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a-silent-symphony · 2 days

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"Things have always been ****ed up." How death, cancer and a whole pandemic helped make Yesterwynde the most optimistic Nightwish album yet

Tuomas Holopainen was a teenage misanthrope. Growing up in the small Finnish town of Kitee, he had the regulation all-black wardrobe and the soundtrack to match. “I did not use to be an optimistic person when I was younger,” he says. “I loved black metal and all that. But I started to come to the realisation that things have always been fucked up, but we’re still going for the better despite the horrible things that are going on in the world.”

We’re sitting in a suite in an upscale Berlin hotel, as mid-morning traffic flows along Potsdamer Platz several storeys below us. Literally as we talk, unthinkable things are happening all around the world: war, abuse, torture, murder, wilful destruction of the climate. The grim realities of humanity in 2024, basically.

But right here, right now, all that seems a long way away. Not because Nightwish’s keyboard player and band leader is in epic denial mode, but because his band’s 10th album, Yesterwynde, is charged with emotion: hope, beauty, positivity and, yes, optimism.

It’s an unexpected choice on more than one level. Aside from the rolling catastrophe that is the 21st century, Nightwish themselves have been battered by turmoil over the past few years. Their last album, 2020’s Human. :II: Nature., was released during the first, intense throes of the pandemic, scuppering their plans to tour it. When they did return to the road in May 2021, it was without longtime bassist Marko Hietala, who cited a mixture of long-standing depression and disillusion with the music industry for his decision to leave the band.

On a personal level, things have been no less turbulent. In 2022, singer Floor Jansen revealed that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer (she was given the all-clear following surgery). In June 2023, the singer – pregnant with her second child – collapsed with exhaustion following a Nightwish show in Finland, prompting the cancellation of two subsequent solo gigs. Amid all this, Tuomas’s father, Pentti Holopainen, passed away in 2021.

Other bands may have buckled under the battering of the last few years, but Nightwish – and specifically Tuomas as their chief songwriter – have taken a different path. Rather than wallowing in trauma, Yesterwynde pushes back against it. The 12-track album covers a lot of emotional ground across its 69 minutes, but the overwhelming sense is that, honestly, everything is going to be OK. “Yesterwynde has a very optimistic vibe to it,” says Tuomas. “It celebrates life and humanity and mortality. The important things.”

Yesterwynde begins and ends with the sound of an old film projector starting up and winding down. It suggests a movie is playing out in between. What exactly that movie is, Tuomas Holopainen isn’t letting on. “It’s something different for everybody,” he says, smiling but evasive. Musically, Yesterwynde is everything we have come to expect from Nightwish, only more. One song, the hyper- dramatic An Ocean Of Strange Islands, features over 600 studio tracks and sounds like it. Another, The Children Of ’Ata, was inspired by the real-life story of a group of teens from Tonga stranded for 15 months on a remote island in the Pacific, and features five indigenous Tongan singers. Elsewhere, Yesterwynde features two separate choirs – one classical, one kids – and three different orchestras, all recorded in London’s prestigious Abbey Road Studios, naturally. There are no side-long epics – only two tracks, An Ocean Of Strange Islands and first single Perfume Of The Timeless, stretch beyond eight minutes – but it still feels bigger, bolder and more grandiose than anything else out there right now.

But amid the dramatic power and intricacy, there’s the emotional core that sets Nightwish apart from every corset-clad knock-off that has followed in their wake. That emotion is conveyed by both the music and Floor Jansen’s career-best vocal performance (as on the two other Nightwish albums she’s been involved in, the Dutch native is joined on singing duties by multi-instrumentalist/resident Brit Troy Donockley). Loss, grief, the existential fragility of humanity and the hope it inspires: it’s all there.

There’s one problem. Literally seconds before we step into the lift to go up to meet Tuomas, a rep for Nightwish’s label makes it clear that he will not talk about the death of his father. On the one hand, this is understandable, even admirable – privacy is a scarce commodity these days, and there’s something to be said for not laying everything out for public consumption. On the other, it’s frustrating – death and birth both play into the big, interlocking themes of Yesterwynde, namely the passage of time and the unfolding of history, and how both make us aware of our own mortality.

This is clearest of all on the album’s closing track, Lanternlight, a moving yet celebratory lament for those who are no longer with us. ‘Gone is the hurt, the wait / Gone is the warmth of day,’ Floor sings. And later: ‘To the meadows I go / I’ll be waiting for you.’ Tuomas won’t say whether it was inspired by the death of his father – “I lost something very dear to me a few years ago, and this song was born out of that emotion,” he offers opaquely – but it’s hard not to join the dots.

“The major theme of the album is time – going back in time, recognising your own mortality,” he says. “Connecting to the past.” The past seems appealing, given how shitty the world is at the moment. “Yeah, it is,” he concedes. “But it’s also incredibly good in many ways. And in many ways it’s better – the innovations of science and medicine, the child death rate... A small example: would you rather go to the dentist today or a hundred years ago? “I want to emphasise that I’m not immune to the bad stuff that’s going on in the world. I’m aware of it and I do everything I can to help. But I think it’s good for our mental state to recognise the good stuff. And I think that we have the chance as a species to survive and get together. That’s the core message, the essence, of Yesterwynde.”

Like so many things, Yesterwynde was born out of the pandemic. The seeds for the album were sown after the tour in support of Human. :II: Nature. was postponed due to Covid. “Suddenly I had nothing to do,” says Tuomas. “So I thought I’d better start writing songs for the next Nightwish album.”

For Floor, the experience of making her third Nightwish album was unlike that of making Human. :II: Nature. or its predecessor, 2015’s Endless Forms Most Beautiful. “It was different for me,” she says. “Not bad, not at all, but different.” It’s a few weeks after we met Tuomas in Berlin. We’re sitting backstage at Muziekgebouw, a concrete concert hall in the Dutch city of Eindhoven, where Floor is due to play a show in support of her 2023 solo album, Paragon, later this evening. She’s not alone: her eight-month-old baby daughter, Lucy, is here too, unknowingly sitting in on the interview and letting her mum know when she’s hungry.

Just like many things that emerged from the pandemic, Yesterwynde began in isolation. Tuomas began writing the songs at home in Finland while his bandmates were busy dealing with their own lives. The rest of Nightwish knew he was writing something, but they didn’t know what. “He didn’t email us saying, ‘This is what I’ve written today,’” says Floor. “He doesn’t like sharing snippets, he likes to share the whole thing. But we knew he was inspired.”

The first time Floor heard the new songs Tuomas had written was during Nightwish’s festival run in the summer of 2022, after touring had properly resumed. “Imagine us all gathered in a hotel room, everybody has brought a drink or two, or three, sometimes the minibar is emptied,” says Floor. “Tuomas would play us the music – we didn’t listen to all the songs at once, that would’ve been too much. He’d explain what the songs were about – he’d start off by telling us very little, letting the music speak for itself, but he’d start to go into the depths of what inspired him.”

At this stage, there were no vocals on the record, just piano melodies in their place. But Tuomas would sometimes sing along as the demo played. Floor made voice recordings on her phone to help her understand what the songs were about and ensure she could connect with the emotions in them. “I’m sure he hopes I never put them on the internet,” she says playfully.

Floor’s personal circumstances meant the recording process was different too. Her pregnancy meant she was unable to join the rest of the band at the campsite in Kitee they’ve used for several albums now to rehearse the songs for Yesterwynde. It also meant she recorded her vocals at home in Sweden, where she lives with her husband, Sabaton drummer Hannes Van Dahl (Tuomas was there for the sessions).

“I was pregnant, and before that there was the cancer, and then I had my baby and I was just really, really fucking tired, so I wasn’t there like I had been in the past,” she says. “The connection to the album is much less than it was before, because we haven’t been spending as much crazy time together as we usually would. That doesn’t mean I don’t give a shit – quite the opposite – but I’m still growing into what it means, and what it means to me.”

What song hit you the hardest the first time you heard it? “The last song on the album [Lanternlight] hit me the most,” she says. “When I heard that the first time – he explained what it was about, this song he wrote for his father – it went straight to my heart. It was so beautiful, even in demo form. I sat there crying.”

Even without the pandemic, the last few years have been a rollercoaster for Floor. There was her well-documented diagnosis with and subsequent recovery from breast cancer, followed by her pregnancy. It culminated in her collapse from exhaustion following a Nightwish show in June 2023, while pregnant (thankfully, both Floor and her unborn daughter were fine). Two solo shows were cancelled in the wake of the latter, though no one would have blamed her if she’d walked away from it all for good.

“No, no, I just had to quit for a couple of months,” she says, meaning the heavy workload. “Did I ever think of quitting for good? No, never.” Hearing her talk, it sounds like Floor is in a unique position: a key part of Yesterwynde, undoubtedly, but also someone with a little distance, who is still learning its deeper meanings. What does the album mean to her right now?

“To me, it’s a continuous awareness about the beauty of the planet we’re on and the positivity of us as a species. We get all this negative feedback about killing the planet and hurting each other, and all of that is unfortunately true. But there’s also a lot of beauty to it – humanity has achieved amazing things throughout history, and we should remind ourselves of that. That is sometimes forgotten in the speed of the life we live today.”

