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ignisaurumprobat19-blog · 7 years ago

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Midnight in Paris (full story)

initially published on r/nosleep

Paris may be the City of Love when you're a tourist taking pictures of the Sacré Coeur and having romantic, wine-filled meals in beautiful restaurants, but not so much when you're a broke 19 year old on a year abroad who just got dumped by his two-year girlfriend.

To top it off, it was December 17th and my roommates had already left the city, both of them going back home for Christmas holidays. The only thing I came home to after my last day of exams in La Sorbonne was an empty, slightly dirty flat, and the realization that my spanish roommate took his PS3 home with him.

I still had a bit more than 24hrs left in Paris before boarding my flight to LAX and the festive atmosphere made me feel more lonely than ever.

When I landed in Charles de Gaulle in early September, Paris looked so full of promises.

For the first two months, it was. Friendship blossomed quickly between my roommates (a Spanish, geeky 21 year old who never seemed to go to uni, and a 30 year old Irish doctorate candidate who spent 12 hours a day in the library), and I felt home in our cramped little flat.

I partied, explored the city, ate great food and drank cheap wine; often with friends, sometimes with a couple of girls I met at uni.

But real life caught up with me, in the form of compulsatory attendance classes, exams coming up, and some unfortunate tagged pictures on facebook that my girlfriend happened to see before I untagged them.

And here I was.

After a quick meal of leftover pizza, I decided to go for a walk. The cold was numbing, but going out was better than staying alone in this silent flat. I'm Californian, born and raised, so I admit I'm not too used to cold temperatures, but even Parisians had told me how uncharacterically cold this December was. Gloved hands in my pockets, woolly hat pulled low on my forehead and ears, I made my way through the crowded streets of Paris, secretly jealous of all those couples holding on to each other.

After nearly an hour of wandering, I stopped for a chocolat chaud in a little café I knew well. It was a well-known place in that neighborhood, always crowded, even late at night. When the waitress recognized me and smiled, I realized how much I appreciated and needed that little bit of warmth.

That's why when someone asked if they could share my table, I happily obliged. The place was crowded, the newcomer seemed kind enough and was an english speaker, something I really came to appreciate after nearly four months in France.

He had one of those snob british accent that I either find endearing or annoying, depending on the person speaking. For him, it was definitely endearing. He looked about 60, maybe 65, and his clothes seemed from another age. Hell, he even had a fob watch in his jacket's pocket ! I had never seen one IRL.

Perhaps sensing how much I needed someone to talk to, he turned out to be amiable and started the conversation almost immediately. Before I knew, I had told him everything about my first months in Paris and how I felt like I was disappointing everyone back home, from my parents to my ex-girlfriend.

He listened carefully, nodding from times to times, and when I finished, he pat my hand while I held back tears.

Only then did I notice that he hadn't ordered anything to drink. In fact, the waitress ignored him completely. As I said, it was a busy night, but in that café they were used to dealing with that. I felt bad for talking so much and not even noticing that he didn't get to order anything. Through the glistening of my tears, I noticed the greyish tone of his skin; he looked older than I initially thought.

I asked him if he wanted me to go up to the bar and get him a drink, but he shook his head, laughing quietly, and said it wouldn't be necessary.

“Actually, young man, I suggest you finish up that hot chocolate and join me for a night out with my friends! That will surely lift your spirits!”, he said with a smile.

I tried to turn down his offer, but he insisted, and what could I do? I couldn't say no to an older man who listened to my whiny ass for an hour. I figured I would go to that old people's “party”, stay for a bit, and then excuse myself. It would make him happy, and I would get one more hour out of the empty flat that was waiting for me to come back and feel sorry for myself.

I left a five euros bill on the table and left with my new friend. His name was James, by the way.

James led me to the nearest metro station. It had one of these big “METROPOLITAIN” signs at the entrance; the kind I used to take pictures with during my first week here, but quickly stopped after feeling the hatred from Parisians I blocked the way from.

I knew that particular station pretty well : my friend Giac lived a few streets away.

Which is why I gasped when I walked down the stairs after James and found out it looked nothing like the last time I went inside.

The white tiles had been replaced by wood and stone. Funk music was blasting, and colored lights flashed. There was no train in sight, no ticket vending machine, nothing that would make sense in a station.

And most of all, it was full of the most diverse crowd I had ever seen in my life.

Before I got enough time to take it all in, a black-haired dude in a dark purple velvet suit blocked my way. He angrily whispered :

“-James, for Zeus' sake. He doesn't belong here. You can't just bring people along.

-Oh come on, Mr H. ! The kid is going through a rough time. It'll lift his spirits!”, James giggled.

“Mr H” rolled his eyes.

“-Enough with the puns already, James. Alright, the kid can stay. But you're responsible for him.”

Mr H. shot me a cold look with his piercing blue eyes, but I could tell from the slight curl of his lips that he was quite amused by the situation.

“WHO IS THAAAT?”

I jumped at the deep, excited voice. Turning around, I realized it belong to a big, muscular drag queen with lime green platform heels and a flowing yellow button down dress, wide open on a fake cleavage that looked ready to burst.

I mumbled “Erm, I'm Dan. Nice to meet you.”

James chuckled : “Andy, be nice with the kid...”

“ISNT HE THE CUTEST THING? RIGHT? RIGHT? LOOK AT HIM! EVERYONE, THIS IS DAN!”, he screamed, turning around in a swift motion that sent his dress flying around him.

A sea of faces turned to me, but I didn't look at them. I stood there, shocked, as I stared into the drag queen exposed cleavage. Under the stuffed bra, a huge, gaping wound stood on his ribcage.

The bones were exposed.

Yet not a single drop of blood was dripping off.

I felt James holding my arm. He whispered : “It's okay, kiddo. Don't worry.”

Looking around, it was all I could see now. When I first got a glimpse of the crowd, I saw the crazy outfits and hairstyles, from the hippies with long hair to the ladies in voluminous, Marie Antoinette-like gowns and crazy updos, the flapper girl in the corner, the classy Edwardian dandies smoking cigars...

But now, oh now, I saw it all.

The flapper girl's hairpiece covered the part of her skull that was missing.

One of the dandies' skin was bloated and greenish, as if he had spent the last few days immersed in water.

One of the Marie-Antoinette ladies wore a choker that failed to hide the line on her neck.

Everywhere I looked, I saw deadly wounds and conditions on those lively, enthusiasmed party goers.

I swallowed back puke, my heart pounding.

Andy the drag queen looked at me, then at James, then back at me. He elbowed James, causing the poor man to stumble a little; if he hadn't been clutching to me, he probably would have fell down.

“JAMES! You didn't warn the kid? Look at him, poor thing! He's gonna have an heart attack!”

“Well, that'd make two of us, hehehe!”

Andy sternly looked at James and grabbed my hand:

“ALRIGHT, SWEETHEART! DO NOT FRET!” He lowered his voice : “You see, we're not exactly [he made the “quote” gesture]... ALIVE.”

“Am I dead too?! What happened?”

