and, like the rest of you, sat with him through any asthma attacks he had. She whispers something to him. Something that brings a small smile to his face after he’s taken a few inhales. Something small, probably, and something you’ll most likely never know. In all her abrasiveness, she tends to have a way with things like that, at least when she isn’t pretending the issue at hand doesn’t exist.

Which is most of the time.

Turning away from the two, your eyes are now graced with the full wonder–or rather gloom–of the shell of a town. You stand at the brink of a small suburb, homes and shops left to waste away. Further in, further to the thumping heart of the town, apartments and high-rise buildings tower above. In the darkness, they’re like obsidian obelisks that rise from the dry ground, tearing at the night sky like astronomers of an age far gone. The wind whistles through each corpse, each dried lung, allowing what once was to howl and scream in the quiet of the night from the backs of their throats, fused by chemicals and memories.  

They look more like enormous tombstones–carving the land and marking the death of so many–rather than dwellings of people you’ll never know. Rather than a place of memories, old and new, you look, and will soon stand upon, what is more of a graveyard than a home. You guess that two are similar, in some ways. 

However, despite your own ideas and the thought of how many bodies have been buried under this concrete, your friends stare at the place with awe. You can’t really blame them. You yourself could feel another pump of adrenaline slowly making its way through you, and who were you to dampen the mood with your morbid thoughts? You already brought Noah’s spirit down, and that was with just talking about trees of all things, so you don’t bother to voice your unease.

The crinkled, blue and white police tape flaps in the wind.

Jeanne takes you by the shoulders, suddenly, and shakes you, excited jitters finally getting to her. “Are you fuckin’ seein’ this Y/N??” 

You nod and giggle, shaking her back and grinning with all your might in hopes that it’ll hide the hesitancy returning to your eyes.

Eventually, she releases you, eyes still glued to the town, before she takes a glance left and right. Noah does the same, Helen following, then you. As you thought before; absolutely barren.

The next time you look over to Jeanne, however, she’s disappeared from your sight, and already on the other side of the tape. Jerking her head to follow, she clicks on her flashlight, and lets light flood the town of shadows. Ever the sheep, afraid of being without your herd in the endless night, you follow with ease. 

“This place is mad…” Jeanne yet again mumbles out with venerance, letting her flashlight grace over the dead, or, rather, sleeping buildings.

“Mhm,” Helen responds, “So many homes, abandoned and left to rot just like that.” Even in all your fear, even with the story behind why this place is how it is, you’d easily admit how–for lack of better words–fucking cool this place was. It was like walking into those dystopian books your English teacher always set for home reading.

Having lived in suburbs most of your life, Noah and Jeanne included, seeing what was almost a mirror of one of your many childhood neighbourhoods was…eerie, to say the least. You can almost hear the sound of kids giggling as they chase each other down the road, the smell of somebody’s Summer BBQ, a distant radio playing some 80s song which you’d somehow be able to recite word for word. The daydream brings a smile to your face, but it’s ruined the moment your eyes adjust better to the dark: glass diamonds reflecting your flashlight’s light, littering overgrown lawns, bikes slowly being dragged under the soil by weeds and faded plastic toys staring into you with their beady, faded painted eyes. 

Helen shifts closer to you and weaves her arm with yours. You appreciate the distraction.

Watching videos and looking at photos of abandoned places, especially places where the owners just got up and left, doesn’t compare in the slightest to actually being there. It’s like dreaming about an old memory where something isn’t right, but you just can’t put your finger on it. Makes it all the more creepy only being able to see what your beam of light allows. 

Jeanne glances towards you and Helen, a snide smile appearing on her face. “Looks like someone’s getting a case of the heebie-jeebies!”

“Am not!” You call back, Helen’s shoulders shaking lightly in laughter.

“Are too! I can see the goosebumps and the way your hands shake from here.” She states, matter-of-factly.

“Even if I was, at least Helen isn’t making fun of me for it.” You joke back, holding your chin high, only to earn Jeanne shaking her head back and forth as a response.

While you hadn’t known her the longest, especially compared to Jeanne, you would easily consider Helen one of your best friends. She was almost regal and spoke in prose without even meaning to.

Unlike Noah, who Helen herself took in later down the line, you met Helen while simply waiting for the bus home. She’d recognised you from one of your classes–which you apparently shared–and began talking to you. You were sceptical at first, and already had your social battery drained by Jeanne each day, but within the half-hour bus trip home, you two clicked; the rest was history. 

She always made sure you were comfortable and gave off an undeniably calming aura that kept you grounded when you needed it. Technically, it was the bare minimum, but having a very limited friendship group your whole life, you didn’t really care. Either way, you had to admit that she truly did live up to her name: moulded with all the grace of marble and eyes that you were sure you could go to war for if asked.

Plus, she was a brilliant cook, and who were you to say no to her Baklava?

After a while of walking through the preternatural suburbs, Noah asks, “So…what buildings do you guys want to check out first?”

“How much time do we have here?” Helen responds, tilting her head slightly.

“‘Bout six or so hours, but we could go longer.” Jeanne cuts in, flipping her flashlight around in her hand. “Just depends on how much you want to explore, and when we’re all free next. I don’t think we could explore this whole place in one night anyways.”

As much as you all wanted to look at every inch of the town, you knew that it wouldn’t be possible with your time limit, let alone the fact that this was an entire town you were talking about, and not a small one either. Plus, as far as you knew, none of you had a map, so you didn’t even know where anything actu-

“Check it.” The bright light of Jeanne’s phone paints her face pale and ghastly at first glance. Looking over her shoulder, you spot that she does, in fact, have a map, albeit grainy and pixelated. If you squint, you think you could count each pixel with ease. She begins pointing out the general area that you're in, and then listing different so-called ‘famous’ locations for you to visit.

First, there’s a shopping centre, void of time and most likely frozen in the 70s. Although you'd imagine that place would have been heavily looted; people taking ‘souvenirs’ until all that was left was barren clothes hangers and dust ridden shelves. They could have fun with their chemical infested merchandise all they wanted; you wouldn’t be touching a thing in there. Jeanne should’ve brought gloves for you all instead of the tiny pocket knives… 

Second is an old primary school, which both you and Helen immediately say no to. Abandoned houses are one thing, abandoned schools are a whole other thing. Places like that keep memories soaked into the walls, and, you have to admit, children’s drawings always look demonic in the dark. There probably wouldn’t be anything interesting in there anyways, just a bunch of dust and forgotten childhoods. 

Third is the town’s old hospital, complete with an extensive psychiatric ward and paired with a small tuberculosis sanatorium. It’s another small reminder of how old this place is, well, old enough for most of its inhabitants to live with the fear of the disease for a few years. You haven’t been to many hospitals, let alone a sanatorium, since most are privately owned and very expensive to visit legally, so it catches all of your eyes.

Finally, Jeanne notes the chemical plant; the heart of the town that left everybody’s bodies and minds to rot. Even a mention of it sends an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. A quick flash of lidless eyes is enough for you to voice your discomfort, and you’re immediately put at ease when everyone agrees. 

Jeanne pauses, having you believe that those are all the big locations.