For all Yesterwynde’s against-the-grain optimism, Tuomas Holopainen is as aware as anyone of the grim realities of the world in 2024. That was brought home in the wake of Vladimir Putin’s illegal invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, when there were fears that Russia’s neighbour, Finland, could be next.

“Not fear, but an awareness,” he counters. “I haven’t felt afraid, not once, even though I live less than 10 kilometres from the Russian border. But we have such a good defence that he is not going to come after us.”

He seems equally unflappable when it comes to matters closer to his band. Earlier this year, original Nightwish singer Tarja Turunen – who was acrimoniously and very publicly fired from the band in 2005 – and former bassist Marko Hietala reunited to tour together and release a joint single, Left On Mars. If it feels like a slap in the face for Tuomas, he hides it well.

“Honestly, I don’t care at all,” he says. “It doesn’t move me in any direction that they have found each other. They can play and perform as many Nightwish songs as they want, it doesn’t bother me one bit.” Have you spoken to Marko since he left? ‘A couple of times.” Are you on good terms? "Yes. There’s no bad blood between us. His leaving was his decision. I was actually quite taken by the fact that in the first interview he gave after he left the band, he said, ‘Don’t anybody dare to put this on Tuomas. This was my decision.’”

You’ve talked about the passage of time. Do you miss the friendships you once had with Tarja and Marko? “I remember the best of times we had, with Tarja and Marko. I’m filled with nostalgia and warmth when I think about the latter half of 2004, for example, which was one of the best times Nightwish ever had, right after the release of the Once album and the European tour. It was just wonderful. But my life is in such a good place at the moment that it’s no more than a whiff of nostalgia.”

That sense of nostalgia is threaded through Yesterwynde, linking the past to the present. But what about the future? For Nightwish, that future seems to be tinged with a degree of uncertainty. In April 2023, they announced in a statement that the band would not be touring their next album – a huge deal for a band whose epic live shows match the grandeur of their music. That decision still stands today. Tuomas is insistent that there will be no live shows in support of Yesterwynde, though he politely but firmly refuses to reveal why.

“The reasons are personal, we’re not going to go into it, but it was something that had to be done for this band to continue,” he says, cryptically. “There’s no bad blood between the members, nothing like that. We just have to take a long breather.” Are there any plans to do anything around the album? A live stream? “We will have something planned, which is not playing music but something else.” Which is? “I can’t say, because we don’t know right now,” he says, unconvincingly. “But there are still things happening.”

Backstage in Eindhoven a few weeks later, Floor is equally unwilling to divulge the reasons behind the decision, though she seems to have a slightly different view of it. “The whole idea of not touring... it’s not mine,” she says. “I wish we could continue, but it’s a mutual decision. Everything with Nightwish, we’ve done with 120%, but if you don’t have the energy to do that, it’s better to take a break.”

Not having to tour for months on end does have its upsides. Tuomas says he’ll spend the time working on a new record from Auri, the side-project featuring his wife Johanna and Nightwish’s Troy Donockley. Floor will likewise use the opportunity to spend time with her family and work on her second solo album.

Both insist that the lack of a tour in support of Yesterwynde doesn’t mean that Nightwish are coming to the end of the road. Tuomas points to the fact that they’ve just signed a new deal with their label, Nuclear Blast, as “evidence there are going to be more albums in future”.

“I’ve seen a lot of reactions, people drawing conclusions,” says Floor. “Making an elephant out of a mosquito, as the Dutch say – making something much bigger than it actually is. It’s not the end of the band, I’m not going to leave, nobody’s angry at each other. There’s a lot of drama been added to this – it’s bad enough that we’re not playing, but there’s nothing more to it.”

In many ways, making such a monumental album as Yesterwynde, and then opting not to tour it, is a very Nightwish thing to do. This is a band who have always followed their own path, even – especially – when it’s flown in the face of popular trends. They’ve watched nu metal, the NWOAHM and the mid-00s emo scene rise, fall and rise again while their own career has followed an unbroken upwards trajectory.

But Nightwish exist entirely in a universe of Tuomas’s own creation. Ask him if he listens to Sleep Token or any of the crop of modern bands currently taking metal in interesting new directions, and he shakes his head.

“No. I don’t listen to music at all anymore, practically. I haven’t for 10 years. I enjoy silence much more these days. Maybe I had an overdose of it for the first 35 years of my life. I’ve heard of the bands you mentioned, but I don’t actively listen to music at all. Though I just heard that My Dying Bride are coming out with a new album. I’ll definitely check that out,” he adds wryly.

Earlier, he’d talked a little more about the imaginary movie that starts and finishes at either end of Yesterwynde. Or, more specifically, the one that runs in his head.

“It’s a very unique one,” he says after a moment’s pause. “I’ve come to realise how incredibly lucky we are to be alive. It’s ridiculous, the odds that we are all here. We should celebrate it.”

#nightwish #yesterwynde

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dont-offend-the-bees · 3 months

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Oh, Lonely Bones, Have You Forgotten? Chapter One

First DBDA multichapter, yay! let's hope I finish it 😅 Nah should be fine, I already know exactly what happens, just gotta get it on the page! The ending will be happy, but there WILL be angst along the way, please heed the tags/warnings!

WARNINGS: This fic references or directly addresses traumas from the characters' pasts. So that's of course bullying, abuse, homophobia, hate crimes, death etc. There's also a very, very brief reference to a possibly creepy teacher eyeing up Edwin (more on that in the end notes), but nothing comes of it, it's just part of the tapestry of his shitty school experiences. Death, loneliness, abandonment, touch starvation, along with morbid things like burials and bodies and bones are core themes of this fic. The ending will be happy eventually but we WILL have a sad ride to get there. So please be aware of that before reading.

I'd like to shout out my bestie kieren-fucking-walker/electricteatime for the absolutely banger headcanon about Charles sometimes manifesting his trauma by getting really cold/his breath misting. It's such a visually cool and emotionally rich idea and the show SHOULD have done it. Chapter one is 6.6k. Chapters 2/3 coming soon (hopefully). Also on Ao3 (need to be signed in to read)

“I don’t like this, mate,” Charles muttered.

“No,” Edwin agreed, gravely. “Nor do I.”

Frankly, taking this case was probably an unwise decision. The meagre payment offered by the sickly-looking ghost of the old groundskeeper would fall far, far short of the emotional cost of the expedition. And yet when Edwin had looked over to Charles and met his eyes, there had been no doubt, no hesitation. Perhaps it was the notion of unfinished business; that mysterious force that compelled ghosts to sites of personal trauma as sirens compelled sailors to the unforgiving rocks. Perhaps they were both mere gluttons for punishment.

Either way, they were here now. It was with heavy hearts and wary eyes that on the evening of June twenty-sixth, Edwin and Charles – along with Crystal – set foot once more on the grounds of St. Hilarion's School for Boys.

"So what are we looking for, exactly?" asked Crystal, ever practical. She'd been inordinately serious today, clear-headed and straightforward. Taking pains to rein in her more combustible tendencies. She'd also been casting worried glances at him and Charles all day. Edwin was trying to take the gesture in the spirit in which it was intended. Even if it did make him feel like a mad old maid, half-expected to succumb to hysterics at the drop of a hat.

"We've no way to know for sure," said Edwin. His eyes flickered to the imposing main doors, then upwards, scanning each storey window by window. It was well past lights out, but a single lamp glowed through from the third floor, east wing. The dorms. Most likely the night steward, on the listen for boys up and about and causing mischief. In Edwin's short and tragic experience, such staff were not the most effective of deterrents. Still, best avoided. They didn't want to call attention to themselves.

He flipped to his notes from their client interview. "The groundskeeper reported a low, continuous droning sound, along with unease, malaise, and a sense of being... 'called' to."

"Any words? Phrases?" asked Charles. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boxer. His tension was audible as well as visible – Edwin could hear the subtle clenching of his jaw where it clipped his words. "No spooky voices whispering 'come to the cellar?'"

"No, nothing so helpful as that, I'm afraid."

"So what's the plan?"

"We begin searching for causes or disturbances in a methodical fashion," said Edwin, putting his notebook away. "I suggest we leave bedrooms and dormitories for last, to minimise the risk of interruptions. Crystal, you'd best wait outside until we call you. If anyone wakes you're more likely to be seen; not to mention liable to stand out. This is a boys' school, after all."

Crystal looked unhappy about it, but for once didn't rush to argue his logic. "I don't know. Are you guys gonna be... you know...?"

"We'll be fine, Crys," said Charles, giving her a strained smile and a pat on the shoulder. "Got each other, don't we?"

"Yeah – in the place you both got killed," she said. "You really shouldn't be back here."

Edwin rather agreed with her. And yet, undeniably, he still felt that strange, morbid draw that had coaxed him into accepting the case. There was a mystery afoot, and he and Charles would answer the call. "We'll be quite alright, I'm sure. With any luck, this will be a flying visit. Back in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Charles, have you the torches?"

