#local man has nearly died nineteen times but he IS getting it tonight

[kexing]

From now on, always stay close to me. You have to stay by my side. Because you are only mine.

[electronicgrowth]

Can’t Get Enough- Prologue

I’ve had probably about half of this fic just sitting on my computer for over a month now. Maybe if I start posting it, I’ll find the inspiration to finish this. So, here’s a Lee Bodecker x OFC fic. I say OFC because I feel weird not having it in there plus I think it’s weird to make characters of parents and still make it a reader insert (I don’t know your parents!), but feel free to pretend that it’s you, or imagine yourself as Billie. It will have smut, mentions of violence, time period typical sexism. 

Summary: The two most stubborn people in Knockemstiff, Ohio have eyes for only each other. Lee Bodecker is determined to become the town’s next sheriff. He knows that image is everything. Billie Dechswaan doesn’t care about her image at all. All she wants is to leave Knockemstiff and never come back. But Lee has other plans for her. Both are far too stubborn to give up their own plans. What happens when they can’t get enough of each other?

Lee Bodecker’s life fell apart the day his sister died. His thoughts were plagued by everything he should have done different. He should never have let Sandy marry Carl. He should have forced Sandy to divorce the miserable man. He should have killed Carl himself. But he didn’t do any of those things. And now Lee was left with no family and a severely bruised ego. 

The kid— Arvin Russell— shot Lee, he got him in the shoulder. It wasn’t enough to really hurt Lee, but the fall knocked him out and the kid got away. The optics were good for Lee. He was shot and injured trying to protect the town. It would probably help him with the election. And without Sandy, he was free to arrest the men involved in pimping out local girls. It would look good to shut down such a widespread underground business. But never had Lee been so alone. It turned him more vicious. He was constantly angry. Shouting at deputies and his secretary. Drinking himself half blind almost every night. 

But tonight was not one of those nights. Just as Lee was about to leave the station, he got a call about a man dead from a car wreck just on the border of Knockemstiff and Meade. Lee went with two of his deputies to the scene. The man had already been taken away by the coroner. The car had rolled multiple times, it didn’t look like another car was involved in the wreck. The deputies who were first called to the scene said that they instantly knew the man. You can’t live in such a small town and not know most folks. It was Mr. John Dechswaan. And he left behind a large farm and a large family. 

The Dechswaan family was one plagued by tragedy. Joseph and Wilma—John’s parents— moved down from Columbus. Both were born in the Netherlands and immigrated as young children. After they married they desired to settle down and raise a family in a more rural area. Joseph worked for the state building highways. Wilma stayed home. Wilma was pregnant no less than 8 times. She only gave birth to five babies. And only two of those made it past the age of two. Everyone in town pitied her plight. How awful that must be for her. 

Two boys, Ray and John. Ray moved away after high school. Met a nice girl in California and stayed there. John fought in World War II. When he came home he met Joy. For a while it seemed the family’s luck had changed. Joy gave birth to six children with no issue.

The eldest son was young Joseph, for his grandfather. He’d married a local girl named Marianne. They had two boys of their own and she was pregnant again.

The next eldest child, Thomas, married a nice girl from a few towns over named Paulette. Thomas would have preferred to stay closer to Paulette’s family, but he worked for John at the family’s farm. And now Joseph would need all the help he could get from his younger brother. 

The oldest daughter was named for her great-grandmother, Wilhelmina, but she went by Billie. Billie made no secret of her disdain for Knockemstiff. And she had always planned to move away as soon as she could. She worked as a librarian in New York. But the Dechswaan family curse reared its ugly head. She met a guy who she thought was a good man, but he wasn’t. It took Larry next to no time to start hurting Billie. Rumors touched Billie like no other member of the family. Many said that Billie had left Knockemstiff because she got herself knocked up. Her family didn’t speak of her much after she left, which only added to the intrigue. 

Sylvia came next. She was too beautiful and too gullible for her own good. She fell for the quarterback and he was quick to promise her everything she wanted. They married quickly when Sylvia was nineteen, much to her parents pleasure. Tim, the husband, joined the county police department. Just a five months after marriage Sylvia had her first baby. A girl named, Rose. She was as beautiful as her mama. But everyone knew that Rose wasn’t a baby conceived in holy matrimony. Everyone whispered about Sylvia as she walked by. But she bore it. She finally grew up enough to realize that you can’t always get what you want. 

Wesley was the youngest boy at just seventeen. He was the high school’s star quarterback. He was rambunctious and headstrong. He never thought things through. But he didn’t have to. He was a young man after all, with his whole future ahead of him. Who cared if he stepped on a few girls on his way to the top?

Then there was Clara, fifteen, nearly a young woman, but she could barely speak. Doctor said it was because she was just shy. But when she worked up the courage to speak she stuttered and stumbled over her words. Her father bitterly thought about how he would be stuck with her forever.