“Right then,” you look up from the tiny screen, “hospital it is? How far is it?” You all look questioningly towards Jeanne.

“Hold your horses,” she laughs. “I’ve got one more.” 

You all lean back into Jeanne’s too bright phone to try to spot whatever she’s pointing to. It’s nearer to the centre of the town, more low-rise and mid-rise buildings appearing…but, all you can really see is a couple pixels of gloomy grey. 

“These,” she pinches the screen and zooms in further as if in hopes that it’ll make the image clearer, “are the infamous block A and B apartments.”

Helen nods, then questions, “Why, exactly, are they infamous?” and glancing towards Jeanne to catch her eye.

Jeanne smiles one of her devious smiles, half smirk and half grin. “Well…”

“Here we go…” Noah mumbles, earning a half hearted glare from Jeanne.

“They’re mainly known to other explorers, and the internet, because they’re one of the few buildings that are pretty safe, structurally at least. Most people tend to leave all the shit there because it’s way closer to the old chemical plant than the other sites, so it’s pretty much exactly as it was in the 80s. However, they’re infamous because anybody who enters always sees some weird ass shit in there.”

“‘Weird ass shit’ as in drug deals, or ‘weird ass shit’ as in corpses?” You raise an eyebrow. While it was nice to know you wouldn't have a ceiling collapse on you, you don’t think you could mentally brace yourself for the sight of a human corpse. Ever. You could harbour all the disgusting and horrifying memories you wanted, but nothing would haunt you more than the hollow eyes and the uncanny stiffness. 

“Weird ass shit as in ghosts.” 

Now that, that catches your attention.

Noah huffs loudly, vocalising his disinterest with the topic and rolling his eyes so hard you think he’s been possessed for a second. All the same, you and Helen lean in further. Helen hadn’t ever, and never will be, one for horror. She could put on a strong facade all she liked, but sometimes slashers in masks were enough to scare her. Although, you think she’s more afraid of the things she can’t see–let alone understand–rather than the characters themselves. She’s right to be so, she and more than half of the planet’s population. 

“I’m talkin’ full body apparitions. Hearing people talkin’ that ain’t there, seeing things move right in front of their eyes-”

“-Do I need to remind you all that this town was evacuated because of a chemical outbreak from a chemical plant that is near the apartments that caused hallucinations?” Noah pauses, looking between the three of you incredulously before continuing. “If people truly saw a ghost, it’s either leftover chemicals causing them to hallucinate, or become paranoid for that matter, or because they’ve been told they’ll see ghosts. It’s like The Baader-Meinhof effect.”

You all look at him with utter confusion. 

He sighs loudly–something you’ve become accustomed to in the years you’ve known him–somehow expecting you all to just know what that is off of memory. “It’s a cognitive bias stemming from a phenomenon where something you recently learned seems to appear everywhere, making it feel like it's more common than it actually is. If someone tells you that a house is haunted, then, your senses become heightened and you carefully analyse every little thing with the expectation of ghosts. A creak in a hundred-year-old house’s floorboards becomes a footstep, the whistling of wind through a cracked window becomes a breath in someone’s ear, etcetera.”

There’s a heavy pause as you all process the information.

“Did your mum drop you on your right side when you were a baby? Have some whimsy, Jesus.” Jeanne mumbles.

There it is. 

Noah scowls. “It’s not my fault you have the intellectual and cranial capacity of an artichoke.”

“Oh, okay mister ‘I cut my hair with a knife and fork’-”

“-Says you, you-

“-May we not? Please. The longer you two argue, the less time we have.” Yet again, Helen intervenes in what you’re sure would be an absolutely hilarious back and forth between Jeanne and Noah. Even if he parades himself around to be above the ‘childishness’ of Jeanne, he’s most definitely not immune to her insults. 

After a disapproving look from Helen, the two of them zip their mouths shut, and you fall into gentle silence. Looking between your friends, you try to determine if they’re finished talking yet so you can get your two cents in, before repeating your earlier statement. 

“So…apartments?”

“Apartments.” They all speak in tandem with each other, nodding in agreement like Roman scholars. 

Within a few moments, you all determine which direction you have to go, with much debate on what way is West and which is East which has you losing brain cells every statement, and you begin the so-called ‘short, twenty minute walk’.

Being careful not to trip over any debris, you have the underlying feeling it’s going to be much longer than that. 

Ahead of you, Jeanne and Noah are mumbling indistinctly to each other, and you watch multiple–failed–attempts at trying to scare each other play out. Quietly, Helen walks next to you, her footsteps somehow silent on the dusty road. As you walk further into the town’s centre, buildings rise up around you like great maze walls, hiding the past in their shadowy alleyways. 

“It is weird, isn’t it?” Helen begins, her soft voice like the plucking of harp strings. 

“Yeah, this place gives me the creeps.”

“What? Oh- yes- it does, but I’m talking about how it is strange that it is already our final year. I should have made that more clear…” she mumbles the last half to herself, kicking the odd stone from her foot and keeping a keen eye on the two in front of you. Even if Noah was typically smart and sensible, Jeanne had the tendency to bring out a much more brash side of him.

“Oh, yeah.” You had met Helen at the beginning of this part of your education, and, suddenly, you were all nearing the end. Noah described it as happening in the ‘blink of an eye’, but, for you, it was a very languid, tiresome blink that left you burnt out and hating the education system more than you had as a teen.

Plus, as far as you knew, they were all going to different courses at different schools, aside from Jeanne, who insisted you applied to the same school. You haven’t yet built up the courage to tell her you don’t even know if you want to do more higher education anymore. Either way, it’d be…odd to not see their faces every day.

“Where’d all the time go, hm?” You half-joke, not completely sure how to respond. 

“My point exactly.” She agrees, and then you both fall into an awkward silence. You roll different thoughts around in your head, different words and conversation starters to help fill the quiet gap, before she beats you to it. Like everyone always seems to do.

She begins with a pleasant laugh, and, even in the dark, you can just imagine the nostalgic smile on her face. “I remember when I first met you and Jeanne. I thought you were both so odd.”

“What? Why?” You laugh out, utterly surprised. While you had technically met and became friends with Helen on the day of the fateful bus ride, she only met Jeanne about two weeks into knowing you. Half because you and Jeanne were stuck to each other's hip, and half because you had mentioned her off handedly to Jeanne and she became determined to meet and talk with the person who managed to befriend her ‘introverted homebody’. Even if she gave you those titles from a place of off-handed care, you never really liked them. Even if they were true.

Still, in all her grace and sensibility, you never would have thought her first impression of the two of you would be ‘odd’, of all things, especially since she was the one to start talking to you.

“Not in a bad way! Not in a bad way; I promise!” She repeats, laughing again. “It’s just…Jeanne was, well, is, an impulsive adrenaline junkie who would rather climb a cliff than study. Admittedly, not someone who I’d ever thought I’d be good, close friends with.” As she speaks, she glances over to you, careful to earn your acceptance with her descriptions of your oldest friend as if you’d fight her or something if she overstepped. You just laugh and shake your head; she’s right, as per usual. 