"Yeah, just a tick." Charles crouched down and riffled through his backpack, disappearing up to the shoulder in its daunting expanse. "Better be careful with them, eh? Try not to flash 'em about too much, make anyone come looking."

"Agreed. For empty rooms only – we'll switch them off at the first sign of footsteps."

"Here we go." Charles handed the two stout electric torches up to Edwin. "Oh! Got something else, too." He dove back in, and re-emerged holding three black plastic blocks. He passed one each to Edwin and Crystal with a grin. "So we can stay in touch with Crystal – and each other, 'case we get split up."

Edwin sincerely hoped such a thing wouldn't come to pass. But he inspected the device with curiosity, its buttons and mesh panel and its little protruding antenna. "Oh. This is one of those... portable radio contraptions."

"Walkie talkies," Charles corrected. He held down the yellow button on his device and a babble of static erupted from the speaker. "Hold the button to talk, yeah?" His voice rattled out through Edwin and Crystal's handsets.

"We gotta get you guys cellphones," Crystal muttered.

"Excellent idea, Charles," said Edwin, ignoring her comment. "But I'd advise against using these except in cases of emergency. The noise could alert people to our presence."

Charles gave a lax salute, and tucked his handset into his coat.

"I really don't like you guys going in there alone," said Crystal, crossing her arms.

"I know," said Charles. "But you get it, yeah?"

A moment of tense silence passed between the three of them; the school looming at their back like a slumbering monster. Inside that building lay several dorms full of teenage boys. Different boys than from Charles and Edwin's times, but alike in breeding, in privilege and temperament. Those boys had tormented Edwin for his mannerisms, and beaten Charles to death for daring to do the right thing – undoubtedly, his parentage had also factored into their violent recourse.

None of them stated their precise fears out loud. The fear of what could transpire if a lone, dark-skinned teenage girl were to find herself in the belly of this particular beast in the dead of night. Even one with considerable psychic powers and two ghost bodyguards at her disposal. No one said a word, but the possibilities hung over their heads like a dark cloud nonetheless.

Perhaps it was an ungenerous thought, to imagine a school full of modern boys could devolve so abruptly into The Lord of the Flies. But Edwin wasn't prepared to roll those dice with his friend's safety. Against his own better judgement, he'd grown... fond of Crystal Palace. He shouldn't like to see her hurt, or killed. In fact, at the risk of sounding overly sentimental, he'd be most perturbed by such a thing.

Crystal sighed. "Yeah. Fine. I get it. Just..." She lurched forward and wrapped her arms around Charles, tightly. "Be careful. Okay?"

"I'm always careful!" he lied, a smile in his voice. It didn't match his face which, thankfully, was hidden from her view in her hair. But Edwin could see it; Charles' careful mask, knocked askew.

He averted his eyes.

Crystal snorted. "Great. Thanks. Makes me feel way better." She broke away from Charles and looked at Edwin, who took a reflexive step back. "I know, I know – no hugs," she said with a roll of her eyes. She compromised by giving his upper arm a firm squeeze instead. "Don't die. Again."

"We'll do our level best," said Edwin, patting the back of her hand briskly. "Now, we really must away – while we have the night on our side."

"There's some pretty dense trees off that way," said Crystal, gesturing. "I'm gonna wait there, should be easy to stay out of sight – hopefully it's close enough to stay in walkie range."

Charles stiffened. "The trees... near the lake?"

"Uh. Yeah, why?"

Edwin watched him closely.

Charles shook his head. "Nah, don't matter. Just – stay safe, yeah?"

"You too." She looked between them. "Hey... look after each other. Okay?"

Charles glanced at Edwin, and his posture softened. "Yeah," he said, with the shadow of a gentle smile. "Always do."

That assurance, at least, was not a lie.

"Charles, we're wasting time," Edwin hissed. Honestly – five minutes into their investigation and they hadn't even made it inside the building, yet! "We can simply walk through this door and bypass the lock altogether."

Charles didn't spare him a glance, preoccupied as he was squatting on the doorstep with his lockpicks across his knee. He'd been faffing with the old iron lock on the main doors to no avail for some time. "Yeah, but what if we've gotta call Crystal in to help us out right quick? Dunno if her psychic powers stretch to door hypnotism." He tossed Edwin a cheeky grin. "Only polite to open doors for ladies, innit?"

Edwin, unable to argue the logic or the etiquette, settled for squeezing his fists together and lurking discontentedly. So far he'd not heard the droning the groundskeeper had spoken of, nor felt any ominous supernatural feelings. At least, he assumed he hadn't. But it was a mite hard to focus on anything besides his own anxiety at being back in this place after so many years. Hard to differentiate between personal discomfort and something more sinister.

The lock gave a promising click, and Charles grinned. "Abracadabra."

Edwin stopped his hand when it went to turn the handle. "Best not. We mustn’t announce ourselves."

"Yeah. Yeah, good point." Charles straightened up, tucking his lockpicks away. "So. Hop right on through, then?"

"Indeed."

Charles' jaw gave a nervous tic. "...On three?"

"...Yes. yes, on three." Edwin braced himself. "One..."

"Two..." said Charles, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Three!"

Their voices joined on the final count; and together they stepped through the ancient, unyielding oak, and into the hall within.

"Oh," Edwin exhaled, taking in the great hall with darting eyes.

"Huh," said Charles, squinting. "Thought it would look... different."

"You took the words right out of my mouth."

The entry hall had changed very little from Edwin's day – and by extension Charles'. Evidently, money and care had been put into the upkeep of the place; Edwin had spotted a plaque on the outside labelling it a registered building. Biggest change to speak of was the burgundy carpet now covering the floor; to protect the old boards from the footfall of thundering teenage boys, no doubt. Other changes were limited to minor modern conveniences. A plastic hand sanitiser dispenser beside the door. A corkboard papered over with glossy flyers for local sports and after school clubs. They surely must have updated the lighting, as well, but he and Charles weren't to benefit at this time for obvious reasons.

The familiarity was unsettling, to say the least. Like stepping back through the decades, into a time he'd gladly leave behind for good. Edwin cleared his throat, and straightened his jacket. "Well. I suppose we must set to. We're wasting the night."

"Where d'you wanna start?"

Edwin pulled out his notebook. He had notes and sketches in there based upon the floor plan that Crystal had sourced via her miraculous internet. Though he suspected he wouldn't need them. Already the sprawling skeleton of this old haunt was reassembling itself in his mind's eye. "It is as I said. We'll scour the lower levels, then work our way up." He furrowed his brow. "Strictly speaking, we should have started lower. This is the first floor, thanks to the stairs outside the main doors – the ground floor is below us, but it's mostly utilities. Kitchens, laundry, storage. Still, we shouldn't rule out that something of import could be down there."

"Easily solved." Charles got down on his knee and stooped, until he could press his forehead to the floor. Then he kept pressing forward, bent double with his backside in the air, and his incorporeal head bobbed through the carpet. Like an ostrich in the sand.

"Laundry room," he called, voice muffled by carpet and floorboards. "No one there. Should be safe to drop right through."

With a fond smile at Charles' bobbing back end, Edwin steepled his fingers. "A quick detour, then," he said, and hopped neatly through the floor and into the room below.

An unnecessary detour, as it turned out. But attention to detail was a key part of any detective's toolbox. After scouring the warren of utilities, they rejoined the first floor via a small service staircase between the kitchen and the mess hall.

"Ugh," said Charles, wrinkling his nose as he investigated the new (since Edwin's time) glass-fronted serving station. "Can't believe the last thing I ever ate was school dinner. Didn't even finish it, it was that rank.

Edwin blinked at him, pausing in his inspection of the head table. "You were permitted to leave food on your plate? They excused you?"

"...I mean. Yeah?"

"Goodness," Edwin chuckled, shaking his head. "What a liberal time you lived in."

"Not that liberal, mate. Got beaten to death, remember?"

Edwin smirked. "Perhaps if you'd been disallowed from leaving until you'd cleared your plate, you might not have found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time."

His deadpan achieved the desired effect. Charles laughed, a bright spot in the dreary gloom. "Right. Brills. Bob back in time and tell myself to choke down the sweetcorn, then."

"Wise course of action."

"Right." Charles lifted the lid of a pot that someone had forgotten to clear away, and mock-gagged. "Nope. Not worth it. I'll take death, cheers."

The dining hall turned up nothing. Nor did any of the offices, lounges and staff rooms. Their exploration of the first floor came and went with no discoveries or fanfare, and soon it came time to move on. To the central staircase, and the second floor where the majority of the classrooms presided.

Edwin felt his apprehension mounting with every step. Two floors of fruitless searching was starting to irk and unsettle him. He longed for something decisive; a supernatural feeling, an apparition, even a blood-curdling scream. It felt worse to worry incessantly with no stimulus, unable to prove there was anything amiss outside of his own childish fears.

"They've replaced the blackboards," Edwin commented upon entering the first room. Craving a discovery, a distraction, anything.