“Oh no, darling, you're very much alive!” He interrupted to kiss some classy lady dressed in 1960's fashion on both cheeks. “Muriel, darling, look at you, aren't you gorgeous! Long time no see! This is our new friend DAN ! ISNT HE CUTE!”. As she smiled and walked away, I noticed her skull was smashed in on the back of her head.

And that's how I got introduced to a bunch of dead people by a gigantic drag queen who also happened to be very much dead.

At some point, I just assumed that I was either 1)dreaming, 2)going crazy, 3)dead.

Either way, there wasn't much I could do about it right now, so I decided to enjoy the party and worry about it later – if I wasn't dead, that is.

It turned out, most dead people are quite friendly. They wouldn't tell me how exactly the afterlife was, mainly because Mr H. seemed to appear everytime one of them tried to touch on the subject, but they told me not to worry too much.

The alcohol they served was real, and they seemed to get drunk, so it kinda reassured me that there was an afterlife in which I could keep getting drunk if I wanted to.

On that night, unsure whether I was alive or dead, I sure drank a lot.

As an history major, it was quite fascinating to talk with people who actually experienced some of the things I had learned about. I was immersed in a conversation with a guy who died during the Roman Empire (a conversation that taught me two things : one, I didn't actually know shit about the Roman Empire; two, when you've been dead for 1956 years, you end up learning a lot of languages) when Mr H. materialized next to me. I don't mean he showed up unexpectedly. He litterally appeared out of thin air.

“Dan, it's time for you to go home now.”, he said in a rushed tone.

Andy (who hadn't left my side all night) pleaded “Oh come on, Mr H! We're just starting to have FUN!”

Mr H. looked stern and... Anxious?

“It's nearly midnight. He has to go.”

Andy got as pale as he could possibly get under his heavy layer of make up.

“Oh. Yes.”

Composing himself, he smiled at me : “Well, kid, WASNT IT FUN? I SWEAR YOU'RE THE CUTEST LITTLE BASTARD I'VE MET IN THE PAST TWENTY YEARS -”

He stopped mid-sentence, as we all heard a train approaching. It was the first train of the night, despite this station normally being one of the busiest of Paris.

There was another noise, too. Wailing. It was deep. It was scary. It felt like despair was engulfing us.

I felt a hand grip my elbow, and suddenly, I was sitting on the sidewalk in front of the entrance of the station.

Standing next to me was Mr H, seemingly unbothered by the cold in his purple suit.

I, on the other hand, was already shivering.

“Erm, Mr H.? I left my coat inside, could I-

-No, Dan. This isn't your world yet, and you can't go back now. It's midnight, the gates are opened. I can't let you wander now; you might get lost.

-But I'm not dead, right? I'm not?”

He looked about 30, yet the way he looked at me right then reminded me of the way my grandfather used to look at me.

“-I would know, if you were.”

I finally got the nerve to ask him what had been bothering me for the whole evening. Even when we were down there, he looked... Out of place. His skin didn't have this greyish quality, he showed no sign of wound, and he was too young to have died of natural causes.

“What are you?”

He seemed almost pleased, as if he knew I was going to ask.

“Daniel Thorne. For an history major, you're not too smart.”

He lit a cigarette and started walking back to the station at a leisurely pace. I sat there, thinking as hard as I could in my drunken, confused state.

Then it clicked.

He was almost halfway down the stairs when I called him back :

“Hades!”

He turned around, the hint of a smile on his lips.

I stared into his blue eyes and muttered :“When am I going to die?”

“Not today, Daniel, not today.”

He turned around and resumed walking down the stairs, but I heard him saying :

“But please make sure you live, first.”

#writers #writers on tumblr #nosleep #sixpenceee #that's some sixpenceee shit #horror story #ignisaurumprobat19 #creepy #my writing #greek mythology #hades #paris #year abroad

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itcowcer · 7 years ago

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Elagabalus

The following was sent to me anonymously after my original posting about PP on r/NoSleep. Strangely enough that original post was taken down shortly thereafter. For those of you that missed that posting I will include a link at the end of this story. I do not believe it is necessary to read this to understand the horror of this content. However, for those interested it may provide some context.

What I have here appears to be an excerpt from a yet unfinished, yet unpublished book by an independent author named Paul Holland. Holland went quiet some time ago and many believed this was because of some kind of self-imposed seclusion done in order to finish his latest work. This speculation was not voiced by the author’s small –time publisher Mark Gergich, who was very vocal in his belief that Holland had been abducted and was in mortal danger. Gergich was not able to tell officials the last known location of Holland, however he did direct detectives to the website of The Pumpkin Patch. The Pumpkin Patch is a cultish arts movement allegedly responsible for the ritual murders Holland was investigating. The detectives hit a wall when they found that the site was no longer available (Apparently previous actions had been made to take down the site when a buyer discovered that the artwork he purchased was painted using human blood and refuse.) As of now there are no leads on Paul Holland, although I have heard rumors that the PP website still exists on the Dark Web. If this is the case, anyone with the capabilities to reach this site will likely find more answers than I am capable. Good luck.

Elagabalus

Paul Holland

Chapter VI

I had managed to find the dark place described in the journals. It was apparent that I was not looking hard enough during my first few perusals of Kathryn’s entries, because all of the clues were there. My greatest mistake was in assuming that the only important sections were those pertaining to her diabolical club. I made a point to shy away from entries that were too personal in some kind of late respect for the deceased girl. In doing so, I missed some of the more important details leading to her death; in particular the location of “The Studio.”

On August 14th, Kathryn described a penultimate meeting with her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend Brian. It was a pleasant day by the James River, but despite this, Kathryn had felt a great amount of discomfort with the meeting. It had been a few months since the two had been separated by a summer intersession. Kathryn had returned to her family home in southern Virginia, whereas Brian remained on campus. Though Kathryn tried to continue communication with the man that she loved, she found it more and more difficult to keep his attention as the weeks wore on. Eventually the two drifted apart. Even when she returned, she felt immense difficulty when re-establishing communication with the boy she had once felt so free and open with.

As Kathryn waited on a park bench overlooking the rambling rapids of the James, she could feel a heavy, sinking discomfort in her stomach. She did not know what would become of this meeting. She did not know whether the boy felt the same way about her, as he did before, or even if she still felt that way. As the minutes wore on, and he finally appeared, she could tell that everything had changed. He was not the same Brian. Although he spoke warmly to her she could tell his mind was adrift somewhere else. Even so, she decided to stick with him through the rest of the evening, under the presumption that trying was the least she could do considering all they had been through together.

The night wore on and though the evening was pleasant, the spark had been gone between the two. Both were very aware of this as they walked back to the place where her bike was chained, near the old civil war exhibit by the river. She fumbled the lock of her bike, her mind reeling over the thought that their once electric relationship would end without a word, aside from the possible wave good bye as she rode her bicycle out into the night. She thought that Brian felt this as well, which is how she rationalized his next, eccentric actions. He begged her to spend some more time with him, coaxed her to follow him to some dark place by the riverside, and convinced her that he had something to show her.