“And you…” she trails off, letting a thought simmer on the tip of her tongue before she speaks it. 

“And you…what? Are we insulting each other now?” You laugh out. You had to admit, her descriptions of her first impressions of Jeanne were dead on, as funny as it was. 

“You’re…you. Tired-eyed, reserved Y/N who is…much smarter and complex than they look.”

“I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult.” You grin, looping your arm with hers as she did before.

“Well, since it is coming from me, it is a compliment. I’d never insult you.” 

You snort, “Oh, Queen Helen of Sparta, daughter of Zeus-” She begins laughing, telling you to stop through her pearly whites as her skin changes to a deep shade of rose. “-With thy beauty matching none!” You unloop your hands and skip in front of her, curtsying and bowing deeply. “How graceful of you to gift praise to my humble vessel of a body with such praise.”

Helen’s loud laughter bounces off of the decrepit buildings, causing Noah to turn around and send a blinding beam of light your way. You watch as your bowed form casts an elongated shadow across the concrete, reaching for the suburbs now merely incongruous shapes in the stygian distance.

You hope you look holy, bathed in all this light. 

“What are you two laughing about?” Noah calls out, walking backwards.

With a smile, you recite a part of your conversation to him. He shakes his head back and forth, then slows his gait until he walks with you two, Jeanne eventually following along after realising she’d lost her walking buddy. Aimless conversation fills the cool air and you can’t help the way your body relaxes. 

The talk begins on the topic of pets and Noah starts with how his snakes–affectionately named Ekans and Arbok–at home are doing, mainly how big one of them has grown. If you remembered correctly, one was a Hognose, an absolutely adorable thing with the cutest face on a snake you’ve ever seen, and the other was some fancily titled ball python. 

Helen notes on her cat, Αστέρι, of which you could never pronounce properly no matter how many times you’d heard it. It was a stoic white and grey thing that kept itself well groomed and, no matter how hard you tried, seemed to hate you.

Jeanne doesn’t own any, unfortunately due to her land-lord's policies, but it sends her down a rant of how shitty the said landlord is and, if and when she moves again, she’ll get something like a Husky.

Then, after Jeanne has finished her aforementioned rant, the conversation shifts to places you all want to visit outside of urban exploring, and you find Jeanne is planning a gap year to go travelling. By the glint in her eye, you can tell she’ll ask later on if you’ll want to come along, which you’ll probably think about for a week or so before saying yes. 

You think you’d follow her until you were both nothing but dust, if you were honest.

Eventually, someone brings up the topics of bands, and sends Jeanne down another tangent, which you all listen to intently, storing the information away for future birthdays and Christmases and conversations. 

The three of them are chatterboxes, so they easily allow you to zone out and just simply listen–if you chose to–instead of keeping up with every word.

With full admittance, you felt much more at ease than you did back up on that hill. Even so, with a flashlight, each shadow moves as if living. Everything always looks much more haunted in the low light. It doesn’t help that each building feels…alive. Alive and hungry, albeit bleary. You can’t help but wonder if you look palatable. Appetising, even.

“Hey,” Noah gently nudges your side, “look up.” You’re confused at first, sending him a questioning glance, before you follow his gaze and look upwards. From high above, thousands of silver eyes stare down on your forms. Like a great snake of a time far past, a faraway galaxy ebbs and flows across the charcoal sky. Sparks of blue, almost like lapis lazuli, glimmer within the silver, framed by the ever-changing colours of a humming nebula. 

…you’ve never seen something so bright in your life. 

“Well, would you look at that.” Jeanne mumbles, eyes stuck on the extraterrestrial gold that glitters above.

You’re in utter awe of what you’re seeing; living near big cities meant that the sky barely got dark when you were younger, let alone to this point. Still, in all your wonder, you can’t help but catch the frown on Noah’s face. You wait patiently for him to voice his thoughts, but he simply stares and stays silent as a tomb. Rolling the thought around in your head, you open your mouth to ask what exactly has him looking so confused in the face of something so beautiful, but Jeanne seems to beat you to it. As per usual. 

“Hey, Helen,” you swear you haven’t heard her voice so soft for, well, years. You guess even she feels a bit humbled by the endlessness that stares back at her. “You’re big on stars and astronomy and shit, right? Spot anything you know?”

Helen tilts her head back and forth, before obviously seeing something recognisable in the endless cluster of stars. “Yes, um…see the large gathering of stars to the right- follow my finger.”

“There’s a lotta’ clumps of stars…” Jeanne mumbles, but diligently follows Helen’s hand, as do you and Noah. 

“Those are the Antennae Galaxies. Do you see them?”

“Where?” Jeanne squints at the sky.

“To the right, Jeanne.” You grumble, placing your hand on her head and turning her.

“I still don’t- I see it!” She shouts happily, earning a smile from all three of you.

Helen chuckles before speaking again, smiling to herself as she does so. “They look like a heart on a telescope…” 

“They’re a pair of colliding galaxies, right?” Noah questions, earning a nod from Helen. Because of course he knows about stars too.

“Yes! It causes a lot of new stars to form around that area…okay, now, look slightly to the left, there is a trapezium type shape of pale blue stars with a, um…a leg?” 

“Mhm.” You agree, squinting but being able to spot the small shape in the sky. 

“Good, and to the right of it is a similar shape, but with two antennas of sorts?” She looks between the three of you, watching for your reactions and smiling again when you all nod almost in tandem. “The one on the left is called Corvus, and the one on the right is called Krater. The line of stars that runs underneath them is called Hydra.”

“Wicked.” Jeanne whispers, and you have to admit, you don’t think you’ve ever seen her this entranced. “They got a story?” 

“Everything that has and will be has a story.” Helen begins, slipping her arm back into yours yet again. “There are two stories to tell here. The first one consists of Apollo, the Greek God of poetry, music and archery. He had a lover named Coronis, who was to bear one of his children. While she was still pregnant, she slept with a mortal man. Apollo was told this by a white crow, and then turned its feathers black in a fit of rage. Subsequently, she was then killed by Apollo–or his sister, Artemis–as punishment. To remind her of her betrayal, Apollo then turned her soul into the constellation Corvus.”

“That’s one way to punish cheaters, I guess.” Jeanne frowns, eyes still fixed on the stars. 

“What’s the other story?” You ask, taking your eyes off of the sky for a second to look at Helen.

“It is a lot less angsty,” she giggles. "Per his request, Apollo tasked one of his crows with fetching water. However, the crow stopped to wait for figs to ripen on a tree. Instead of telling the truth when asked, he lied and said that a snake–Hydra–” She points to the string of stars beneath the two constellations, “kept him from the water. Realising the lie, Apollo flung the crow, Corvus, the cup, Krater,” She moves her hand to point at the second constellation, “and the snake, Hydra, into the sky.”

“Apollo sounds like a fuckin’ asshat.” Jeanne scowls, tearing her eyes away from the sky and back towards Helen.

Immediately, she snorts, covering her mouth with her soft hand. “Yes, but so are most of the Gods. I think, when you have all that time and no fear of the end, you tend to take more pleasure in tragedies and horrors that will teach respect rather than kindness and sweet nothings.”