"Oh. Yeah, I remember – they started switching them out my last year here. Headmaster was mad about these shiny new things. Probably got whiteboards in every room, now." Charles squinted at the plastic panel with its chunky black frame. "These ones look different to what I remember, mind."

"What do you write on them with?"

"Pens. Special pens, like."

"Hm. Probably for the best. Chalk dust was bothersome. I always developed the most wretched cough when it was my turn to beat the erasers." Edwin found the pens attached to the board and picked one up. "Let's see. No lid..." He tried an experimental scribble. "And not a drop of ink. Dry as a bone." He eyed the branding on the whiteboard's frame, sceptical. "Smart Board, indeed."

"Don't think there's anything in here. Unless we're looking for something sucks the ink out of whiteboard markers." Charles took the pen from Edwin's hand, turning it over and inspecting it. "What d'you think? Some sort of ink vampire?" he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Don't see any fang punctures."

"I hardly think an ink vampire is what we're looking for," said Edwin, activating his torch and sweeping it in a wide arc. The abandoned classroom came into hazy, yellow-tinged relief under his beam. This had once been his English room, many decades ago. Save for the impractical board, it remained largely unchanged – although the wooden chairs had been replaced with ones of metal and plastic. The bookshelves at the back of the room remained in situ; the thick, leather-bound volumes of Edwin's time supplanted by new editions with glossy cardboard covers.

Edwin hadn't much cared for his English lessons. He was good at them, of course, and he loved reading. Since escaping hell, he'd revisited a number of the books he'd once studied. But his heart had always sunk whenever he was called on to stand before the board and read aloud for the class. The snickers and guffaws of the other boys, the mean-spirited whispers and unsubtle name-calling. The nancy boy's, the Mary Ann's, and far worse when teacher's back was turned. God forbid he was asked to read a sonnet.

The sting of the memory hadn't faded with time, but had taken on some light and shade in the wake of his travails in hell. In the jeering blur of faces, he could imagine Simon's swimming into focus. Was that mockery in his eyes, or pity? Recognition? And was he really the only one? The only other boy in that room who'd wanted to reach out to Edwin, and felt compelled to push him away instead?

How many of them had passed through this room, like living ghosts, lost to time and to shame?

A cold, iron fist of grief clutched him by the throat. So tangible it damn near bowled him over. He caught himself on a desk, lest he lose his grip on the physical plain and plummet through the very floor.

"Edwin?!" Charles was beside him in an instant, hand on Edwin's back. "Edwin, what's the matter?"

Edwin screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head. Trying in vain to dislodge the ice that had seized upon his very soul, but it held him fast. He shivered, and Charles rubbed his back as if Edwin could feel it; as if he could coax the warmth back into a dead, frozen thing.

"There's... there's something wrong," Edwin bit out – alarmed at the resistance he faced. It felt like he had to force the words through chattering teeth. "Do you feel it?"

Charles hesitated, before exhaling a shuddering breath. "Thought it was just me," he said quietly. "Y'know. How I get."

Ghosts were beings of trauma – and dying of hypothermia was fairly traumatic, to say the least. Charles couldn't feel warmth anymore, but he could certainly feel cold; and in times of distress it seemed to shroud him, clouding his speech in icy vapour.

A small pang of guilt pierced Edwin like a thorn; perhaps Charles had already been feeling the chill for some time, and hadn't deemed it worth a mention.

"No. No, it's not just you," said Edwin, reaching back to pat Charles on the arm with a hand that felt like a block of ice. "It's not just you at all."

Charles gave a lopsided, flimsy smile. "Dead comforting, mate. Come on, let's get you up. There we go."

With Charles' support, Edwin managed to regain his footing, but the feeling remained. It had settled upon his essence like a dense snowfall; all-shrouding, all-permeating. Chilling him to the figurative marrow.

"D'you think this is it? What that bloke was on about?" asked Charles, jerking his shoulders, rubbing his arms.

"Struggling to see what else it could be. Although he said nothing about a sense of cold..." Edwin rubbed his head, trying to think past the immediate, intense discomfort. An image came to mind, unbidden, of Niko across from him at a café table. The drinking straw dropping from her lips, her entire face crumpling as she clutched her head and cried out "brain freeze!". Had he any inkling of how distressing the sensation was, he might've said something more consolatory than he had at the time.

The secondary knife of grief at recalling her face twisted itself deep in his back, pressing so hard on his shoulders his knees nearly buckled.

"Well," he said, strained. "At least we know we're not on a wild goose chase. There's definitely something here." He rubbed his gloved hands together. A peculiarly vivid, instinctual muscle memory, leftover from the days when cold wasn't a distant memory. "We must continue the search. Let us check the desks while we're in here."

Charles gave a sharp nod, his face drawn, the first phantom wisps of breath creeping from his lips. Normally, Edwin would have offered his own coat to fend off the psychic, psychosomatic chill by now. But with Edwin likewise affected, it felt like any attempt to shrug out of the garment would be met by cracking and splintering. Spectral wool rendered asunder by devouring ice. For the first time, they were each as incapacitated as the other. Not a drop of warmth between their two dead, insubstantial forms to make a dent in the frost.

But their hands found one another, nonetheless. And it did make him feel better, warmer, even only infinitesimally.

There was something to be said for the placebo effect.

It was a long shot, hoping they might happen across some kind of obvious cursed artefact or hex doll in a pupil's desk in the first classroom they searched. Still, best to leave no stone unturned. In they end they had to concede that whatever it was they were looking for, they weren't going to find it in the English room.

They passed through the other classrooms in a similar fashion. Each presenting them with no evidence, but an abundance of unwelcome memories. The maths room, where Edwin had acquired a small scar on his jaw from a compass flung in his direction. The geography room, where he'd once been soundly caned for a book he'd 'defaced' – while the real culprits got off scot-free, of course. The old history study, where he'd often sought refuge of an evening. Where he'd tried to focus on the kindliness of the professor; and not on the unreadable, uncomfortable way he would sometimes sit and watch Edwin from across the room. Like he knew something about him. Like he had half a mind to bid him come closer.

The feeling, such as it was, seemed to bear down on them with every room checked, every memory unearthed. By the time they reached the stairs to the third floor, they were both near panting from exertion; wading through the empty corridors with all the ease of stomping through snow drifts.

"If it isn't even down here, what's it gonna be like when we're closer?" asked Charles, blowing on his hands and stomping his feet. He looked pale and peaky, his words and breaths escaping in ragged puffs of phantom condensation.

Edwin was faring no better. He felt tight in the chest, frayed in the nerves. The chill had penetrated so very deep, he had begun to hear it; like a cutting wind, like ice creaking under foot. Like a crackling, throbbing drone in the back of his consciousness.

There were two more floors of this wretched place left to investigate, and already he felt crushed under the avalanche of ill feeling and dreadful recollections. He was tired of dredging up things he'd worked for decades to put behind him. Tired of wading through this viscous mire of magic and memory. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be back at the agency, where it was calm and safe and the walls were imbued with a kinder history. He wanted to find whatever was causing this disturbance at once, and put this damnable case behind them!

He about-turned to face the end of the corridor – and there was the mirror. An ancient thing, ornate frame carved from finest mahogany. He remembered it well. A hundred years it must have stood there. More than a hundred – it had already been old in Edwin's time. It had survived well, save for a small patch of woodworm damage in the lower right corner. Edwin used to stand in front of it, sometimes, when the other boys were outside shooting clay pigeons or playing rugby. Used to gaze, forlorn, at his own reflection; wondering if there was a way to be anything but what he was.

There was no reflection now, of course. He'd seen his reflection only once in the last thirty-odd years; on his return to hell, his introduction to Lady Despair. He'd seen himself a hundred years on from this mirror, marred by filth and bloody gouges. So different to how he remembered. And yet still, always and forever, the same frightened little boy. Trapped and miserable; searching for a way out.

Don't... Don't...

A whisper on the gale, barely intelligible as words. Was the call coming from himself? Or from the thing they sought? It was impossible to know, but whatever it was, it was crying from the back of his soul. Clawing out, grasping for him with icy fingers of terror and desolation.

"Edwin?"

Charles' voice seemed to fade behind the whisper. Behind the steadily growing cacophony of creaking wood and shuddering glass. If this was real after all, and not just a trick of the mind, then this thing, whatever it was, could bring the entire blasted building tumbling down.

Edwin held his hand out to the mirror, no coherent thought behind the action. It was where he needed to be. Reaching out, reaching in, making contact with the space behind and between.

"Take me," he breathed. "Take me to the root of this."

"Edwin," Charles' voice came from far away. "Edwin, stop! You dunno what you're bloody walking into!"

No. He didn't know. But he needed to. He needed to find the cause, the catalyst, the beating heart under the floorboards. Needed to find the source of that cry – needed to know that it was external, and not a result of his own mind coming undone in this foul place. He reached to the mirror, through the mirror. Rigid glass parted for his fingers with a gentle ripple; the softly broken surface of a still pond. Calm waters, a silky embrace.

And then it gripped him tight, and dragged him under.