Though Brian had been acting strangely the entire day, Kathryn still hoped that there was some way they could remedy the situation and go back to the brilliant winter and spring they had shared together. She followed him to a dark place beneath a foot bridge. She had been here numerous times with her friends when they adventured to the small island situated in the middle of the James. Although she had been here often, she was surprised when Brian pushed aside some corrugated metal revealing a dark, yawning tunnel leading downward.

Brian looked at her desperately and petitioned that they both explore the creepy forgotten place together, implying that it was something they would have done before. Kathryn took one look at the tunnel and, seeing only darkness, decided she would have none of it. She left him there then, riding up to the city above while he descended alone into the tunnel. The two would officially break-up a few days later through a slew of vicious text messages, and Kathryn would push the memory of the evening off as much as she could.

That would be until a few weeks later, when Kathryn and her friends were spending a day by the river in a bid to make the most of the now dwindling summer heat. This day had been going much smoother for the girl, but she had been trying desperately to close the wounds she had felt from her breakup. She had been trying her best to show her friends she was happy. She laughed at all of their jokes, and even tried flirting with some of the boys, at the suggestion of Trisha. This seemed to work as she was beginning to convince herself that she was getting over it all. These attempts were all but ruined when she noticed a figure moving just in the distance. She could tell that the figure, even if it were just a silhouette, had been Brian. Her stomach lurched. He did not seem to notice her, which only proved to sharpen the blow, but continued his path to the place where they had departed some time before, disappearing behind a sheet of corrugated metal.

This vision haunted her, and she would spend the rest of the outing, and the hours that followed, replaying the image in her head. She could not stop herself from thinking about it. The sight of Brian descending down that dark tunnel had struck something in her. It was like some long grey finger had reached out from the blackest part of her subconscious and scratched that part of her mind that craved the mysterious. It would scratch until she had found answers to some of her most pertinent questions. What had really happened to Brian, and by extension the Pumpkin Patch, while she was gone? Why had Brian insisted they meet by the river for their last meeting? What was Brian dying to show her that night? And why was he going into that dark place again? Why was it important to him? Ultimately this line of thought would poke and prod Kathryn Mason down the path that led to her death.

The day I decided to investigate the area by the river, the weather had been quite unpleasant. The sky was grey from clouds and, although a greater storm had been threatening, there was little but the occasional drizzle. To the south and below me roared the white capped rapids of the James, now reeling from the encroaching storm. Just beyond their cacophony stretched the lonesome island the locals called Belle Ilse, a name that I couldn’t help but notice shared some similarities to the diabolical Belial. I trained my gaze along the foot bridge where it stretched from the lonely island to my side of the water. Above it, the noisy overpass of US 301 loomed. At the end of the foot bridge was a stair way leading down to my level of the street.

Behind me Trisha was leaning on the side of her red Honda accord lighting a cigarette. She had driven me here, and was now determined to wait it out until I returned from my mission. I told her there was nothing to worry about. It was broad daylight and I felt like there was no chance of danger. Even if this place had once been the location of the Pumpkin Patch’s base of operations, “The Studio”, it would be unlikely that they remained here after the murders. Regardless, Trisha remained stubborn. According to her, any friends she knew that entered that place either died or disappeared. She did not want to lose the only other person who was still looking into the murder of her friend Kathryn. Eventually I caved, but I reiterated to her that if I did not return in an hour or two, she should go directly to the police, and not come in after me. She begrudgingly agreed.

The entrance was actually a lot trickier to find than we had assumed. It took a good fifteen minutes to find, although it would have been longer if it weren’t for the help of the lovely Trisha. Once we discovered the place, Trisha and I exchanged one last, apprehensive look. There was no telling what I would find down there, and although I was sure the place would be abandoned there was still a sense of dangerous foreboding in the air. After a brief pause to prepare myself, I fired up my flashlight and began my descent down the long dark corridor before me.

During my time at college, I studied all sorts of literature. Most of my favorite stories were myths and folklore that families historically recited to each other by dancing fire-light. These stories were often similar to each other in many areas. The tales would include some great hero, a monster, and some impossible journey to vanquish evil and return to normal life. One of my favorite stories spoke of a goddess who descended into the underworld to meet with her once forgotten sister, the keeper of the underworld. Often this story was stated to have metaphorical meaning. It was said that the underworld was truly an analogy for the goddesses’ own subconscious, and that she had to travel into this underworld to discover some kind of long forgotten, long suppressed part of herself. Her hero’s journey was only accomplished once she had communed with this part of herself and brought it to the light. She had to journey into the realm of death and return changed.

I thought of this story as I began to maneuver through the expansive tunnel system of the city. I wondered how many other cities had tunnels like these. Long forgotten passages that stretched miles beneath their respective city-scapes, containing crimes and secrets long since shunned by the people who lived above. Like some deep, primal sub-consciousness lurking at the heart of every metropolis, rarely seen or spoken of but always present and felt. It seemed to me, as I waded through the dark passage way about me, ankle deep in sludge, that there was something fermenting in this place. Something was festering down here in the darkness beneath the city, amassing itself and gaining strength before its inevitable return. Perhaps the murder of Kathryn Mason had ignited that return.

In the dead girl’s journal, she had referenced a series of glow in the dark markers which traced her way through the tunnels. At my first large intersection, I followed the dead girl’s path and trained my flashlight to the top right corner of the passageways. I only had to hold my light on the spot for a few short minutes before turning my flashlight completely off. I was both relieved and anxious when, after doing so, a symbol appeared ghostly green over the left most passage. According to my later research, this symbol was the alchemical rune for phosphorus. I continued this process at a couple of other intersections. At one place was the zodiac symbol for the Scorpio, while another was decorated unceremoniously with an upside down pentagram. My favorite had to be the enigmatic “666” scrawled out in wispy green script over a particularly fungus covered passageway.

There was only one time that I felt particularly scared within that system of tunnels. I will not lie, the whole situation was suitably creepy. I found myself fighting to press onward into the unknown place. Often I could hear the scratching of insects around me and the rhythmic drips of water from above. At one intersection, with my flashlight off, I could hear the distinct sound of something large crashing into the water just ahead of me. I quickly jumped to shine my flashlight in the direction of the sound. I probably scared the thing in the process, as all that could be seen was some furry, distinctly four legged creature retreating into the darkness away from me.

Eventually I had reached my destination just beyond an intersection marked by a glowing devil emoticon. While most of the tunnels had been cement constructs the last bit, just past this intersection, had been carefully fashioned from stone bricks. The passage continued around a bend before it opened up to a raised area just past an arched portal way of masonry. At the top right corner of this arch was a sneering glow-in-the-dark jack-o-lantern. The room itself was fairly large and musty smelling. There was still a rather waterlogged, roach infested couch sitting on the left most wall of the room. This was described in the journals. A generator was also there in the right most corner, just by the entrance. I checked to see if the thing had any gas but, unfortunately, it was empty. All in all the place looked abandoned. Although that was what I expected, I still felt the slight jab of disappointment.