“Okay, so they’re all asshats, then?” You add on with a smile.

Helen simply laughs and shakes her head, Noah mumbling something about immortality that you can’t quite catch. 

You all begin walking again, but you stop when you notice Helen still transfixed with the stars.

Walking back to her, you ask, “You okay?” Standing at her side and glancing up again at the sky, trying to see whatever has caught her eye.

“Quite,” she mumbles, eyes still searching the stars like a prophet searching for a sign. “I am just a little confused. I’m sure it’s just my bad memory, but Virgo and Leo, the constellations above Corvus, have swapped places. And, to the far left,” she points, and you do your best to follow, “I think that is Orion? But it just looks…off. Orion is not even meant to be anywhere near the others.”

“Give me a second…” you mumble, shimmying your phone out of your pocket. You were no star expert, so you couldn’t really give any helpful opinions. Tapping on Oogle, you begin to type up the constellations she mentioned with her peering over your shoulder. But, alas… “No service, shit.” Grumbling, you shove your phone back into your pocket and stare back up at the sky with her.

“I’m sure it’s just my bad memory.” She shrugs, and drags her eyes back down to Earth with one last glance. “I’ve never even seen them so bright, especially since we’re still quite close to a big city.” You think she mumbles the statement to herself, but you hear it loud and clear, and think you’ve got an idea of what Noah’s frown was for.

Almost in response, as Helen turns her gaze and begins catching up with the others, you swear you see the thousands of eyes above you blink in tandem, the night sky becoming Cimmerian–utterly pitch black–for a split second.

“Y/N! Hurry up!” Noah calls you, tearing you out of your star gazing.

“Coming.” You whisper, barely a breath and no louder than a blink.

The pit in your stomach is back.

Eventually, you reach the decaying innards of the town. Despite the lack of skyscrapers–buildings that might as well touch Heaven–each building still towers over your small forms. You twist and turn through broken streets and alleyways, Jeanne your only wayward guide. 

As you thought, the so-called ‘twenty-minute walk’ turned into a forty minute one, with Jeanne getting lost twice–even with her rebukes that she swears the roads are changing under her feet–Noah tripping over an old bottle and falling flat on his face and both you and Helen almost undergoing multiple heart attacks with Jeanne jumping out from the dark to scare you both. 

Admittedly, you weren’t immune from the fun. At all. You got a good laugh out of scaring Noah shitless after jumping on his back; the bruised pelvis and numb upper arm where he punched you were well worth it. 

As you wandered through the streets, you couldn’t help but keep your eyes glued to the sky, keeping diligent watch on the silver and gold stars that felt less like balls of gas and more like omnipresent, ever changing eyes. And, now, as you stand in front of the apartments, you can almost feel the little confidence you had seep out of you and puddle on the concrete below like mercury. They look like ancient monoliths, grey and cracked and dystopian. Seemingly never ending layers of stubborn concrete left to crumble and crack like a father’s name; eclipsed by the son. From where you stand, they just manage to block out the little light of the new moon, leaving only the pewter stars to watch over you. They’re surrounded by what you’re sure was once a lovely community garden, now a mess of tall grasses, nettles and indistinct weeds that hide any path that might’ve once been there. 

No matter how many abandoned buildings you explore, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to seeing places that should be so full of life absolutely devoid of it. There’s always a small square of harsh light in every apartment building, always someone cramming, getting a late-night snack, or trying to stop the baby from crying. Always. Seeing a place so similar to where you live, even if the only real similarity is that they’re a pair of apartment buildings, sends an odd feeling crawling up your back.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

The quickened heartbeat under your feet does nothing to help the pit in your stomach, crawling slowly up your trachea and settling heavily in the back of your throat.

You’re brought out of your stupor with the heavy weight of somebody colliding onto your back and clinging to you like a koala. Easily, it knocks the air out of your lungs, and sends an out of breath shout tumbling out of your throat, as well as your flashlight out of your hands.

Helen and Noah quickly turn around, surprise and a speck of fear in their eyes, sending blinding flashes of light your way as you try to uphold the weight–of who you guess is Jeanne by the maniacal laughter–on your back.

“Ha! Got you good, didn’t I?” She leans over your shoulder, still attached to your back, and sends a proud grin your way. You grumble, annoyed, before attempting to put her down, only for her to wrap her legs tighter around you.

“Are you really gonna make me carry you?” You ask, exasperated.

“You bet.” As Noah walks up to grab your flashlight, she points forwards with her own and exclaims, “Onwards, mighty steed! There’s a back entrance on the furthest part of the left building that’ll be unlocked!”

“You sure?” You hoist her up further as you all begin walking, allowing her to hook her legs over your arms as you feel your back muscles ache with the sudden weight. “Considering you’ve gotten us lost so many times…”

Jeanne simply scoffs and points her flashlight in the direction you need to go. Your group stumbles through overgrown weeds as you pass by the cracking concrete walls, void of any vines, unlike the rest of the buildings you’ve passed. The apartment blocks are designed in a right angle, gazing down at an overgrown garden with, by the faded white paint, you guess to be a parking lot behind it, which then links up onto a main road. The grounds are bordered off by decrepit buildings, mainly old corner shops with the occasional homewares. 

After you’re sure you’ve been stung by stinging nettles on half of your body, you reach the other end of the leftmost apartment block. A rusted, possibly iron door stands before you. Locked and layered in thick chains that look like they could hold a God down. Unlocked your ass, this looked like you’d need the world’s most powerful pair of bolt cutters–maybe even a saw for that matter–to get through.

But, suspecting Jeanne may want to get down, you decide to take the chance to make it evens with scaring her. Without warning, you pretend to almost drop her, relishing in the surprised shriek and angry grumbles of “Putain de- oh, toi petite merde-” that leaves her as she grapples for any part of you to hold on to. She laughs sardonically, more like an annoyed chuckle, before you let her down and she wags a finger at you “Good one, good one…so gonna get you back for that…” She mumbles the last half to herself, but you catch it easily. 

She approaches the heavily locked door, and Noah begins voicing your exact thoughts with, “Unlocked door my a-” before she tugs gently at the heavy chains, which fall to the ground with a metallic thump.

Ba-dump-ba-dump-ba-dump

You can’t tell if that’s your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears or not. 

She sends Noah a shit-eating grin as he shakes his head and forth, and you find Helen at your side once again. She then grabs the chains, an easy weight to lift for her toned arms, and, with a rattle, chucks them in a nearby bush.

“You ready?” She glances between the three of you, awaiting a response as Noah stumbles through the overgrown grass over to the door.

“As I’ll ever be.” You shrug, Helen nodding along with you.

Even with the knowledge of many explorers having been here before, the opening of the door feels like the opening of some ancient tomb, especially with the scent of stale air and thick dust that greets your nose. Little vines that had wrapped themselves delicately around the hinges are tugged away as the door opens its gaping maw. Jeanne and Noah peek over from the edges of it as Helen’s torch light illuminates a dank, monochrome hall.