He was distantly aware of Charles' panicked cries, but they were cut off in moments as the mirror's surface froze over behind him.

Severed from the material plain, Edwin tumbled into freefall. Through that familiar trans-dimensional space behind the reflection; but it didn't feel familiar anymore. It felt tumultuous, violent. He toppled through the in-between space like Alice down the rabbit hole; twisted and turned, tossed from current to savage current. Beaten and battered from all sides by vigorous currents of nothing and everything and not-quite-almost-something. All the time followed by that whispering in his mind, growing in frequency and fervency: Don't. Don't. Don't leave...

And then he was through. Spat out without ceremony, without so much as a by-your-leave. He barely caught himself as he staggered back into the world – a cloud of thick, grey dust erupting under his skittering feet.

"Edwin?!"

Ah, there was Charles again. But he sounded different – smaller, further away, tinny. It took longer than Edwin would care to admit to realise he was hearing him through the walkie-talkie in his pocket.

"Edwin, where the fuck are you? The bloody mirror closed up behind you!"

Edwin fumbled for the device – an uphill struggle, with frozen fingers and a brain yet to cease spinning. It was even colder here, wherever here was. Sub-human temperatures. Had Edwin any blood, it would have flash-frozen in his veins. "Charles," he gasped, as he clumsily depressed the transmit button. "Charles, I'm here. I'm in one piece."

He released the button. Shortly afterwards, a static-clouded echo of Charles' incredulous laughter cut through the speaker.

"Oh, you fucking bastard," Charles blurted, with feeling. "You just went for it! You... you absolute wanker. We're meant to stick together, yeah? Fuck. Tell me where you are. What's it look like?"

"I'm..." Edwin blinked through the dust and dark, eyes adjusting. He didn't want to chance the torch until he knew for sure that he was alone. He squinted at the lines and surfaces illuminated by the feeble moonlight through the dirt-encrusted window. Piles of assorted dross and clutter, caked with dust. Ropes, shelves, broken chairs, ratty sports equipment and bedding...

Oh.

"Oh." He pressed the button. "Charles, I'm – I'm in the attic. The attic."

Charles' short, shocked breath whistled over the line. "Shit. Really?"

"Quite positive." He straightened up from his awkward stance, but couldn't find it in himself to dust off his coat. He moved stiffly, sluggishly; frozen down to his very ectoplasm. "Why would it bring me here...?"

"Edwin? Edwin, listen to me – just stay put, yeah?" Charles implored, his voice punctuated by hollow thumping. No doubt he was throwing himself up the stairs with reckless speed. "I'm coming to get you, I'm gonna leg it, just – don't move!"

"Don't wake up the entire school," Edwin countered, through chattering teeth. He received no response, so he put away the device with shaking hands and took stock of the situation. The space, like much of the school, had barely changed in the years since he'd last seen it. None of the clutter had been removed, only added to. New objects – including the large, cracked mirror Edwin had stumbled through – lay propped against the old. The only distinction between the two lay in the differing thickness of the covering dust.

He was alone, as far as he could tell. No people, no ghosts that he could see. But he didn't feel alone. He felt, in that sinking stone of dread in his stomach, that there was something else here. Something cold and desperate and far, far more lonely than he, and it was crying out to him. Tugging at his sleeve like a child. It wasn't a voice, as such, but it was a plea. It wanted him closer. It wanted him.

Don't move. Charles said not to move.

But his neck nonetheless craned of its own volition. Drawn towards the needling drone that he could neither hear not not hear. The sonorous buzz that cried out look at me look at me see me please see me. It seemed to grab him by the jaw and force his gaze over, over, to that same miserable pile of boxes and blankets where he'd once read Charles Rowland to his rest. No. No, not to the boxes or the blankets.

To the trunk.

He recalled it, dimly. The large black trunk with its brass clasps and corners. He'd perched atop it as he'd read to Charles. It still had his scrounged selection of dusty comics balanced on the lid.

The cry was coming from inside, he was certain of it.

Don't move. Don't move.

The floorboards groaned under his footsteps. He felt heavier, here. More tethered to the physical realm. To the strange call that gripped him by the collar and demanded he come closer, closer still. To the leather and wood under his gloved hands as he ran them over the chest, fingers trembling on the clasps.

Up close, the drone was no longer a drone. Had never been a drone. It was a rattle. A dry, endless rattle.

Wait for Charles. Please. Just wait for Charles.

Brass clicked. Leather creaked.

The trunk opened.

"Edwin?!"

Charles barrelled through the wall at speed, eyes wild, cricket bat brandished. He skidded to a halt that was near cartoonish; just before his momentum could carry him right across the small attic space and through the opposite wall.

It might have been amusing – were Edwin not currently beset by the notion that he may never laugh again so long as he continued to exist.

"Edwin?" Charles hollered. "Where are you?"

"I'm here." Edwin's voice was small, fragile despite his best efforts. He was struggling to support it.

Charles spun on his heel and dashed to Edwin's side. "Edwin! You scared the shit out of me! What're you thinking, blinking out on your own like that?!"

"I had a hunch. At least, I think I did..." He looked up – when had he sat down on the floor...? – and drank in the sight of Charles. He looked a bit like he might want to wallop Edwin with his cricket bat. Edwin had never seen a sweeter sight. "I'm sorry. You're right. I wasn't thinking."

Charles huffed, his face softened. "You? Not thinking?" Charles hunkered down beside him, bat across his knees, hand reaching out to palm across Edwin's shoulders. "What's going on with you, mate? I mean, I feel it too, but... it's really getting you, innit?"

"Yes," Edwin exhaled, voice shaking. "And I believe I know why."

"You found something?" Chales leaned in closer. "What? What did you find?"

Edwin closed his eyes, and slowly lifted the lid of the trunk once more. "Myself. In a manner of speaking."

He waited, focusing on the darkness behind his eyelids. He'd already seen the contents of the trunk, and he had no desire to see it again. No matter how mournful its cries to be seen.

A moment of silence passed, and then Charles swore, voice cracking around the expletive. "Oh, fuck. Edwin. Mate, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

The weight lifted from Edwin's hand as Charles took hold of the lid of the trunk. Edwin gratefully relinquished it.

"Did you know these were up here?" asked Charles. He sounded close to tears, close enough that Edwin almost opened his eyes to look. He couldn't bring himself to, in the end.

Edwin shook his head. "I wasn't even aware they still existed. When that demon took me, it felt like... like my entire being crumbled into nothing. There couldn't have been anything left. I was sure of it..."

"Are we sure they're..." Charles cleared his throat. "Um..."

"Mine? Yes. It's... difficult to explain, but I can... feel them." Edwin held up his hand, and even through his glove he felt an answering prickle in his palm. "Like they're trying to... pull me back in. Like they've been waiting for me."

"Have they just been here all this time?"

"My death was labelled a disappearance. No remains. So... yes. I fear so." He breathed out a ragged sigh, turning his head to Charles before he risked opening his eyes. "Whoever's responsible likely sequestered them up here at the earliest opportunity."

Charle visibly blanched. "So these were here? When we – when I...?"

"When you died. Yes." Out of the corner of his eye, a sickening blot of ivory white. He kept his gaze resolute, fixed on Charles and only Charles. "I suppose they were."

They sat in silence, staring; Edwin at Charles, Charles at the wretched horror they'd unearthed. Edwin found himself, for once, quite speechless. One's thoughts tended to scatter, when faced with the grim sight of one's own withered bones. Tucked out of sight and out of mind, piled into a trunk in an attic and forgotten like a former child's abandoned toys.

Charles sniffed, shrugging his shoulders sharply. "We can't just leave them here," he said, adamant. "We – we need to take them, yeah? Leave 'em on the coppers' doorstep, prove what happened here."

Edwin shook his head. "I disappeared in nineteen sixteen, Charles. Without a trace. The very definition of a cold case. I know there's been significant advancements in the forensic sciences, but even if they were to glean some evidence, what would they compare it to? What in the world is there left to connect these bones to me?"

"They'll find something."

"Next to impossible."

"Don't you want people to know, Edwin?" Charles burst out, turning to look at him at last. There was rage burning in his eyes, his voice straining under the force of it. Not rage at Edwin, he didn't think. Just at the situation, at the unfairness of it. Frustration bubbling over. "You said it yourself; no one ever solved our cases. You could be the first. Show everyone what goes on here, tear this fucking place down."

"And if nothing gets done, Charles?" Edwin snapped back. "We don’t trust the police for good reason. If we hand this new evidence to the them on a silver platter and they bury it again, what then?"

He regretted his outburst in an instant when Charles fell silent. Guilty, grief-stricken. It was a horrible expression on his face, far worse than the anger, and Edwin immediately despised himself for putting it there.

Edwin sighed. He couldn't look Charles in the eye. But he could reach out, tentatively nudge his hand with the back of his own. A little bit of the ugly rift healed when Charles accepted the olive branch without question. He wrapped his fingers around Edwin's and squeezed – for all the good it did them.