There were a couple of easels propped up in random positions around the room, with one laying awkwardly on the ground, looking like some kind of dead thing. The walls were painted very darkly with splotches and patches left bare here and there. For a second I thought that the walls were just lazily covered, like the painting was done by some three year old with a crayon who was used to scribbling in a coloring book. As I got closer I realized that this effect existed because the walls were covered by a script of close together, overlapping words and sentences. This was also described in the girl’s journal, but she never properly described their effect. Perhaps she was un-phased by the design choice because she had a friend with her, or else because she was once a member of the group herself and did not fear them. As I was alone during my visit, I couldn’t help but feel the wicked lunacy evoked from painting a wall in this manner.

Out of the whole, incomprehensible mass, there was only one spot of wall that was left completely bare. It was on the wall straight back from the entranceway, just past the four stone columns in the center of the hold. Here, all of the wall scribbles stopped to form a single rectangle of empty space. I cannot explain why this spot unsettled me so, but to me it was the most unsightly aspect of all I had seen in the “Studio”. Perhaps it was the strangeness of it. In a room where every wall was covered by the noisy scrawl of threatening and damning messages, there was only one part left completely bare, pristine, and blank. The rectangle was about twenty six by twenty eight inches, the correct size for a large painting. Just beneath it was situated a small golden plaque, about four inches long, that was screwed into the wall. The plaque had only one letter engraved on it, and the letter was “E”.

When I emerged from the bowels of the city, I had found that the weather had cleared up considerably. It was about noon and, to my luck, Trisha was still waiting there by her car. Together we drove back toward the college campus, and found a small coffee shop where I explained to her what I had found. She did not seem all that surprised that the place was empty. She assumed that place might have been abandoned when the group went, way underground a few months prior. She also had some insight into the identity of the enigmatic “E” painting.

“It’s Elagabalus!” she said, her green eyes flashing excitedly. I had shown her the journals before, when we first met and this whole journey started. Even then this word “Elagabalus” had been of great interest to her. For a while she seemed obsessed by it. It was only mentioned once in the journals, however, and until now I wasn’t so sure of its importance.

“You think that the painting is called Elagabalus?” I asked her quizzically

“Well why not?” She challenged with a confident smirk. It took me a moment to take in her response. In the entry where Elagabalus was mentioned, it seemed to me that the name referred to a person. As we looked at the journal again in the coffee shop, I was not so sure. This assertion, that Elagabalus was in fact a painting, raised more questions for me. Where did it come from? Why did the group hold it in such high regard?

We decided to journey to the public library in order to research the location of a new Pumpkin Patch den and learn more about the Elagabalus painting. I got busy trying to find whatever I could on the name in question. Trish, the local, set off in search for the next likely place for a murderous art-cult to be hiding. While I spent most of my time on the public computer’s search engine, Trisha spent her hours in the archives reviewing old city surveys and maps. When we reconvened in a few hours, Trisha had amassed an impressive list of possible “Studio” locations that put my few articles of Elagabalus to shame.

“Okay so where should we start?!” She asked enthusiastically with an arm full of books and notes.

“You’re really enjoying this aren’t you,” I teased. To this she only shook her head.

We decided that I would go first. I had the least information to present, and we were afraid that the discussion of Trisha’s findings would get lengthy and get us side tracked. There were only a few hits on the subject of Elagabalus. The first referred to a roman emperor, also known as Heliogabalus. Apparently he had been a rather controversial figure during his reign from 218 to 222. His reign began when he was declared an illegitimate heir to the empire, and fought a rebellion for the throne. He had also overthrown the religious order in Rome, installing his own deity in place of the customary Jupiter. This deity had the extravagant name of Deus Sol Invictus, or “God, the Undefeated Sun”.

A second controversy was started when the Emperor was found to have been sleeping with his chariot driver. The reign ended with an assassination, and much of Elagabalus’ rule was apparently stricken from the public record. Perhaps the painting was of this controversial figure? If the painting was of a person, then it would makes sense why I would confuse the painting for a “who” instead of a “what”. The only issue is that the figure in question seemed quite random. The only thing that had stood out to me was Deus Sol Invictus, but I had yet to see any reference to this in Pumpkin Patch’s archived works, and I had not seen any other themes of the emperor’s life aside from the use of his name. It was a mystery to determine why this particular figure was so important to the group.

The only other article was a strange one regarding an occultist named Eliphas Levi. According to Levi, in his book Dogma et Rituel de la Haute Magie (What a mouthful), Elagabalus refers to a stone which was worshipped for it properties. Apparently the stone could prolong life and served as the font of all wisdoms. This metaphysical “stone” also served as the basis from which all magic could be built upon and was at the cornerstone of human subconscious and conscious of being. Elagabalus, for Levi, was nothing less than the famed philosopher stone, and its power could be found within the human mind. While it seemed to me a stretch, this definition of Elagabalus seemed to be the closest fit to explaining the painting. The group certainly held it in high standing, as though it were the mythical philosopher’s stone. Trisha agreed that this explanation, though imperfect, seemed like the best fit.

Next we turned over to the locations for the Pumpkin Patch’s new studio. The locations in question all catered to the eerier side of the city’s history. Among the locations were an old civil war prison on Belle Isle, the magnificent Hollywood Cemetery, and several locations close to the Poe museum, a place where the Pumpkin Patch was once show cased in their earlier, non-murderous days. I asked about Lumpkin’s Slave Jail and Trisha pointed out to me that it was under a parking lot, and there was no physical place for a killer cult to hide.

Eventually we decided that the old train tunnel, beneath Church Hill, was the likeliest place for the group to be hiding. The Tunnel was subject to a catastrophic collapse in the 1920’s, resulting in the death of four people, and it has been the subject of urban legend ever since. According to one story, a first responder to the disaster arrived at the seen only to discover a strange, deformed, humanoid being crouched over a victim of the crash. This creature reportedly fled the scene and set up shop in Hollywood cemetery, which is one explanation for the Richmond Vampire. Anyways, we decided to leave immediately to investigate the place.

By the time we arrived at the place it was dusk. Not wanting to attract attention, Trisha suggested we park the car and walk to the tunnel entrance. I asked her how we would enter the place, and she said she used to do it all the time; there was a hole in the fence and the lock on the gate was often replaced because of trespassers. She was right, of course. The chain-link fence, which warded the area, was compromised. It was fixed half-hazardly with zip ties and blue wire. The gate itself was held shut by a simple combination lock. Trisha informed me that this entrance was supposed to be for service and maintenance. The actual tunnel opening was apparently sealed sometime after the collapse by cement. We were able to break open the lock and enter the maintenance tunnel with our flashlights at the ready.

“It’s funny,” I said “I thought the gates of hell were supposed to say something like ‘abandon hope all ye who enter here’?”

Trisha did not think my joke was funny and chose to ignore it.