“Looks right out of a horror film.” You mumble, eyes attempting to adjust to the darkness as shadowy figures peek at you and your light from their dusty home. You almost expect a masked slasher to jump out of you, or some long dead spectre wrapped in the weight of their living sins, but nothing comes. The hall simply sits eerily quiet, almost like it’s holding its breath.

Jeanne walks in first, not a single bone in her filled with any hesitation, who’s then followed by Noah and Helen, who tugs you along with her. Despite the way your feet feel frozen to the cracked concrete below, you let her tug you along, and let the dark swallow you whole.

-----------

I wonder if those same Gods, timeless and easily bored, watch over you now.

I’d also like to remind my new readers that I have a very big soft spot for extended metaphors and symbolism; look close enough and you might find something interesting.

Plus, I made a little playlist for this, for anybody who likes listening to music while they read: open.spotify.com/playlist/1rw21OGGHndcHrNEPfdvv5?si=31a14ddea2b84d4f

Putain de- oh, toi petite merde = Fucking- oh, you little shit-

Αστέρι = Star

[melit0n]

Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 4

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

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

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

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters ->

Prologue

Chapter 1: For Whom the Bell tolls

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast

Chapter 4: Something forgotten (you're already here!)

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious

Chapter 7: Heavy is The Head that Mourns The Past

Chapter 8: Be Not Afraid

Chapter 9: Eye for an Eye

- Status: Work In Progress.

- Obsessive! Demon OC/Reader

- Word count (for chp): 5.7k

- Warnings (for chp): None.

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/147781252#workskin

With a wretched squeak of the rusted maintenance door, Jeanne and Noah disappear underneath the building again, leaving you alone with Helen and the endless silence of the sleeping building. A soft wind blows in from the broken windows, wrapping itself delicately around your torso. With a shiver, you can’t help but pray the building stays in its deep slumber.

“I am glad I got to go with you,” Helen giggles, somewhat awkwardly. Your soft footsteps echo against the crumbling concrete. “I do not think I could deal with this place with Noah and Jeanne trying to scare me at every turn.”

“And you have enough faith in me that I won’t?” You smirk.

“More than I do in those two, and that is what counts.” She smiles, lifting her flashlight up further as you reach the crumbling staircase. In full honesty, you think it’d be a compliment to even call it that: so utterly worn by endless feet, the cracked hands of time, the battering fists of rain and the creeping digits of mould. The dirty, tattered cream carpet continues upwards on each step in small patches, like a plague slowly creeping up pale skin. It’d probably come right off with a bit of tugging. You have half the mind to test the idea out, but, as you place a foot on the steps to test their strength, a loud squelch emits from the carpet. You can feel the cool liquid through your shoe, oozing forth in ordurous browns and yellows, illuminated by your flashlight. With a frown of disgust, you happily disregard the idea. There was no way in Hell you were putting your bare hands anywhere near that. 

“Gross.” Helen grumbles, hesitant to put her own shoes anywhere near it. You didn’t blame her, already planning to give your shoes a good soak to clean them when you got home.

Warily, you place your feet back on the slimy steps and put your weight down–silently hoping they’d crack and crumble so you’d have an excuse not to be here–as Helen points her flashlight up the staircase. You’d stared into enough impenetrable darkness today, so you focus on ensuring the two of you wouldn’t go falling through rotten wood. Similar to Jeanne, you’d rather not spend a good chunk of your evening in the hospital, let alone go through the pain of broken bones.

You’d broken enough in your lifetime, anyway.

After testing the first few steps, you deem it safe enough and give a nod to Helen to follow you, one step at a time. Each plank of wood wails loudly, and you do your best to brace yourself on the rusted bannister to the left of you, if only to give you a little bit of comfort.

Darkness peers at you, curiously, between the cracks of each wooden slab. 

On around the ninth step, Helen directly behind you on the eighth, she suddenly tugs at the back of your hoodie, whispering, “Do you see that?” 

Frowning, you quickly glance upwards, taking your eyes off of your feet for a moment. “See what?”

She doesn’t respond for a few strenuous moments, leaving you, quite literally, in the dark as you stare up at the spiralling staircase. You can’t even see the end of it.

Staring into the nothing, you can’t help but feel it look back. 

The eyes of what you can’t see bore into your own, and your mind quickly fills in any gaps with gorgonian monsters that would surely have kept you wide awake as a kid. 

The bannister is cold against your fingertips.

Finally, she answers. “I…I thought I saw something move.”

If it had come from Noah or Jeanne–especially Jeanne–you would have taken the statement as a joke, a jab to activate your overly creative imagination and leave you flinching at nothing but wind. But, here, almost halfway up a long staircase with Helen’s hand tightening on the wad of your hoodie, you have the feeling she isn’t joking.

Carefully, you squint into the darkness, as you’ve done maybe a hundred times this evening, and will probably do a hundred times more, to try and catch anything hiding just beyond your sight. 

What unnerves you isn’t the fact that you see something, it’s the fact that you see nothing. Nothing but dust, and the creatures your mind tries to convince you that are there. 

You turn to look at her, umber eyes fixated on the blackness before you. “Maybe it was a bird, or a bat? They’re always everywhere in these places.” When her eyes stay rooted on the void, you try again, mumbling, “There’s lots of broken windows. I’m sure it’s just some pigeon who can’t find its way back out.” 

You remember, a year or two ago, when the four of you were exploring an old Church: eroding stone martyrs keeping a hardy marble watch on your forms as you stalked through the vacant pews. It was only a small thing, a local place that attracted teens and junkies looking for a quiet place to get high, but Helen and Jeanne loved it. Whether it was for the stained glass that seemed to glow in the moonlight, or the welcoming softness of the crumbling, faceless Mary who watched the front door, you were unsure. It was, however, a place a pair of pigeons liked to nest, of whom didn’t take too kindly to you.

You’re pretty sure you saw a flash of the other side when both of them flew at you full force, having left the place with bird shit on your shoulder, feathers in your hair and with a slight fear of pigeons. It’d probably be like that all over again: you’ll both get scared at some noise, lose your shit when a bird flies at you, then laugh about it later. 

Hopefully.

Her eyes finally meet yours and by the crinkle in her eyes, you guess she sends you a soft smile, one that calms your spiked nerves, if only by a little bit. “Yeah.”

And so, you ascend further, reaching a small concrete landing that leads to another small staircase. As you do, you only hope you won’t find other people up there, let alone cops. You weren’t really in a ‘running through a run-down building being chased by the police’ mood, anyway.

Finally, you reach the remains of the first floor. Just like downstairs, the walls are covered with the striped wallpaper, which is also layered with the same somewhat vulgar graffiti. It spans out in one long hallway, dappled with doors–mostly open–and ends in a smashed window, letting cool moonlight drip into the forgotten hall and bounce off of the remaining gold numbers that mark each door. Easily, you mentally count the doors: eight on each side, meaning sixteen. It’s an odd number, since most apartments–including your own–were usually done in fives or tens out of convenience. Strange sixties architecture strikes again, you guess. 

You’re also thankful to note that the cream carpet has all but been ripped up, leaving only the cracked wood underneath. 