"My parents are long gone, Charles," said Edwin, when he'd gathered himself. He kept his eyes trained on Charles' thumb, and the way it traced small circles on the back of Edwin's hand. With their gloves in the way, Edwin could almost pretend that was the only reason he couldn't feel the gesture. "Every relative I ever knew, everyone who could possibly miss me. And the boys who did this..."

He thought of the massacre that preceded his own abduction. Thought of Simon, rotting in that dingy pocket of hell, textbook pages tarred with tears and blood.

Edwin closed his eyes. "Everyone who could've been punished for this has been. I've... I've no more closure to gain."

The truth of the statement came as a surprise even to him, but he couldn't deny it. Everyone who would have cared to know what happened was long, long gone. The best he could hope for was a black mark on the school's record, a curious obituary in the local news.

Charles huffed, but he didn't argue again. "Alright. Alright, mate." He extracted his hand from Edwin's to put it on his neck, just briefly. Just holding his face a moment, almost as he had on that very long staircase some months ago. He cracked a barely-there smile. "It's your bones, innit? Your rules."

Edwin returned it, weak, but grateful. Too exhausted even to think about their proximity, about the intimacy of the gesture. He hadn't a single thought except for how dearly he'd like to sink into it and let Charles carry him, now. Let him take over, just for a little while.

"We can't just leave 'em here, though," said Charles, with a glance daring Edwin to argue.

"No," Edwin agreed, somewhat feeble. He didn't want to look at them; and yet, paradoxically, he'd never wanted to look at anything more. He looked at Charles instead, drawing comfort from his familiar countenance. "No, I suppose we can't."

Charles stared into the trunk a moment longer, a soft, ethereal glow playing on his fine features. Why the bones seemed to be possessed of their own faint light, Edwin couldn't possibly begin to guess. Nor could he guess why they'd altered the spectral temperature so drastically. Or why the chill had alleviated somewhat, the very moment he'd opened the box and looked upon them. Under Charles' gaze, the thaw was even more profound. Edwin could almost be fooled into thinking himself warm.

Upon looking away from the bones, Charles met Edwin's gaze. And he held it, steady as a rock, as he pulled his hand from Edwin's neck and reached into his own coat. A burst of static broke the silence.

"Crystal," said Charles, holding the walkie talkie up to his face. "Crystal, you hear me? Over."

"Yeah, Charles, I hear you," came her voice – the signal was weak, but stable enough. "And you don't actually have to say 'over'."

"What? 'Course I do, that's the whole point of – actually? Doesn't matter right now. Crys, need you to do us a favour. Go home."

"What–?!"

"Back to the office, I mean," he rushed out. "Run back and dig out that other mirror from the spare room. The proper big one, should be buried somewhere. Probably under the surfboards."

"You guys have surfboards...?" She made a noise of indignation. "Wait, and a spare room?! I slept on that stupid couch for two weeks!"

"Have a go at us later, yeah? Just – right now, please, go dig it out, and put it in the office, alright? Please, Crys." He scanned the trunk with his eyes. "Somewhere with lots of space in front."

"Ugh, fine. But Charles – what's going on?"

"We found what we were looking for." He closed his eyes, and then the trunk – and Edwin wondered if he, too, could hear the plaintive cry in the back of his mind when he fastened the clasps, committing the bones once more to darkness. "And we've got something important to shift. Over and out."

Reeeaaally hope you liked it! Any thoughts? I'm still in the process of pulling together the rest of the story, but I think it'll probs be 3 chapters overall, could really use the motivation to get the tricky second chapter into shape! Some commentary! - not much Crystal in this chapter but I promise more of her in 2/3! - writing them bobbing through floors and things was SO fun, I get that it adds a whole load of special effects they need to budget for but I think the show should have more fun with them walking through walls lmao - the weird history professor is kind of inspired by Hector from the History Boys. Which, if you've never seen it, is a play/movie about a bunch of boys whose favourite teacher is also, well, kind of a fucking creep. It's sort of a dark comedy and honestly just really interesting with the way it depicts this bizarre relationship, the way this person in these teens' lives is objectively doing something Shitty to them but he's still their favourite because he also supports them and inspires them and makes learning fun and, in Posner's case, makes him feel less alone in his queerness. I didn't put him in to imply that in the canon of this fic, Edwin has actually been sexually abused - but the Hector-type character slotted rather neatly into the strange culture of this setting and this era. It just added another little layer of tragedy I couldn't resist. Another queer person in Edwin's immediate vicinity, warped by the repression and loneliness of the time into another potential abuser/antagonist, and unfortunately irresistible despite the red flags. - as mentioned in the intro notes, s/o to Ande for the Charles' misty breath idea! It wasn't originally gonna feature in this fic but then it slotted in so perfectly I had to borrow it! Everyone say thank you Ande for immediately coming up with the most banger headcanons like 5mins into joining the fandom. - I know the popular headcanon is ghosts can't feel stuff but CAN feel other ghosts, and while I generally subscribe to that it doesn't fit this fic for Reasons. Bear with me! - the bones in the attic is from the comics. I haven't actually read the main DBDA comics, but I've read the issue of Sandman they initially appear in. I'm assuming the show isn't doing the bones in the attic, since it looks like Edwin disappeared completely and all the boys who sacrificed him got killed, but it had such delicious angst potential I wanted to do my own take on how it could work in the show and that's basically what kicked off this fic! The ideas have been developing as I write though and the shape has changed a lot from my initial idea! Anyway, that's enough out of me, I've babbled enough today 😅 But I hope you liked this, please consider dropping us a comment if you did! Or come talk to m, honestly, I'm just excited about these guys and wanna yap xD Hopefully get the next chapter out in the next couple of weeks or so, but chapter 2 is probs gonna be the most awkward one bc it's the one where my ideas need to most work to string together! Until next time! 💛

#dead boy detectives #dbda #edwin payne #charles rowland #payneland #my fanfic #i sunk a truly absurd amount of hours into editing this today dvjnbsdfd #please appreciate my efforts 💛#wanted to get something finished before i lose my entire weekend to sitting at a convention table!

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allthecanadianpolitics · 3 months

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A Winnipeg councillor is apologizing after an investigation found he breached conflict of interest rules last year when he voted to push through a development owned by his friend and former campaign manager, despite concerns from city planning officials. Coun. Markus Chambers (St. Norbert-Seine River) violated city council's code of conduct after he "influenced, discussed and voted on a decision regarding a matter in which he had a conflict of interest" last year, city integrity commissioner Sherri Walsh said in a June 6 report. Last June, Chambers and two other Riel community committee members voted unanimously against changes recommended by planners for a proposed five-storey, 152-unit apartment complex at 180 Creek Bend Rd., which is in his ward. Chambers, who also serves as acting deputy mayor and chair of the Winnipeg police board, failed to recuse himself or identify a personal relationship to one of the owners of the development, Amit Bindra, who spoke during a delegation to the committee, the report says. Council will decide on possible penalties for Chambers when the report is tabled next week, but Walsh recommends he make a public apology. Chambers confirmed to CBC on Saturday that he apologizes for the breach.

Tagging: @newsfromstolenland

#winnipeg #manitoba #cdnpoli #canadian politics #canadian news

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sonyaheaneyauthor · 3 months

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A two-storey house in Kharkiv, Ukraine after russian shelling over the night of 26th June 2022. X

#ukraine #russia #current events #on this day #war in ukraine #russian invasion #war crimes #russian invasion of ukraine #war in europe #june #genocide #kharkiv #2022 #2020s

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captainjunglegym · 6 months

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WIP Wednesday - 20/03/2024

wow first day of spring today!

tagged by @sunnysideprince @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @getmehighonmagic @wordsofhoneydew @eusuntgratie @anincompletelist love you guys.

So i posted an RPF today, you can find here: An invitation to join the club

I was hoping to have got more done of my AU where henry doesn't want kids. I'm not posting it chaptered bc its so angsty i thought i might as well post it all in one go. I thought i'd have something newer to post this week but i've been having a Bit Of A Time lately so its this fic again, soz. I promise i'll post it soon!!

If You're Not Made For Me (why did we fall in love)

Henry leans forward where he is sitting at the kitchen table and puts his head in his hands. Sometimes, Alex had said, I wish I’d never met you. Henry thinks back to their first meeting, when he’d fucked it all up with his grief. He thinks back to the night of their first kiss, out by the linden tree on new year’s, and the sound he heard of Alex’s feet treading on the soft snow and how he knew it was him, how it could’ve only been him. He imagines that night if it’d been different. Kissing Alex and having Alex rear back in confusion. He’d have been nice about it, Henry supposes. He’d have placated him and told him that he was flattered but he didn’t feel that way about Henry. He’d have looked deep into Henry’s tear stung eyes and seen the fear that Henry wore everyday back then, and he’d have been kind. That’s probably not what Alex meant. He probably meant that he wished he’d never had gone to the Rio Olympics, or never have spoken to him at Phillip’s wedding. The painful stark difference between the two of them is this: If Alex had never met Henry he’d have been fine. He’d be doing whatever, politics probably. He’d still have his sister and his friends and his life, and Henry would just be another headline in another newspaper or magazine that he’d laugh about with June, their heads bowed close as they mocked how terrible and boring he is. Henry would be nothing. Just a coat hanger for Barbour and Burberry, watching horses and kissing the cheeks of eligible women, of babies, of the elderly, cutting ribbons and opening museums and galleries and nothing nothing nothing. Just existing in his skin, too afraid to just run away and too surveilled to take the shortcut from his bedroom window to the concrete below and finding out the hard way if four storeys is enough to do you in.

no pressure tags under cut (i will get to everyone's tags they've left me over the last couple of days while i've been mia as well!):

@bigassbowlingballhead @littlemisskittentoes @thinkof-england @happiness-of-the-pursuit @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @sparklepocalypse @firenati0n @magicandarchery @nocoastposts and i've probs forgotten people bc i do this from memory but also open tag!!!

