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thebelljarwriter · 23 days ago

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A Little Bit of Luck - day 29: clover

day 29 entry for @31-daysofhorror :]. a mega oneshot of the characters in The Unsolved Files universe, enjoy <3

1974

Clovers are often seen as good luck, at least that is what Oscar’s father always said when discussing his Irish heritage. They say if you find a four-leaf clover, your day would be full of luck. Oscar guessed he always believed in luck, he considered himself lucky. He had Diana, his loving wife, he had Sophia, his beloved daughter, he had Tinsley, his softhearted brother, and he had Elias, his trusted comrade, and finally he had his job, being what his family always aspired him to be, a detective.

But for those past nineteen years, his detective days had worn him thin. Losing his brother had been the hardest part, a heartache that never truly got healed. It wasn’t the same as losing their father, hell, it wasn’t even the same when mother died either. It was like a ghost had lingered behind him since Tinsley’s departure, something between the living and the dead. (was Tinsley alive? Or was he killed? Does his spirit live on? And is his spirit following Oscar?).

Tinsley had believed in luck, much more than Oscar believed. He was optimistic like that, despite all the shit their parents had put them through, he didn’t believe his spirits truly were broken. He still laughed, he still grinned from ear to ear whenever his niece showed him a drawing she made. He was just… kind. A little light where the darkness had been, and Oscar prayed that it would never leave him.

But that light is gone now. And Oscar doesn’t know if it’s still there anymore.

It was October of that year, and a cold autumn day in San Francisco, Oscar had the day off and he promised Sophia to take her to the store to find a costume for her, he put on his best coat and helped Sophia with hers, fixing her scarf Diana’s grandmother knitted for her. Oscar often hated how busy the stores were this time of year. Halloween seemed like such a big deal, as a child Oscar never really got the hang of Halloween, but Tinsley seemed to. Tinsley always seemed to love fall, as a kid, he would jump on a leaf pile at any chance he got, he’d talk on and on about going to the pumpkin patch at school, despite how easily scared Tinsley always seemed, he enjoyed Halloween. Then again, he enjoyed everything. A twinge of sadness washed over Oscar, Tinsley enjoyed everything.

“Dad–”

Oscar felt a tug on his coat, snapping out of his daze he turned around to greet his daughter Sophia. Except there was a different girl right in front of him. She looked possibly a year older than Sophia. Long, curly dark brown hair with a little blue bow and blue shirt dress, her wide doe eyes staring at Oscar with confusion and … dreaded realization. She fiddled with her hands, she seemed like a lost princess, not realizing where she had been going as she mumbled an apology. Oscar didn’t realize either that his actual daughter, Sophia (who wore a black turtleneck with a red jumper dress) stood right next to him looking at the girl in front of them, arching an eyebrow.

“Rosalie!”

Oscar froze, the blue princess looked behind her like a deer in the headlights. That voice.

That voice. He hadn’t noticed Sophia sliding his hand into his, asking what had been the matter, telling him that he’s shaking right now but then she sees it, there he is, standing there. Like the ghost of the past, the ghost that had neither been dead nor alive standing right in front of Oscar. (he hasn’t aged a bit, hasn’t he? He still looks like him, Oscar thought, he’s still Ceecee, he’s still that softhearted little kid who cries when he steps on a bug, he’s—).

“Oscar?” Tinsley asks, almost breathless.

Oscar never believed in luck, but maybe just this once, he did.

“Charlie…”

***

1960

Jack and Banjo stood in line at the airport, Jack was trembling under the coat Banjo had given him. It’d been a big on his thin frame, Banjo was much taller than him (standing six foot eight while Jack only stood six foot one) and Jack must’ve looked like a miserable wet cat when Banjo offered his coat. He said they’d go to New York, that they wouldn’t find them there, that The Goldsworths were very generous, taking in strays like him (Jack hated that word. Strays, he wasn’t a stray, he was an eighteen year old kid on the damn run from the police).

“Here.”

Banjo placed something in Jack’s hand, wordlessly Jack stared at the object in his palms. Arching an eyebrow, it had been a four-leaf clover keychain. Jack wasn’t Irish, he was a full-blooded Scot and he’d been proud of it too, he had worn his Scottish heritage like a badge of honor, and his grandmother made sure he never forgot that.