What followed seemed to occur in a dreamlike trance. We passed through the gate and were soon descending down a winding passage way into the dark tunnel. Aside from our echoing footsteps, we could hear the unnerving chatter of rats, which scurried away from us somewhere just outside the reach of our flash lights. As I moved through the tunnel, I became painfully aware of this feeling that I was being watched. I tried to push this anxiety aside and was assured by the sound of Trisha’s footsteps behind me. That was until I turned around and discovered she was not there.

I must have been halfway down the access tunnel by that time. I tried calling her name but got no response. Actually I was quite sure, at one point, that I heard a muffled giggle in response, but perhaps that’s just a detail I added after the fact. Looking back now, I do not know what overtook me as I decided to move further into the tunnel proper. The place was not as large as I thought it would be. I followed the ruined trackway down to the center of the tunnel, altogether too aware that someone, or something was watching me. Eventually I could make out the flicker of candle light in the distance and, I suppose, I was drawn to the light like a moth to a flame.

What was once a small flicker soon became a roaring flame as I trudged down the cramped stone tunnel. There, at the end of my journey, was a circle of red, glowing candles with a lone easel at their center. Upon this easel sat a covered painting. I was so transfixed by the scene that it took me a few minutes to process that there were others in the chamber with me. Just at the outer edge of the glowing candle light, there moved figures and shapes of masked individuals, who seemed to be assessing my every move. Among the masked faces I could see a rabbit, a clown, a skull, an assortment of hand carved tribal-looking masks, and the shriveled husk of a face which I knew belonged to someone called Hungry Preta.

I was eventually approached by one of the figures, undoubtedly female, who wore a handmade crow mask. She seemed to be far too familiar with me, as she stoked my arm indulgently, leading me closer to the painting at the center of the space before stopping to press herself close behind me. She nestled her chin upon my shoulder and stretched her arms, caressingly, across my chest in a gentle but inescapable embrace from behind. I was not altogether unnerved by this experience, I had gone numb to the fact that any of it was really occurring. Had I really wandered into this dark and diabolical den? Had I really lost Trisha in the passageway? Had I so foolishly wandered into my own death, as Kathryn had? Was this the end? I would soon discover that it was not the end but rather some type of beginning, as the other figures slowly removed the covering of the painting, and my captor began to lovingly stroke my hair. There before me was the face of the thing I recently learned had been called Elagabalus. And as I stood there dumbstruck, taking in the thing, I thought it was magnificent.

http://itcowcer.tumblr.com/post/156423063519/subject-pumpkin-patch

#writing #horror #I.T. Cowcer #Pumpkin Patch

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ignisaurumprobat19-blog · 7 years ago

Text

Nomad (full story)

initially published on r/nosleep

PART 1

February 12th, 2015, 6.42am

I'm awoken by the shrill sound of my alarm. Still half-asleep, I reflexively grab my Iphone and turn it on. The date immediately catches my eye. Yesterday, it's been five years since I got here. It's the first time I reach 5 years in the same place. Part of me is thrilled, but I can't help having a sense of impending doom.

Unlike most days, I manage to get out of bed before my mother comes banging on my door. Maybe that's because of the five-year anniversary, but I feel an urgency to enjoy every minute. If there are people to see, things to do, words to say, I have to do it. Fast.

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this time I'll stay longer. Maybe this time I won't have to leave.

8.03am

I pick up Alice on her doorstep. She slumps into the passenger seat and greets me with a « Fuck, I'm so fucking tired ». I laugh, turn up the radio and we sing along, like every morning since September, when I finally passed my driving licence. The road to school is a quick one. I almost want to keep driving, or to tell her, right here, right now, that I love her and that she's the best friend I've ever had. But being cheesy isn't like me, and she might find it weird. If I leave, she'll think of this conversation as a troubling coincidence. If I stay, she'll think I'm not being my usual self and she'll worry, and I dont want to have to deal with this today. So I just park in front of school, and we go on with our day.

5.35pm

It's been an ordinary day. I've been on the alert all the time since yesterday, waiting for something to happen, but so far everything is fine. I might really stay this time. I try not to get my hopes up, but I can't stop myself. I'm alone in the car on the way back from school, Alice got out earlier. I don't turn on the radio this time. At every car that drives a little recklessly, at every red light, I sweat, I get anxious.

7.20pm

Mom cooked a roast for Dad and I and vegetarian lasagna for Chloe. Chloe's just got back from university for a two week break, and even if she answers the parents' questions, she seems.. Distant. Off. Not in a worrying way, though. More in a laid-back way, as if she didn't really know where she was, but it didn't matter. She smiles constantly. The food is delicious. My sister seems on cloud nine. For the first time today, I feel completely relaxed.

11.10pm

A knock on my door. « - Yup ? -Can I come in ? » Chloe's head appears in my doorway. « - Sure. »

She settles down on my bed. « - How's school ? -Not too bad. Still waiting for the answers to my uni applications. I don't think I'll get into a great one, but I'll be happy with anything as long as I can hope to become a doctor. -Hey, don't say that. Wait for the results before saying you won't get in. -Yeah. I guess. -And how's life ? How are your friends ? -Fine. I still hangout with the same ones, basically, but I met lots of Alice's friends so I hangout with them sometimes, too. -And what about boys ? -Nothing new on that side. I would have told you otherwise ! -Well... I might have something to tell you. -I knew it ! You're not pregnant are you ?! -Nooo ! But you know, Alex and I were talking last night, about our future careers and all, and we ended up talking about the future in general... Ad he said he planned to propose at the end of the year ! -Holy fuck ! But that's awesome ! -I know ! I'm so excited ! But I haven't told anyone yet, not even Mom, so please stay quiet for now. I'd rather wait until we're actually engaged before telling people. -Sure ! -But... You will be my bridesmaid, right ? I know you're not a fan of weddings but... -Of course I will ! Come on ! You're my sister ! » But as I say those words, my heart is heavy. I really hope I'll get to fulfill this promise.

Februray 13th, 2015, 8.20am

I slept through my alarm today. I run through the house : breakfast/shower/get clothed/ grab keys/ grab bag. Thankfully I don't have to pick-up Alice today, she only starts her classes at 10am. I sing along to the radio, even though I'm alone. I think about Chloe's wedding, her engagement party, her hen do. It's going to be so amazing ! Today, I want to be positive and allow myself to make plans. No matter what happens, I can't live the rest of my life avoiding any kind of plans. For fuck sake, that's not living. I'm singing (terribly) along to « You're beautiful » when the truck goes through the red light and crashes into my car.

August 22nd, 1999, 7.22am.

I'm awoken by the shrill sound of my alarm. Still half-asleep, I reflexively try to grab my Iphone on the nightstand, but my hand only encounters the void. No Iphone. No nightstand, even. That's when it hits me. The truck. The red light. Chloe. My life. It's over. As I start to tear up, my mind is bombarbed with informations. I know, without knowing how, that my name is Alexandra now. I'm no longer 18, I'm 24. I've been a secretary in my dad's office for the past two years, I live alone, I have no siblings and I have a 26 year old boyfriend but our relationship isn't great lately. I know what I look like, despite not having seen my reflection yet. I also know that I am dead.