#writing tags

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jg-abuyuan-art · 1 month

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Vertical Empire (2024)

During my trip to the United States, my brother and I went to New York City to go sightseeing, with my cousin from New Jersey and his partner acting as guides. These photos represent the latter part of our trip around sunset. We hadn't the time to enter some of the sights ourselves due to time constraint. Some destinations had to be enjoyed from below.

This, of course, meant that vertical lines and three-point perspective are a key component in my shots. New York City, the city of dreams and memes that features heavily in a child's imagination was a surreal sight to behold, at once alien and (often pungently) familiar. Tall skyscrapers packed in a single space are not unfamiliar to me, as are streets caked in urine and filled with people even on a weekend. Still, it hits a little differently. One factor besides the is that some of the architecture is more varied, with some examples being as old or older than my grandparents.

The Novum Caput Mundi was one of the first cities to truly reach for the skies in North America since the Mesoamerican pyramids, and I can definitely see why the vertical sights captured the imaginations of people from across time.

Taking center stage, of course, is the highlight of the trip: the Empire State Building, the art deco building that is nigh synonymous with the word skyscraper at over 102 storeys tall. The title dovetails to this building's name, the state's nickname, and the tagline of one of my favorite retro games: SimTower.

Camera: iPhone 11

Date: 15 June 2024

Location: Midtown Manhattan, New York City, United States

Usage: By request

#photography #urban #cityscapes #architecture #buildings #NYC #New York City #Manhattan #Empire State Building

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todaysdocument · 1 year

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The DC branch of the NAACP brought lynching statistics to the attention of President Wilson on July 1, 1918.

“[African Americans might] ask if it were worth while to send their sons and brothers to make the world safe for democracy when America, their home, is not safe for them . . . “

Record Group 60: General Records of the Department of Justice Series: Straight Numerical Files File Unit: 158260

Transcription:

[[left aligned]]NATIONAL OFFICERS

President:

MR. MOORFIELD STOREY

Vice-Presidents:

ARCHIBALD H. GRIMKE

REV. JOHN HAYNES HOLMES

BISHOP JOHN HURST

JOHN E. MILHOLLAND

MARY WHITE OVINGTON

OSWALD GARRISON VILLARD

Chairman, Board of Directors:

MAJOR J. E. SPINGARN

Treasurer:

OSWALD GARRISON VILLARD

Director of Publications and Research

DR. W. E.B. DUBOIS

Secretary

JOHN R. SHILLADY

Field Secretary:

JAMES WELDON JOHNSON [[left aligned]]

[[centered]]The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People

OFFICIAL ORGAN

THE CRISIS

NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS

70 FIFTH AVENUE

NEW YORK CITY

WASHINGTON, D.C. [[centered]]

July 1, 1918

The President,

Washington, D.C.

Sir:

The District of Columbia Branch, National Association for the Advancement of colored People, numbering upwards of 7,000 members in the District of Columbia, respectfully invites your attention to the attached clipping from the Washington Post giving authoritative figures for lynchings in the United States for the past six months. Issued at a time when it appears that the fury of the German blow may fall at any time upon American troops, these figures will not be happy reading to the thousand of colored Americans whose sons and brothers will help to stem this blow. A people less loyal than those represented by this Association would ask many questions upon reading these figures. They would ask if it were worth while to send their sons and brothers to make the world safe for democracy when America, their home, is not safe for them; if the lynching of women is a fair sample of the treatment they may expect from the nation which was (and rightfully) shocked beyond expression by the execution of Miss Cavell; if this great government really includes them in its laudable program for world betterment. Finally, they would want to know if the President, speaking the demands of this country for freedom for the oppressed peoples of distant lands, either knew or cared whether his words were being compared by the civilized world with the attached record of unpunished and unrebuked lawlessness.

This Association believes, Mr. President, that you owe it to

[page 2]

The President - Sheet 2

yourself to express your disapprobation pf the lynching of colored men and women. We gather from the press that you are to deliver a speech on the 4th of July. May we suggest that this would be a fitting time to include in your remarks some assurance of your belief that the lynching of colored people should no longer be tolerated in this country.

Respectfully.

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA BRANCH

National Association for the Advancement of colored People

By: Archibald H. Grimke (Signed)

President

[page 3]

158250-64 Misc. 7-1-18 7-12-18 W

Archibald H. Grimke

Washington, D.C.

Calls attention from Wash.Post giving authoritative figures for lynchings in the U.S.A.

Fitts Herron

(The article from the Washington Post)

Tuskegee, Ala., June 30 -- Thirty-five Persons were lynched in the United States in the first six months of this year, according to announcement by the division or records and research of Tuskegee Institute.

The total exceeds by 21 the lynchings for the six months of 1917 and by 10 the number during a similar period in 1916.

Thirty-four of the 35 persons lynched were negroes. Three negro women were included in the list.

Eight lynchings occurred in each of the States of Georgia and Louisiana, seven in Texas, four in Tennessee, two in Mississippi and on in each of the States of Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Illinois, North Carolina and South Carolina.

#archivesgov #July 1 #1918 #1910s #Wilson administration #World War I #WWI #lynching #NAACP #Black history #African American history

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gatutor · 1 year

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June Storey (Toronto, Ontario, Canada, 20/04/1918-Vista, California, 18/12/1991).

#June Storey

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nicistrying · 4 months

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Sun 9th June

Busy busy weekend! We went to Matt's uni ball on Friday night, had a lovely time! Everyone on his course is so sweet 🥹

Saturday I walked Mags early af, dropped Matt at work and went straight to my sister's house to clean it all as she needed to hand her keys back. Her boyfriend has emptied all the furniture over the past few days so I said I'd do the cleaning. I was there 8 hours bc it's a 3-storey house 🫠 but it was lovely and clean and I hope that means she'll get her deposit back.

Came home exhausted, ordered Chinese food 👌

And today, Mags and I had a lie in, finally!! This is how Matt left us 😂

Got up at 8.30, went out for a gorgeous sunny walk through the woods, stopping whenever her highness pleased to get all the good smells. I was in no hurry today so wanted her to be able to take her time as through the week we march around the fields to get out and back before work.

And then did all my own housework alllll day bc after leaving my sister's house so sparkly I felt like ours was gross so I've deep cleaned everything. I feel much better now 😌 Time for some yoga and a bath to unwind bc I am sore af! I'd love to know the steps I've done this weekend

#fitblr #personal #health blog #fitness blog #health #fitness #weekend #update #Maggie #walk #outside time

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beardedmrbean · 10 months

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One of two men who carried out a Satanist-inspired “thrill kill” murder in San Jose was freed from prison and released back into Santa Clara County. Former inmate Jae Williams, 29, was granted early release on November 20, court records show.

Williams was a 15-year-old high school student when he and his 16-year-old friend, Randy Thompson, decided they wanted to kill someone. The boys befriended 15-year-old Michael Russell with the sole intention of murdering him in 2009.

The victim’s family’s attorney, Scotty J. Storey, told KRON4, “Jae and Randy set out with a goal of killing someone just to find out what it felt like. They cultivated a ‘friendship’ with Mikey, lulling him into a sense of security with them, to achieve their goal.”

When San Jose Police Department homicide detectives were investigating the teen’s grisly death, Williams told police that his religion, Satanism, gave him permission to kill.

The three boys went to Russell’s house on Nov. 10, 2009. When the trio was alone in the backyard, Williams and Thompson attacked the victim with a knife. They reportedly took turns stabbing the Santa Teresa High School student.

Storey said the terror Russell must have felt realizing his “friends” were going to kill him is unimaginable.

With Williams freed from prison, the victim’s surviving family members are also terrified, Storey said.

“They are very disappointed in the legislative system that created the statute, which lead his release. They are also terrified for themselves and for society. There is no indication that Jae Williams ever showed any contrition or remorse for taking Mikey’s life or the brutal way that he and Randy murdered him,” Storey told KRON4.

For their trials, Thompson and Williams were charged and convicted as adults, and sentenced to serve 26 years to life in prison. Senate Bill 1391, passed in 2018, prohibits anyone under the age of 16 from being charged as an adult. After California’s law passed, Williams’ case was transferred into juvenile court.