“Good luck charm!” Banjo stated simply, grinning from ear to ear.

Jack nodded, thanking him as he shoved the clover keychain in his pocket. They moved closer up the line, after a moment of silence he spoke.

“There’s a story my mom used to tell me when I was a kid,” Jack fiddled with the keychain in his pocket, he didn’t look at Banjo but knew he had been listening, “there’s this Scottish legend that there was this warrior that had died in battle, and when his lover had found him, her tears had fallen to the ground and sprouted white heather.”

Heathers were his mother’s favorite flower, she had white ones in a vase everywhere in the house, she believed they brought protection. He wished they did, he genuinely wished they did bring protection. But tears don’t bring back loved ones, and they don’t sprout flowers.

When they stepped inside the plane, Jack hadn’t let go of the clover keychain for almost the entire ride.

***

1970

Luck was something Marcus Di Arcangelo didn’t believe in.

He wasn’t lucky. He was the harbinger of doom, he was a bad omen. His grandmother said so, his mother said so, and his father said so. He was only eleven years old and so far in his lifetime, he’d been nothing more than just bad luck. Sometimes Marcus avoided being around anyone else, even Francesca and Banjo who had seemed to welcome him with open arms and acted more like his parents than his actual ones. Mr. Goldsworth didn’t seem to sense any ill with him, and he was pretty good at sensing it.

And Rosalie. Rosalie was pure good luck. She was kind, sweet, and overall seemed like an angel in the form of a young girl. It shocked him a little that she’d been so nice to him. They were sitting in the garden that spring day, Rose’s father was chatting with Banjo and Fran, the two children were dismissed to the backyard where they had been playing together for the past two hours. Rose had stopped abruptly and called for Marcus to come over.

“Look,” she chirped, she plucked something out of the ground and showed it to Marcus, a four-leaf clover. “Must be a lucky day, huh!”

Marcus didn’t respond, staring at the clover in her hand. Marcus was anything but good luck, he was born on the thirteenth of a Friday, his grandmother had convinced his entire family that he was a bad omen, that Liliana’s death was his fault and his fault alone. He didn’t realize Rose had handed him the clover.

“I think you should have it.” Rose said, her hands behind her back and swaying to and fro’, her mouth curving into a smile. Marcus thanked her quietly and put it in his pocket. Rose's second father — dad, as she called him, the tall, gangly detective Marcus was getting used to —had called for them to get inside for dinner, to which both children made a bet to see who could race to the door the fastest.

Marcus didn’t believe in good luck, he didn’t believe in any luck at all.

But he did believe Rose had been something akin to a good luck charm.

***

1967

Luck. That was all you needed. What you always needed was luck.

Did Francesca believe in luck? She guessed she’d find out somehow, stepping in the casino she winced at cigarette smoke that polluted the already overstimulating atmosphere. Her target for the night was a man by the name of Elmer Kaylock, a senator for the silver state and a rich man that was rumored to be a sly-tongued affair-having playboy despite him pushing forty. How embarrassing.

Even more embarrassing was, of course, stealing from the mafia. Gee, these dogs never learn do they? Biting the hand that feeds them? She walked over to a bald-headed man seemingly surrounded by women, one thing Fran never understood was why these men surrounded themselves with millions of young women, a status symbol? She scoffed, a woman wasn’t a status symbol. They weren’t machines, dolls, or whatever they saw them as, when Fran had walked over to him, she noticed the title on the table

LADY LUCK.

And a symbol of a four leaf clover. Fran thought to herself, could lady luck be on her side tonight? Woman to woman? She smiled, amusing herself with the thought of luck. Oftentimes she was lucky, like a cat that seemed to land on its feet no matter what. Fran stood next to Mr. Kaylock, tapping his shoulder innocently.

“Mr. Kaylock, is it?” she asked.

Drunkenly, he responded, “who’s asking?”

Luck was on her side, she believed it firmly. Her eyes darted at the symbol of the four-leaf symbol. She tilted her head to the side, a small smile painted on her face as she stared at him with eyes locked on him as if he was a bullseye and she was holding her arrow directly at the target.