What little light there is illuminates the dust motes that swirl and prance to the rhythm of an unheard tune each time icy, winter wind slithers through the broken window. Even with the window wide open at the end of the hall, a thick layer of dust still coats everything. Each careful step you take, even more of it seems to be aroused from the floor, thick as ash and as heavy as smoke in your lungs. 

You make a mental note to clean when you get home. Maybe try to fix that crack in the plaster in your bedroom, as well…

Your flashlight’s light guides you through the hall, darting this way and that to anything that seems of interest. There isn’t really much–at least in the hall: you’re hoping there’ll be more in the apartments yourself–aside from broken glass, fragments of the past and the odd coin or hairpin.

While you guess that apartment design has been the same for the last hundred years–why change something that still works perfectly well?–you can’t help but notice how similar this one is to your own. You can almost imagine those two ginger kids running up and down the halls, tracking mud everywhere, or those two old ladies on the second floor chatting up a storm from each of their respective apartments. 

It’s eerie how much the past imitates the present. Although, you guess, each is a side of the same coin, the same way that time is blind and man is stupid when it comes to change.

If you let the dust settle again, ignore the creaking wood and the subtle scurry of carapace, you might just be able to hear that couple upstairs as well, eternally arguing for the sake of it.

“So…” Helen begins, always wary of the silence and the dark. “What schools did you end up applying to?”

You sigh inwardly at the topic, shoulders slumping as you walk back down the hall to an apartment that caught your eye. All everyone seemed to be interested in was what school you were going to, what courses you were taking, what jobs you were taking experience with, etcetera. It was all so tiresome; you were on a break, could you at least enjoy it?

Even so, you answer, words laced with fatigue and mild boredom, the first being one near to your own city, only a short train ride away, and the second being the one Jeanne planned on going to. Helen nods thoughtfully, noting her own. It’s much further away, too far to get a train or commute to every morning, so you guess she’d be moving. Plus, if your memory serves you correct, it specialises in law. Maybe you’ll ask later. 

“Which one is Jeanne going to?” She asks, peering into an open apartment.

Again, you answer her question. She hums before the conversation falls flat. Again.

“Y’know,” you begin, catching Helen’s attention again as she searches the bare-bones apartment with her eyes, “I’d rather just be done with it all here and now.” It’s finished with a half-hearted laugh, hoping it comes off more like a joke than it feels. 

You flick your own flashlight into an apartment, entering and finding it to house nothing but peeling paint and a slashed, overturned couch; you could almost imagine how many bugs lived in that thing, maybe a generation or two. Nudging it with your foot, you silently wonder if great-grandmother cockroaches are a thing. In your old apartment, you remember seeing a massive one that sounded like an army jet when it started flying at you: that thing had to have been at least a great-grand-something cockroach.

Yet another time flying animals almost caused you a heart attack.

Helen hums from somewhere behind you, simply saying, “There is a lot more to life than education.” 

You pause in your philosophical contemplations of the life span of a cockroach, turning around and letting your beam of light find her. She’s standing still, staring at a clock on the wall that you hadn’t noticed. 

It’s in roman numerals: blackened hands sitting frozen at eleven past eleven. You think you see a small bug climb across its alabaster face. 

You’re about to propose going to the next story, already bored with the trend of hollowed out apartments that would be sure to follow for the rest of the first floor, before she takes a deep breath, and says, “Keep talking to people, please.”

“What?” Confused, you turn to look at her tanned face. Her face with all the grace of marble that is more shadow than countenance.

“Keep talking to people,” she repeats, voice nonchalant. “I do not want to see you holed up in your apartment talking to no one just because we are not physically around twenty-four-seven.” You know she means it from a place of care, but you can’t help taking a slight offence to it.

“Okay, a bit harsh, no?” You chuckle awkwardly–turning back to the clock–not used to this much straight-forwardness from Helen. While Jeanne tended to disregard issues, and Noah would hit such things point blank, Helen had a round-about way of dealing with things that reminded you more of a mother rather than a friend. She knew exactly how to pick up on the small things, then work her way, bit by bit, to the main problem.

So, this…this was a first.

She seems to roll a thought around in her head for a few moments, opens and closes her mouth like a fish out of water, which you watch from the corner of your eye. Both of you still stare at the clock, neither of your eyes trying to find each other's faces. Then, she begins again, “I hope you know I don’t pity you.” And you can’t help but feel this is taking a turn down an alley of your mind that you don’t want to go to.

“Helen-”

“-You are not pitiful, and I do not think you…you need anyone to treat you like, what do you call it, like fine China. You are, well, you; you are strong and have always been strong. But I feel the need to remind you that,” She pauses again, moves her hands as if trying to find the main thread that she’s been weaving with. “You are human, and accepting help when you are hurting is…okay.” By the way she inhales, you expect she has more to say, but she deems it right to leave it there. 

And you have absolutely no clue how to respond to that.

You take a moment to let the statement tumble through your tired mind, frowning at the stiff hands of the clock like it’s done you wrong somehow. It’s not the sort of thing Jeanne, or even Noah, would say to you. Ever. It’s not a dramatic analysis of something that’s ‘wrong’ with your head, it’s not avoidant, it’s just…worry. Not pity, not ignorance, just plain worry. 

And you have no clue how to even begin to respond.

“I am sorry; was I too much?” Helen breaks you out of your mind, shifts the broken shards around you that reflect everything and nothing, and finally turns to find you. She’s got a worried look in her eye, like she thinks that she's dug too deep and done more harm than good.

There’s something on the tip of your tongue, something you want to say.

‘Accepting help when you are hurting is okay.’

But, you’re not still hurting, are you? With all this time passed, it would be pathetic of you if you’re still crying over something that happened so long ago. 

But…

But.

But, but, but. 

There’s always a but. 

Brows still furrowed at the clock, begging its ivory countenance to even give you a hint of what to say–what to think–you just smile. Smile and let your eyes crinkle upwards, silently letting a small weight drift off your shoulders that you hadn't really realised was still there.

When did it get there in the first place?

“No, don’t,” you clear your throat of dust, urging yourself to make something louder than a hoarse mumble. “Don’t worry about it.” You spot her nod out of the corner of your eye, and you think that’s enough.

In silence, you both walk out of the apartment you had stood in, and slowly work your way through the remaining ones, chattering to each other and calling for the other if you found something interesting. 

“Hey,” you call out, memory sparking of your previous conversation, carefully rummaging through an old wooden chest, too heavy for anybody to carry out and probably too thick to smash, “doesn’t that place specialise in law?” 

“Yes?” Helen responds from somewhere further down the hall. 

“Your dream of being a psychologist change, then?” Pulling your sleeve hidden hand out of the box, you find nothing interesting; just shattered bits of porcelain, which might’ve once been a pretty vase and random bits of metal and wood. Truthfully, the only interesting thing either of you had found so far was an old brass candle holder. Neither of you wanted to touch it, though, half because of the odd stains on it and half because of the large spider which was using it as an anchor for its web. 

“Yes.” turning, you find Helen somewhat suavely leaning on the frame of the apartment you were currently searching through. “I thought I would rather help people without asking them to climb over an expensive paywall first.”

“Public defender?”