First time I died, I didn't really understand what was going on. Mind you, I was four and a half at the time. I was sick, I knew that, but I didn't know I was going to die. Did my parents know ? Did they try to get me ready for it ? I don't know. I don't remember much of them. I remember a blonde woman and a man with steel-blue eyes and lines around the eyes. I don't even know their names. I always called them « Mom » and « Dad ». My name was Leah. I don't know the exact year, but I think it was in the 1980's. I just remember that I couldn't breathe anymore, and then I fell asleep, and then I woke up and I knew that I was Mary, that I was 14, had brown hair, and had to get up and go to my best friend's house. I had a new family, a new face, and a completely different body from the little girl's body I fell asleep in. I screamed for my mom, but the mom who came to me wasn't the blonde mom I was used to. I explained the situation as best as I could ; and Mary was up for three years of therapy. I simply couldn't act like a 14 year old teen. I was completely capable of doing well in school, as I had access to all of Mary's knowledge, but I didn't know how to behave with her family and friends. I was just a small child inside. I died in a car crash when I was 17. Or 8, depending on your viewpoint.

The next day, I was Claire, 10 years old. The transition was easier this time ; I could act like a child again. This time, I didn't tell anyone about Leah or Mary. I pretended I was Claire, and I didn't get sent to therapy. Claire died at 14, falling off her horse, in 1982.

Then I was Laura. Laura was different. Laura was 28, when I was only 13. Laura had a husband, a son, and a job as a sales rep in a big firm in NY. The year was 2022, and it was my first time using the Internet, which didn't help. Most of all, Laura was a cocaine addict. She didn't look like she used, at first glance. She was pretty, with blonde hair and a doll-like face. Sure, her eyes were bloodshot, but with a toddler and a time-consuming professionnal life, what else could you expect ? But as soon as I woke up as Laura, her body asked for its dose.

I killed Laura three months later.

The first time I committed suicide, I thought I would really die. I didn't think I would come back. I was only 13, I still believed there was a way out. I know better now. After my overdose, I woke up and I was Rebecca, 43. In 1973. The guilt was overwhelming, at first. I thought I had deprived Laura's loved ones of their wife, their mother, their daugher, their friend. Because of that, Rebecca got depressed until she died at the hands of an attacker, in a street of San Francisco, in January 1976.

But I realized, years later (or sometimes, years before ), that feeling guilty made no sense. Since the second I arrived, Laura was gone. Whether I killed myself or not, she wasn't coming back. If I stayed, I would only have spent more time pretending to be her, trying to be a wife to her husband, a mother to her son. And the 13 year old girl I was was too young to take care of a baby or to have sex with a 30 year old man. I know now that I took the right decision. It was better for them to grieve for Laura than to have their life ruined by me pretending to be her.

Nowadays, I don't hesitate before I committ suicide. I know the real people won't come back anyway, so if I'm unhappy in a life, I just go to the next one. When I decide to stay, nonetheless, it looks like I'm only alloted a limited time. On average, I get 4 years. Sometimes less, rarely more. The maximum so far has been 5 years and two days.

I shouldn't have stayed that long. I should have left before. How naïve of me to think that I could stay. Have a family, be a bridesmaid at my sister's wedding.

7.42pm

If I don't want to be late for work, I have to get up now. I get out of bed, head to the bathroom. In the mirror, Alexandra is looking back at me. I can't stand this. I scream, punch the mirror, grab a shard of glass and slit my throat.

June 7th, 1981, 6.32am

I wake up in the arms of a man. Before I can even get access to who I am, a severe nausea gets me running to the bathroom. The noise wakes the man up. As I vomit, he walks up behind me and lovingly holds my hair up. He whispers : « - You know, I got an idea for the name. What about Leah ? » Holding my big, pregnant belly, I stand up slowly. My eyes meet our reflection in the mirror above the sink : a blonde woman, a man with blue-steel eyes and lines around the eyes. I wonder how to tell him that less than 5 years from now, our daughter will die.

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

PART 2

September 9th, 1985, 4.05am

I've failed.

I've failed, and now I can't sleep. Everytime I close my eyes, I see her little body going still, her chest rising and falling for the last time.

I've tried. I've been an overprotective mother. I made sure she always wore the right clothes for the weather, I breastfed her, I gave her healthy, balanced meals. But what can I do against cancer ? If only this was not the 80's. If only it was a century from now, she would have had a much better chance. But I don't get to chose that.

And now she's gone. Just like I knew she would, deep down, since she is me.

And all the last glimmers of hope, hope that I could change my fate, hope that I could make it stop, went away with her last breath.

September 9th, 1985, 10.12am

I've applied make up carefully. My blonde hair is in a strict low bun. I've ironed my black dress right before we left.

I've got to look good. After all, this is also my funeral.

My husband looks like a mess. His world shattered three days ago, and he already looks several years older. I tear up, looking at him and his devastated face.

My feelings for him have been hard to define, given that he both gave life to me and made me his wife, even though he has no idea about the first part. All I know is that I've never felt anything but pure love towards him, so it can't be bad, can it ? I didn't chose to come back here. I can't be blamed for feeling this.

I put my hand on his cheek and force him to look at me. I try to find the right words, but will there ever be anything right to say anymore ?

Our eyes are still locked when the loud screeching noise starts, and then there is nothing but pain, and then there is nothing at all.

March 21st , 2004, 10.32am

Samantha's life sounds pretty shitty, to be honest. I've only been here for an hour, but I'm not thrilled at the idea of having a husband who cheats on me, two teenagers to deal with, and crippling debt.

Not to mention that I absolutely hate her look.

Luckily, it's Sunday and the husband took the kids out to the swimming pool. A weekly occurrence, apparently. So I have another hour left to cry my heart out about everything. Everything that has just happened. Everything that happened in the past 5 years. Or everything that happened 20 years ago, if you'd rather.

It was a good life. It was a messy, disturbing situation, sure, but it was a good life.

My mother's name was Patricia, and my father's was Eric. They were good people. She was a children's book illustrator, he worked in a bank, and while they don't sound like the most assorted pair, they were crazy about each other. I had to tone that down, obviously, but it was easy to blame it on the pregnancy, the childbirth, the fatigue from raising a kid. I made sure Eric never felt unloved.

Most of all, they loved me. Oh, they loved me so much.

We were an ordinary family, but it was enough. It was more than enough.

June 5th, 2004, 3.15pm

More than two months in now, and Samantha's life is pretty shitty. But I've seen worse. She doesn't drink, smoke or use drugs. She's an housewife, and it's strangely relaxing to not have to deal with too many people during the day. Or at all, really, since her husband barely talks to her and her kids try to spend as much time as possible outside the house.

One thing that I really enjoy about Samantha, though, is that the déjà-vu feeling is gone.

It started during the pregnancy. I'd get this adrenaline rush, recognize the scene, and I knew what was going to happen in the next 10 to 30 seconds.