“Do you know Mr. Moretti? He’s a friend of mine and …” her voice trailed off, getting dangerously low, “he requested that you and I discuss business.”

Mr. Kaylock looked at her, arching an eyebrow. “What for?”

Fran’s hand was in her pocket. Her pistol.

“He didn’t say, I’m afraid.” she stated, “just business.”

***

1973

Motels are often sanctuaries for the weary traveler.

The Clover Motel was simply that, a sanctuary for five weary travelers. Banjo, NightNight, Legs, and Jack had checked into four separate rooms. One for Legs and NightNight and one for Banjo and Jack, meaning Marcus would have to share. Banjo had already offered to sleep on the floor, letting Marcus have one bed while Jack and Banjo shared the other (they didn’t care, they were both comfortable enough to share a bed, they shared one one before when they were in a motel in New Mexico).

It was close to midnight, the other four had fallen asleep. But Legs? He was a bit of a night owl. Motels may have been small and quaint, but they were never flashy as hotels. God, he hated hotels. The smell, the bright lights, the way the rooms were stuffy and hot. For a guy who loved materialistic things, he sure as hell had a disdain for the richness of it all, like biting into a brownie that had too much fudge in it. But a motel, a motel was simple. Feeling like a snake that shedded his skin and dipped in a new one.

He felt like home.

“Hello.”

Legs yelped, finding himself lost in his mind and standing in what seemed like an endless hallway, before his eyes landed on a young woman, feeling himself relax almost immediately. He smirked, she looked like she had to be in her late twenties to early thirties, her attire looking as though she had been from the Victorian age. She stared at him, unblinking with those cold, dead eyes, her dirty blonde hair wrapped in a lace bonnet.

“Why hullo little Miss Muffet,” Legs said in a faux British accent, his hands on his hips, “did a little spider scare you away?”

The blondie didn’t respond. She simply stared.

“I’m waiting for a friend.”

“And who may that be? The muffin man?” Legs let out a harsh laugh, it had been so loud it echoed throughout the halls. It was a wonder how it seemed to wake anyone up. It was also a wonder how the blondie didn’t seem to flinch at how loud it had been. Tough cookie, he guessed.

“You think you’re scary, don’t you, Lucas?”

The laughter quickly died down, the smile now fading from Legs. He took off his shades, his brow furrowed as he locked his eyes with hers. The blondie standing still, motionless, if you tried to push her she wouldn’t budge. For the first time, her cold dark eyes started to strike a kind of dread that made his stomach become tied in knots. A smile crept upon her lips, as if she sensed his fear.

“Even a predator is a prey.” She spoke, “even a snake can be killed by a raven.”

Legs’ blood ran cold, his shades slipped from his fingers as he shot a glare right at her.

“Are you trying to scare me?” he began to snicker, “che menata, you’re very brave, aren’t you?”

The blondie shook her head, the smile still plastered on her expression, “I’m just saying what is what. A rat may be clever, but at the end of the day, it’s the cat that wins.”

“What a metaphor,” Legs muttered, “you like theater, bird? You seem to have a talent for the dramatics.”

Quiet. Her smile faded.

“What? Not feeling lucky anymore, blondie?”

“You’re nothing more than a child, Lucas Giovonni Alberoni. A scared, pathetic little child who thinks he can get away with a silver tongue and charming grin, but I know what you are, you are a washed up hitman and a lazy excuse for an assassin who hides behind those shades and hides behind his gold chains in hopes he will be adored for all he’s worth. You are a measly little snake, a silly little rat, a miserable weasel. You will be thrown away like a worn coat when they believe you are not worth the trouble just like the rest of the soldiers before you. You’re not scary. You don’t scare me. You don’t strike fear into the hearts of millions, you are an inconvenience, nothing more than a bug who will get stepped on when you get in their way. You, Lucas Giovonni Alberoni, are worthless.”

Legs didn’t move. He didn’t respond. He just stood there, staring down at the little blondie. He didn’t even notice her moving past him, giggling and giving him a warm smile — Legs gave her a quick glance, feeling red hot rage beginning to boil — and disappeared when she turned.

Safe to say luck had not been on his side.

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