She nods. “How about you? Your schools specialise in, what was it, engineering and, uhm…” she searches her mind for a moment, “oh! Botany, was it? Is that what you want to do?”

You both walk out into the hallway, finding another unsearched apartment to explore, if only to keep your hands busy and pass the time. “I don’t know,” you shrug, even though she can’t see it. “I’ll figure it out. Probably.” You mumble the last word to yourself. 

“It is okay if you don’t, as well.”

Floorboards squeaking underfoot, you enter the bedroom of the apartment, half listening to Helen.

“My Πατέρας did not figure out what he wanted to do until he was in his forties. By then he’d lived in almost every town in Greece.”

The layout was the same in all of them: the front door, if there was one, opens to an open-plan kitchen and living room, the only thing typically remaining being the countertops and anything drilled into the wall, while doors on the right would lead to bedrooms, and doors on the left would lead to a bathroom and a closet or two. 

“Speaking of…”

The bedroom is the same ugly cream as the downstairs carpet, with a feature wall of floral wallpaper you’re sure you’d seen in your grandmother’s house at one point or another in your childhood. As per usual, there isn’t anything interesting except a metal bed frame. That, and a dark, wooden wardrobe.

Wood creaks behind you, and, hearing the light footsteps, you guess Helen to have joined you.

“After I am done with my education, I think I would quite like to go back to my hometown.”

You nod in agreement, walking to the wardrobe and easily opening it. You couldn’t blame her. Her parents had recommended she go to a school out of Greece for a better education and she’d trustfully listened, having been here ever since. Who doesn’t miss their childhood home, anyway?

“I know I have told you about it, a lot,” You nod to yourself. You happily listen to her anytime she rambled about her home. At this point, anytime she mentioned it, you could smell her mother’s cooking, feel the coarse grass that grew around her father’s olive grove and hear the birds in her mother’s aviary. “But I think you would quite like it.”

You could see it all in her eyes, if you squinted. A person is nothing but their past, after all.

Already tasting the sea salt on your tongue, you analyse the wardrobe’s contents. Asides from the main cavity meant to hang clothes, the bottom of the wardrobe is filled with smaller drawers with decorative brass handles. Of course, even though it’s probably been shut for the last few decades, it’s covered in more dust. Each small container takes a bit of tugging to open, and they mostly hold rusted hair pins, dust and the odd unknown object. One especially seems jammed shut, and you’re determined to open it.

Speaking of the aviary…what bird did her mother keep again? Was it doves? 

“Have you ever been to Greece?”

You tug harder on the small brass knob.

“Hm? Oh, no; I’ve never really gone out of the country.” Even if your parents worked semi-high-paying jobs, you never went on any expensive holidays, let alone ones out of the country. You didn’t really care, but, when you sat down with Jeanne’s other friends from Baseball, talking about the holidays their parents were paying for this year, you felt a little underhanded. 

Maybe it was swifts? Or larks? You’re sure it was some type of small bird- why won’t this drawer just open already?

“Would you like to?”

You pause. 

You turn to her, wide eyed and sure you’d heard her wrong. 

“You’re serious?”

“Of course I am! I think you could do with some sun and relaxation, anyways. Maybe even find yourself a lover.” She jokes, or maybe she doesn’t, as she joins you in your little tug of war. 

“Sure.” You grumble, somewhat sarcastically. 

“I am serious!” You both tug a little harder, and you feel the drawer give a little bit. “Greeks love with the heart and the soul. I can attest to that-” suddenly, not unlike the elevator doors, the drawer springs open.

“Yeah?” You laugh, grinning as you flick your flashlight into the drawer. “Got a novel worthy story to tell?” 

“Perhaps.” She leans over your shoulder, shooing the dust away with her free hand. Considering the decrepit state of the rest of the floor–layered in decay and old memories–you’re both surprised to find a slightly yellowed, silver hand mirror sitting daintily in the middle of the musty drawer. Carefully designed flora and fauna climb up the curved handle, wrapping themselves around the reflective mirror, like a mother would a child. In short, despite the light scratches littering the metal, as well as the mirror itself, it was beautiful. 

Suspiciously so. 

Helen mumbles, “λαμπρός…”, which you can only imagine, with the subtle awe in her voice and glint in her eyes, was simply her voicing your own thoughts; beautiful. 

Covering your hands with your sleeves yet again, you gently pick it up. Even through the fabric, you could feel the subtle indents of past fingers and palms; a tiny tapestry of someone who once was. 

“May I?” You nod, easily handing the mirror over to Helen’s hands as she admires it, as well as her own countenance in the scratched mirror. “Should we take a photo?” she asks, looking up from herself. “Like a…ah- a mirror self photo!”

You grin. “Why not?” Easily, you shuffle your phone out of your cargo pocket, and tap on the camera. For a few moments, you both awkwardly shuffle around, trying to simultaneously hold the mirror up and get both of your faces in said mirror. 

Eventually, you snap a photo, and both of you deem it good enough.

“Send it to me when we both have service, yes?”

“Of course.”

You both stare at the mirror for a few seconds more, flipping it over and trying to spot any tiny details–maybe a name or a pair of initials that could tell you who this once belonged to–but to no avail. The only thing of interest that really comes from it is the names of the flowers which Helen thinks it’s decorated with. Before long, it’s softly placed back where it was once, the drawer shut behind it like the lid of a casket.

“Way more interesting than the candle holder, yeah?”

Despite your oo-ing and ah-ing at the decorative thing, you had to wonder, why, when people who visited here stole everything that wasn’t nailed to the wall, would that of all things be left?

“Definitely.” She laughs, before gliding out of the dusty room with you in tow. 

As much as they liked to say they weren’t, humans were like magpies, having a keen eye for anything that gleams. 

“So,” you pause, finding your way out of the apartment again. “Are you gonna tell me about this lover, or not?”

So why leave, or, rather, ignore that?

“Hm…I think you’ll have to wait until we’re in Greece for that.”

Maybe you were thinking too hard on it–you definitely were–but it just didn’t make sense to you. 

“And what if I say no?”

Who cares, you think to yourself. Nobody took it because they were probably too weak-wristed to open the thing. Took both you and Helen to do so, anyway. 

And what was the name of that damn bird?

“Then, I guess you will never know!” She spins and turns to you, dragging you out of your reverie as she always does, and smiles mischievously at you. Raising a brow, she asks, “What are you thinking on?” 

Always observant. 

You shrug, not bothering to let her in on your somewhat nonsensical thoughts. As much as you liked to tease Jeanne for getting stuck up on tiny details, you had to admit, you think you’ve picked the habit up after so many years with her. Yet, you turn to her with eager eyes, asking, “What birds does your mother keep again?”

She looks at you with confusion for a moment, only a moment, before saying “Doves. My mother keeps doves.”

Nodding, you smile to yourself; you were right the first time. She doesn’t pry into your thoughts, just looks at you warmly for whatever reason, as you continue through the hall.

After a few more repetitive apartments, and no more fun finds other than a dirty coin, you both make the joint decision to move up to the second story. You want to say that you’ll find something more interesting up there, but you don’t have high hopes. Unless you’re looking for dust and darkness, you doubt you’ll find much at all. 