This has never happened, in any other life. From a young age, I've had no choice but to force myself to remember everything. When you've lived different lives, at different times, you simply cannot allow yourself to slip and say something out of character, or talk about a technology that doesn't exist yet or an event that didn't happen. It gets you into a lot of trouble. Trust me, I know.

I shrugged it off as the hormones playing tricks on my mind.

But once Leah was born, it got worse.

I had déjà-vu about once a day, and I was always correct.

It made feel... Uneasy. It didn't feel right.

And now it's gone.

April 7th, 2017, 7.12am

I haven't thought of Patricia in years. Or decades, I guess, but whatever.

I suppose it's writing all this stuff that reminded me of her. She was a good person, I suppose, but she got stuck in such a bland life. If she went somewhere when I came, too, maybe she's better now. I hope that's how it works.

Admittedly, what happened yesterday makes it obvious that I don't know much about how it works.

I was sitting on the bench, at my usual bus stop. I've been taking this bus home from work from monday to friday, at 6.18pm, for 2 years. Ever since I woke up as Sophia. I love it here. The city is nice, Sophia is young, she has cool friends and a nice flat. The time is good too. Right before it all started to break down. I'll be gone before that, of course, that's the good part of knowing history. Or the future, as they'd call it here.

The second I saw the long, overflowing yellow skirt, I was overwhelmed with this long-lost, yet familiar, déjà-vu feeling.

I knew she was going to stand in front of me, not sit, and hop in the next bus.

I could already see her long auburn hair caressing her elbows as she looked to the left to see her bus approching, standing with her back to me. Hell, I could even smell her sweet, sugary perfume.

But for the first time, I was wrong.

She walked towards me.

She stood with her back to me.

She looked to the left, saw her bus approaching.

Then she turned around to face me.

In a swift , determined motion, she grabbed my chin, lifted my face to meet my eyes.

Whispered :

« Stop telling them about it. ».

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

PART 3

April 9th, 3.50pm, 2017

I'm going mad here. I'm so tired of all this.

After the girl with the yellow skirt ordered me to stop talking about it, I went crazy. I grabbed her shoulders and started shaking her, yelling. I don't even know what I was saying. It was like decades of anger and pain poured out of my body. People interfered to protect her, and she got away. Before I knew, I was on the bench again and I was sobbing uncontrollably. I'm so mad at myself ! I could have gotten answers, or at least a clue on what's happening.

There were colleagues around, and they saw everything. One of them got on the next bus with me and got me home safe. She even offered to cook me dinner and stay for a bit, since I was in such a bad state. I refused. I didn't trust myself to control my words.

I got called into my boss' office the next day, and I pretended the girl was someone an ex-boyfriend cheated on me with and that I lost my temper when she provoked me.

He seemed to believe it, but he looked worried about me. Kept telling me his door was open if I needed to talk. People at work are definitely looking at me differently now.

I hate that they see me that way. I am not a violent person. I've only been violent when I had to. Violence can be necessary, but a guy cheating on me is not a valid reason to use violence. Why would it matter to me, anyway ? All of my relationships are, by essence, short ones. I can't afford to get too attached to someone.

When I arrived at the office this morning, there was a letter for me in the mail. The secretary said it wasn't sent, it was brought. By a man, in their thirties, black hair, pretty average. That's all she could remember about him when I pressed her for details.

The letter was handwritten, black ink on a simple white sheet of paper.

The ink ran a little.

It said :

«You are not one of them, but you need to learn.

If they know, you can't learn.

If you can't learn, it will only take longer.

Be wise, as it is your nature.

Trust me, cause we are One. »

It was signed by a single letter : *« H »*.

In all my lives, I don't remember being close to a man whose name started with « H ». As I said, I haven't had many lovers. Partly because I've been a kid or a teenager for quite a long time, and also a married woman a few times, and partly because when I was a single adult, being in a serious relationship was too much trouble. I've had flings, of course, but I try not to get too involved. Living with someone when the relationship didn't preexisted my arrival is tricky. I can't be fully myself, but there's no established routine that I can rely on, either. Everything has to be created from scratch, and for someone like me, it can be dangerous to open up too much.

Not to mention the fact that when I ineluctably leaves, I'd rather have as few people as possible to mourn me.

But now that I think about it, if I met him in another life, maybe I knew him under another identity. Maybe « H » is only his name here and now. That would mean he's like me, that would mean I'm not alone.

I don't know if that's a relief or one more reason to worry.

He seems to know a lot more than I do : if he is like me, then why am I not as informed as he is ? Are there more people like us ? What do they want from me ? What am I supposed to learn ?

Why did they let me suffer so much, for decades, without ever telling me that I wasn't completely alone ?

Where were they when I was Alicia, when I cut her 15 year old wrists so that the nightly rapes she endured stopped ?

Where were they when I was Brooke, when every second of the life I lived was spent fighting because there's no other way for a homeless woman to survive in the streets of a devasted New York ?

Where were they when I was Catherine and died in a pool of my own blood, holding the corpse of my lifeless newborn ?

Where were they when I was Amelia and died in a car crash that killed a whole family in the other car, as well as my own kid in the backseat ?

Where were they when I went from being 31 to being 15 again, and lost once again every bit of a life I had built ?

Where were they when I was my own mother and had to watch myself die ?

If they knew and did nothing, then I think I know all I need to know about them. I don't want to play a part in whatever they're doing. I don't care if I'm an aberration of nature or the result of a freak experiment. I don't want to serve anyone. I don't want to « learn ».

April 9th, 5.01pm, 2017

Ok, ok. I could be freaking out over nothing. He could be someone who works in the building, who read my posts and guessed my identity. Maybe he's pulling a prank on me ?

April 10th, 10.06am, 2017

Something happened on the bus to work.

I was hit with a déjà-vu so intense my head started to throb. She wasn't the girl with the yellow skirt, but someone much younger. 15-ish ? Curly black hair, dark brown eyes, freckles, rather cute, really. I had never met her, but I *knew* her.

I didn't see anything, this time. The déjà-vu wasn't about a moment, it was about *her*.

When she spoke, her tone was so low I could barely pick up what she said.

« Don't ask me anything. I can't answer. But please stop posting. You're not ready yet. You just have to learn. If you don't know yet, then you still have to learn. You're only making this more difficult for yourself. If only you stopped fighting, you could be ready so soon. »

Her tone was almost pleading. She kept her glaze ahead while talking. After a few seconds of silence, she finally turned to look at me.

« I miss you. »

My tears started falling down, years of them, a waterfall on my cheeks and neck.

« You can't do that, you can't, you can't just come and tell me to stop asking questions and to stop talking and to just shut up, you can't ! I'm not a puppet, I'm not your toy, please stop it, I'd do whatever it takes, please, please, I can't take it anymore, you forced me to be my own mother, please, please, please... »

People were starting to give me weird looks, but she wasn't even listening anymore. The bus had come to an halt, she was already getting up.

I grabbed her wrist desperately. She shook herself free and bended down so that her face was close to mine. Her face expressed equal parts anger and pain.