Thompson — who was just one year older than Williams at the time of the “Thrill Kill” — remains locked up in San Quentin State Prison, a California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation spokesperson confirmed to KRON4. “He was sentenced to life with the possibility of parole for first-degree murder. He is in CDCR custody,” the spokesperson wrote.

Thompson’s next parole hearing is scheduled for March of 2024. He will be eligible for parole in May of 2028, according to state inmate records.

Williams was set free hours after a discharge hearing was held in Santa Clara County juvenile court on November 20. His mother, Christina Trujillo, and defense attorney, Lewis Octavio Romero, appeared in the courtroom with him, court records state.

The court set the following probation conditions on the convicted murderer’s release:

Williams cannot change his place of residence without prior approval from his probation officer.

Williams is forbidden from associating with Thompson. He is also barred from having any “intentional contact” with the victim’s family members.

He must participate in re-entry services.

He may not leave his family’s home between 11 p.m.-6 a.m.

He must attend school, vocational training, or maintain full-time employment.

Williams may not use, possess, or be under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

He is subject to search and seizure at any time by law enforcement.

Williams is not allowed to own firearms until he turns 30 years old on June 8, 2024.

If Williams violates his probation conditions, he could be ordered back to jail for no longer than six months.

#nunyas news #wtf

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ifreakingloveroyals · 1 month

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16 June 2017 | Queen Elizabeth II is shown donations of aid made by members of the local community by Executive Director of Kensington and Chelsea Council Sue Harris during a visit to the Westway Sports Centre which is providing temporary shelter for those who have been made homeless in the disaster in London, England. 30 people have been confirmed dead and dozens still missing, after the 24 storey residential Grenfell Tower block in Latimer Road was engulfed in flames in the early hours of June 14. Emergency services will spend a third day searching through the building for bodies. Police have said that some victims may never be identified. (c) Dominic Lipinski - WPA Pool /Getty Images

#Sue Harris #Queen Elizabeth #Britain #2017 #Dominic Lipinski #WPA Pool #Getty Images

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conradscrime · 1 year

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The Crimes of Kate Webster & Murder of Julia Thomas

June 19, 2023

In a two-storey villa in Richmond, London, a former teacher named Julia Martha Thomas lived. Having been widowed twice, she had lived on her own at 2 Mayfield Cottages in Park Road since 1873, after her second husband died.

At the time, Julia was about 54 years old, and was described as well dressed and eccentric. She would often leave and travel around, and her friends would have no idea where she was for periods of time. These periods could last for a couple weeks or even months.

Though Julia was not extremely wealthy, it is said she would often wear jewellery to make people believe she had money. It was also said that Julia was not the nicest employer, often making it hard for her to keep a live-in domestic maid for long periods of time.

On January 29, 1879, a woman named Kate Webster was employed as Julia’s servant. Kate was born around 1849 in Killanne. There is not much information known about Kate’s life, but it was believed that she had claimed to have been married to a sea captain called Webster and had 4 children with him. Kate said that both her husband and all of her children had died.

Kate had also spent time in prison in Wexford in December 1864 for larceny (stealing) around the age of 15. Kate came to England in 1867, and was sentenced to 4 years of penal servitude for larceny in Liverpool in February 1868.

It is often hard to know much about Kate’s life because it appears her reputation is one full of deceit. Kate claimed to have been released from prison in January 1872, and later became friends with a family named Porter. On April 18,1874, Kate gave birth to a son, but the father is unknown as she named 3 possible men that it could be.

Kate moved around quite a bit and used a number of aliases, including Webb, Gibbs, Gibbons and Lawler. She was again convicted of larceny in May 1875, facing 36 charges. Again, in February 1877 she was convicted and sentenced to 12 months in prison for larceny. Her son was taken care of by her friend Sarah Crease during the times Kate was in prison. Sarah worked as a charwoman for a woman named Miss Loder.

In January 1879 Kate took over for Sarah when she became ill and while working, Miss Loder who knew Julia was looking for a servant, recommended Kate. It is believed that when Julia met Kate she did not ask any questions about her past.

It didn’t take long for the two women to begin despising one another. Julia would often complain that Kate’s work was not satisfactory, and it got to the point where Julia would try to get friends to stay in the house with her because she did not like being alone with Kate. About one month after beginning to work for her, on February 28, Kate was fired.

However, Kate had convinced Julia to allow her to work for a few more days until March 2.

On March 2, Julia and Kate got into a big argument as Kate had made Julia late for her service at the local church. When Julia returned home from church around 9pm, Kate later confessed that they had fought more and Kate ended up throwing Julia from the top of the stairs to the bottom. Kate then choked her.

Julia hitting the ground made a large thud, which neighbours did hear, but they ignored it as they believed it to only be a chair falling over. Kate then began to dismember and boil and burn Julia’s remains.

Within the next couple of days, Kate cleaned Julia’s house and clothes. She also began packing the remains into a black Gladstone bag and a corded wooden box. There was not enough room for the head or one of the feet, so Kate threw the foot into a garbage heap and buried the head under the stables, close to Julia’s house.

On March 4, Kate went to see her old neighbours, the Porter’s, who she had not seen in 6 years. She was wearing Julia’s clothes and was carrying the black bag that she had put some of Julia’s remains in. Kate called herself “Mrs. Thomas” and told the Porters she had married, had a child and was widowed. She also told them she had been left a house in Richmond.

Kate asked Porter and his son if they wanted to go to a pub, and while doing so she assumingly dropped the bag of remains into the River Thames, where it was never found. She also asked Robert, the son, if he would help her carry a heavy box to the station. Kate then dropped the box into the Thames.

The next day, on March 5, the box was washed up next to the river bank. The man who found it originally believed there to be items of a burglary and when opening the box he found what appeared to be body parts wrapped in brown paper. A doctor was called immediately to determine the remains appeared to be that of a woman.

Around this time, a foot and ankle were found in Twickenham, where Kate had thrown the foot that wouldn’t fit. The remains were all believed to be from the same person but there was no way to identify said person. The remains were burned on March 19 and there was speculation that the remains had been used for anatomical purposes.

Kate kept living at Julia’s house, posing as her, and on March 9, she made an agreement with a man named John Church to sell Julia’s furniture to him for his pub.

By March 18, neighbours suspicions kept raising as they realized they had not seen Julia around for almost 2 weeks. Julia’s neighbour asked who had Julia’s furniture removed from the property and they replied that it was Julia herself, indicating Kate. Kate, now knowing that her charade was up, fled back to Ireland.

Police were called to the property and found blood stains, burned bones and a letter left by Kate that had her home address on it. A wanted notice was put up and detectives soon found Kate and her son back in Ireland.

Kate was arrested on March 29, after the head constable in Wexford recognized her to be the same person they had arrested 14 years prior for larceny.

Kate’s trial began on July 2, 1879 at the Central Criminal Court. The case was huge -- people from all over were very interested in Kate and her crimes, with the trial attendance being crowded. Kate had actually tried to implicate John Church and her friend Porter, though both men had solid alibis.

She pleaded not guilty, and the defence argued she could not be capable of murder due to her having a young son. After only an hour and 15 minutes of deliberation the jury decided that Kate was guilty of murder and it had been premeditated. Kate actually pleaded and said she was pregnant, trying to avoid the death penalty.

Kate was taken in for an examination to determine if she truly was pregnant, and it was said that she was not “quick with child” though that meant she could still be pregnant.

Right before she was executed, Kate made a statement stating that the father of her child was the one who participated in the murder of Julia and was the reason she had lived a life of crime to begin with. On July 28, the night before her execution, she recanted the statement, taking responsibility, and also stating that John Church, Porter and her child’s father were not to blame.

On July 29, 1879, Kate Webster was hanged at 9am at Wandsworth Prison. She was buried in an unmarked grave in one of the prison’s yards. The crowd waiting at her execution cheered when a black flag was raised over the prison, meaning the execution had gone through.

Julia’s property was auctioned off, the day after Kate had been executed. John Church managed to still get Julia’s furniture, as well as the knife that she had been dismembered with. Julia’s house was unoccupied until 1897, and even then, servants did not really want to work there given the history.

There have been folktales of a “ghostly nun” that has been seen over the place where Julia is buried.

In 1952, Sir David Attenborough and his wife Jane bought a house by the Mayfield Cottages and the Hole in the Wall pub. The pub had closed in 2007, but was going to be redeveloped. On October 22, 2010, workmen doing an excavation at the rear of the old pub uncovered a woman’s skull.

It had been buried underneath the foundations and was immediately believed to be the skull of Julia Thomas as her head was never found. Carbon dating estimated the skull to be from sometime between 1650 and 1880, though it was on top of a layer of Victorian tiles, suggesting it was from the end of this estimate.

The skull had fractures that matched with someone being thrown down stairs, and also had low collagen levels, possibly from being boiled. In July 2011, it was confirmed that it was the skull of Julia Thomas, 132 years after she had been murdered.

#true crime #Crime #murder #homicide #servant #case #unsolved #mystery #UNSOLVED MYSTERIES #unsolved murder #unsolved crime #unsolved case #larceny #theft

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