However, as you’re about to yet again ascend the rotting staircase, something neither of you were too excited about, your ears catch something. Catch a noise in the endless silence of the living tomb. 

Catch the subtle movement of feet that weren’t yours, nor Helen’s.

Confused, you stop, trying to listen out for whatever you had heard before. Helen does the same after turning and seeing you stood still as a statue with furrowed brows.

You hear nothing. 

You’re about to shrug it off–maybe just that family of cockroaches scuttling around in the walls or a pigeon come to incite its revenge on you–when you hear it. 

Voices. 

Quiet and muffled, but definitely voices.

Looking to Helen, you can see her head turned, fixed, on a door with her flashlight off. Promptly, you do the same, your eyes easily adjusting to the subtle moonlight as you wait in silence for whoever was there to speak up again. 

The door you both watch is on the left side of the hall: number sixteen. 

Carefully, you approach it. You press your ear against the cold, damp wood, Helen standing behind you with a gentle grip on your shoulder. Now closer to the source, you can hear them much better. However, what confuses you is that they’re not whispered, attempting to hide their presence in dulcet tones through tight lips, nor are they obnoxiously loud.

What perplexes you even more are the few words you’re able to pick up on: muffled conversation of a bad day at work, childish giggling, followed by the universal question of ‘what’s for dinner?’. 

There’s no way I’m hearing this right now, you think to yourself. Brows furrowed, you turn over to Helen, jerking your head to try to get her to listen. 

It sounds so…domestic. Like a family show played late in the evenings on TV, something your dad might’ve put on out of boredom.

Looking between you and the door, she hesitates, if only for a moment, before following suit. Her eyebrows twitch downwards at what she hears. The tired, yet cheery, voices are now accompanied by the subtle shifting of feet that you had heard before and what you swear is the sizzling of some kind of food in a pan. The moment your ears pick up on it, you rear backwards, looking to Helen to see if she hears it too.

To your relief, it seems she does, as she stares back at you with the same amount of confusion and mild fear. 

Still eagerly listening to a conversation you shouldn’t had been privy to, you peak downwards, at the crack between the door: whoever they were would have definitely been able to see your flashlight’s light, let alone all the noise you’d been making in the other apartments–let alone the ground floor–for the past half hour or so. But they didn’t and, as you reach for the worn door knob with trembling fingers, they still don’t.

Even with a glare from Helen, one you could feel even in the darkness, you were curious. Stupidly so, but you were human, after all. 

The door opens slowly, creaking open on old hinges before coming to a stop.

The weak mumbles of a day far past are silenced. 

Jaws wide, dripping with plaster and rust, allow you to peer into the apartment. From what you can see in the darkness–still wary about turning your flashlights on–it’s the same as every other one. Dimly lit, empty and cold.

You look to Helen, searching for some sort of affirmation, before you both turn your flashlights back on.

The quiet click of your lights is deafeningly loud. 

Like a scared deer, you scan the area for anything other than the skeletal furniture. Anything other than what you’ve already seen so many times before.

Yet, there is no one. No one but the dust, and an old memory that is not yours to witness. 

Confused silence ensues, and, much to Helen’s chagrin, you call out a, “Hello?” in hopes to gain any sort of disgruntled response. Something- anything to let you know that your mind–your ears–weren’t just playing tricks on you.

No one answers you. Nothing but the silence and-

“You men really do get on my nerves!”

Jolting, both of your flashlights jump towards an old, boxy radio, sat on its side on the floor of the kitchen. Layered between voices, it buzzes with white noise.

“Well, you married me, didn’t you?”

A laugh track plays, more static than artificial joy. You can feel the vibrations crawling through the wood and climbing up your bones. 

“That scared me.” Helen chuckles nervously, hand to her heart as if to calm the pumping muscle, as the rusted thing plays out the conversation.

How the fuck was that thing working?

Not responding, you briskly walk over to it and check it over, the pads of your fingers taking off small spots of dust. Obviously, it’s battery powered, no wires connecting to it anywhere, but why on Earth would this thing have working batteries in it? 

“At least it’s not people.” Maybe other explorers were trying to get a scare out of you? Managed to find the one thing that worked in this place and wanted to play a trick or two? Sharply, you glance around the apartment, looking for any entertained faces peeking out from corners or small cameras hidden underneath rubble.

You turn back over to her, slightly gaunt in the pale lighting. “What about the footsteps? And the cooking sounds?” 

Almost in answer, the old show switches to some sort of cooking scene, some unseen food sizzling loudly in a pan. Another dimly funny interaction occurs, and the laugh track rattles through the wood, creaking it. She nods towards the old thing, saying “That, apparently.”

Before you can rebuke, vibrations don’t sound like human footsteps after all, it lets out a loud, piercing scream of static. The type of sound that worms its way into your ears no matter how hard you clamp your hands over them. 

Within a blink, the silence returns, and the radio shuts off. The sound still rings in your ears, the only sign that it had even happened.

You almost expect it to turn back on, shriek and wail in its crackled tone and mock you, but it doesn’t. 

It stays dead. 

Somewhat annoyed, you send a light kick to the back of it, half trying to reassure yourself that it was simply some weird glitch, and half trying to vent your annoyance with the thing. If that had gone on a second or two longer, you’re pretty sure your ears would have started bleeding.

However, still curious, you crouch down and turn the radio over, looking for the battery cartridge. You find it with ease, somewhat happy to see it layered in dust like it should be, only to see…screws. 

Shit. 

Before you can even think about where you could get a screwdriver to check this thing over, even if it was only to ease the scared creature at the back of your mind, the wood creaks loudly behind you.

Turning, you see Helen walking out the door and, not wanting to be left alone with the haunted radio from Hell, you hastily follow, trying to shoo your thoughts away as if they were buzzing flies surrounding your head.

The moment both of you are out, Helen shuts the door–oddly polite for a place so barren of the living–behind you. “That will be a fun story to tell,” she mumbles.

“Yeah.” You glare at the closed door like you did the old clock, mentally daring the radio inside to start up again.

Helen nudges your side. “Maybe we could convince Jeanne and Noah that we talked to some ghosts, hm?”

You take a few seconds to respond, probably a few seconds too long, as you tear your eyes away from the door. “I’m sure Noah would start going on about his Vader-Myhof effect or whatever it was.” you scoff, sarcastically.

Helen giggles, and you almost begin to anticipate telling the story to the two of them. You almost hope that block B is boring, just so they’ll find some interest in whatever you found. 

With ease, you begin another conversation, attempting to drag your mind away from that stupid radio and its stupid domestic radio show. 

Maybe later, when you actually had service, you’ll try to look up what show it was. A hard task, but perhaps something Noah could help with. He always had a knack for that sort of stuff–the guy seemed to have a knack for everything–so you’re sure you could hand him the few lines you’d heard and he’d come up with an answer for you in an hour or so.

After more aimless chatter, you finally get your wish to leave for the next story. So, slightly, unnerved, you both walk up and out of the first floor with a little more fear than you had before. 

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Wonder what's up with that?