« Stop whining, Parthenos. You never had a mother».

And with that, she was gone.

I've looked up Parthenos. It means « virgin » in Greek. I'm not a virgin, I've never set foot in Greece, and as far I know, I've never been someone who had greek origins. If she knows as much about me as she seems to, she should know that.

As much as it scares me to admit it, though, that word feels familiar.

April 10th, 1.04pm, 2017

I know who she is. I don't know how, but I know who she is.

When I was Alicia, I didn't have many friends. I was a lonely kid who tried to avoid contact with others as much as I could. I didn't trust anyone, and I didn't want anyone to know what was going on at home.

I could have killed him. I could have killed my stepdad. Before I was Alicia, I was Meryl. Meryl knew all about killing people. She didn't like it, and it wasn't nice being Meryl, but she had to. That's why I stayed for as long as I could. People needed her. The job had to be done.

So yes, I could have killed him. But I didn't. I didn't want to get sent to jail or to a psych ward. When I decided to end it, I just killed myself instead.

But while I was Alicia, there was one person I trusted. Her name was Victoria. She had long, shiny blond hair and a seemingly perfect life, yet she chose, for some reason, to hang out with the school weirdo. I was so grateful for her.

I remember that once, we were watching tv in her living room when I saw myself smiling on a picture on the wall. Myself, as Rebecca. I knew it was before I arrived in Rebecca's body : I had memories of this, but they were not firsthand memories.

When I asked Victoria about the woman in the picture, she said it was her grandmother. That gave me chills.

And now, that girl on the bus. I know she's Victoria.

April 10th, 3.42pm, 2017

I got another letter at work. Brought by the same man, according to the secretary. She paid more attention to him this time : definitely in his thirties, black straight hair, blue eyes, tanned skin, dressed smart in a dark blue suit. I still have no idea who he is.

I'm scared to open the letter.

April 10th, 3.55pm, 2017

Black ink on a simple sheet of white paper.

« Let's get coffee tomorrow, my dear niece.

8am, Starbucks on Crowne St.

Be careful who you talk to.

H. ».

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

PART 4 (FINAL)

April 11th, 2017, 7.56am

He's already sitting at a table when I walk into the coffeeshop. Black suit, black shirt, black hair, and those striking blue eyes. He looks about 32, maybe 33, definitely not older than 34.

Sophia is 27. If he really is my uncle, then he definitely wasn't talking about this life.

He notices me and waves, and as I meet his eyes, my head starts to throb. Just like when I saw that girl on the bus. Victoria, or whatever she's called now.

I walk to his table and sit in front of him.

Neither of us say a word.

Then he starts smiling. Bigger, and bigger, and bigger. He doesn't look threatening though, he looks.. Entertained. That pisses me off so much.

« -Having fun, eh ? You and your friends must be having a blast, messing up with my life ! What are you ? Scientists ? Did you make your little freak experiment with me ? »

He shakes his head, still smiling.

« A cult, then ? »

That makes him chuckle.

« Oh no, no. We're definitely not worshipping anyone. » He laughs even harder at that.

« Calm down. I'm not responsible for what's happening to you, ok ? It just... Happened. You needed it.».

« It just happened ?! That's your explanation ? I just happened to have my life fucking cursed ? »

He sighs and takes his head in his hands.

« Why do you always have to be so dramatic ? I'm trying my best here, could you at least try ? »

« Try ? What am I supposed to do ? »

« Just... Remember! » He looks exsperated. « I get it, you needed it, blah blah blah, but you don't have time anymore, and now Héra found you, and... » He stops mid-sentence, shoots me an almost frightened look : « Ah, never mind. »

Hera. I feel a wave of panic through my whole body. For a few seconds, I'm confused and none of this makes sense. All I feel is fear, fear, fear, and I cannot form a coherent thought.

Then it hits me.

Long, flowing skirt. Auburn hair. The girl from the bus stop.

Not too different from her real form.

I knew Hera before I was Sophia. Before I was Alicia, Meryl, Brooke, Ciara, Jane, Alisha, Heidi, Samantha, Patricia, Amelia, Catherine, Cindy, Priyanka, Mary, Rebecca, Laura... Before I was Leah.

Before this place was unhabited.

Before humans were created.

I look at my uncle. I still see his current form, but I also see every one of his appearances since the last time I saw him.

Unlike me, he didn't have to be different people. He always looks more or less as he does now, except he alters his style to fit in whatever time period he's in.

Of course, only our kind can see him as he really is. This is no more than a disguise, a way to walk among you. But unlike some of us, he doesn't do it to manipulate you or to gain power. He genuinely always liked you, ever since I gave you life. He said you were fascinating. I didn't understand why, but I do now. I do.

He looks alarmed when he sees that I'm tearing up.

I choke on my own tears : « Oh, Dis... »

I've always called him by this nickname, even though he hated it. *Mostly* because he hated it, and it was fun to annoy him.

I can see relief flowing over his face. A tear rolls on his tanned, smooth cheek, and he grabs my hand :

« About time. We need you. »

« Hestia came to talk to me on the bus yesterday. Is she ok ? »

« She is. She always kept an eye on you. »

I'm crying now. The kind of sobs that leave you out of breath, a mess of snot and tears and mascara rivers.

I squeeze back Hades' hand and let myself break down.

I'm back.

I needed to learn. It's both a blessing and a curse to be the incarnation of Wisdom and War. Violence is a part of me, but resorting to it have always felt like failing.

As humans multiplied, violence and war were everywhere. I did all I could, but your wars drained me.

By becoming too involved in your conflicts, I ended up forgetting my nature.

I wanted to end you, wipe you off, so we could have some peace. But some of my kind wouldn't let that happen. They have different plans for you.

Since I couldn't end you, I had to find another way. I didn't understand you, and there were so many of you. I couldn't answer your calls. I needed to learn. I needed to experience the spectrum of human emotions. So I became one of you.

What I've learned is that you are, indeed, insignificant. Earth would be a more peaceful place without you.

You can kill, rape, torture, bully, kidnap, mutilate, harass, enslave...

In other words, you are just like us.

But you are also capable of love. I've seen that. I've felt that.

Learning time is over, now. Dark times are ahead.

More wars are coming. Some of us are going to make sure they happen.

But I'll be there, humans.

I am Athena Parthenos.

I am Athena Nikè.

I am Athena Pallas, daughter of Zeus, niece of Hera, Hades, Hestia, Demeter and Poseidon, granddaughter of Chronos and Rhea, great-grand daughter of Gaia and Uranus.

I never had a mother, but I know motherly love.

I can't be hurt by human weapons, but I know the pain of blades and fists.

I can't get sick, but I know the misery of illness.

I don't age, but I know the affliction of old age.

I can't be killed, but I know what death feels like.

I am ready. I hope you are too.

#writers #writers on tumblr #my writing #writers of horror #greek mythology #hades #hera #ignisaurumprobat19 #sixpenceee #that's some sixpenceee shit

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