Yes, Sheriff Bodecker knew all about the Dechswaan family. He had always paid close attention to Billie. She was beautiful. Long dark blonde hair that she bleached bright blonde—trying to look just like Marilyn Monroe but she could never get it quite light enough—as soon as she could and bright blue eyes. She’d been a cheerleader for the football team her senior year. Lee had never thought about those cheerleading uniforms until Billie put one on. It was a good thing she was 18 at the time or else Lee would have been obliged to feel guilty. But he never looked at her until she was legal, and he’ll maintain that until the day he dies. And once he started thinking about her, he couldn’t stop even after she took the uniform off for good. She was a spitfire. She stayed out late, drank with boys in cars, and just generally did whatever she wanted. But she kept good grades, never did anything beyond kissing a boy, and never missed a church service, so no one could say much. Lee was bewitched by her. And the problem was that she knew it.

[crystalninjaphoenix]

The Self-Indulgent Holiday Special

The best way to celebrate a holiday is clearly to write a thing where your persona meets the characters made by your favorite YouTuber. Trust me, I’m an expert. 100% real authority on writing

‘M posting this super late at night after I felt the sudden need to write it, so forgive any mistakes I may have made. Also if you give me any sort of trouble for putting myself in the story.......whatever. It’s nearly 2019, I’m ignoring the connotation of cringe

There’s a rooftop garden in the city. Trees and flowers of all kind, just sitting on top of a ten-story building. Of course, it being the middle of winter, most of the plants had died out, though there were some stubborn coniferous trees and red flowers still growing. An iron railing surrounded the garden, keeping people from falling off.

Sitting on a wooden bench, looking over the setting sun, is a girl. Or, not a girl. They weren’t quite sure in recent times.They have red hair, vibrant and shoulder-length. They wear a set of glasses—they have multiple, and had decided on the black pair today. The evening is cool, but not cold, so she’d forgone her coat and wore what she usually did: a blue hoodie with a bright yellow smiley face in the center. By her side is a purple backpack, containing, as it usually did, her laptop—complete with headphones and mouse—the book she was currently reading, and her bag of colored pencils. They sit on the bench with their knees pulled close, their black sketchbook propped so that she can draw easily. She had some ideas she needed to get out.

“Hypocrite.”

It always surprised her, even though she knew who it was and what he wanted. She turns and sees Abyss, one of her characters. He looks like he always does, silver hair, red old-fashioned coat, brown eyes with stars in the pupils. He's staring at her, but that was to be expected when one didn’t blink. “Why do you say that?” she asks.

Abyss rolls his eyes. “You tell me I can’t visit this set of universes, at all, 100% forbidden, and now you’re here. Drew yourself up a portal. Therefore, hypocrite.”

“This is different,” they explain.

“It always is with you, Ms. Creator.”

Honestly, when they created a character with the ability to jump universes, she hadn’t expected to ever actually meet him. Hell, for the longest time, they hadn’t realized any of their ideas could spawn another world. But that was irrelevant. Abyss, though annoying and way too powerful for anyone’s good, isn’t antagonistic toward her, not anymore at least. “No, I mean, it-it really is different this time,” she insists. “This world in particular, it’s...I-I mean, it’s not mine, I don’t-I don’t think I can count it that way—”

“Hmm, I thought I recognized the feel,” Abyss interrupts. “This universe has your stamp on it.”

“They’re, um, not my characters—”

Abyss laughs. “That’s never stopped you before. You have your own little versions of worlds scattered all about. I never would’ve met Dani if you didn’t get obsessively attached to stories you like and made your ‘headcanons’ into your ‘canon.’ What’s so different about this one, this multiverse?”

She frowns. “I think it’s that...the creator of the original, he’s not-not, like, distant. I see him as a person and not as a-a-a, I dunno, a faceless maker of content. And all the people who are, like, inspired by his work are, they’re, like, people I know, you know? It’s really a community...like they say. And it feels mo-more special...personal, I guess.”

“I see...” She knows that Abyss is lying. She knows him better than anyone else; she’d created him, after all. He struggles with empathy, though he’s learning. And the idea of community, that you could somehow relate to people all around the world based on this one thing...it was a very empathetic, human experience. “Ah, would you look at that,” he says. “You plan this? It’s why you showed up here, isn’t it?”

They look up. The rooftops of the city had been empty a moment before. Now, there’s someone running across them, expert parkour-style. He’s wearing a red and blue jumpsuit, and a hood hides his face from view. But they know who it is. “I mean, I kinda planned it,” they say. “I wrote that this was a regular thing. And I decided to show up here at this moment, so...”

“You have a little crush on a fictional character? I understand that’s something that can happen.”

“What?! No! He’s like twenty-eight. I’m nineteen. I don’t do that. I just...friends are nice too.”

“Yeah...they are...” Abyss nods. “I’m starting to get that. So, I’ll leave you to it.” There's a flash of dark blue, and he’s gone, leaving nothing but a blue mist-like substance that quickly disperses.

“Hey there!” The man in red has landed on the rooftop with the garden, and caught sight of the artist sitting on the bench.

For a moment, she thinks the words will get caught in her throat like they always do. But...she knows him. He might not be her original character, but he was her version. “Hi,” she says. “You’re, um, Jackie, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am!” Jackie puts on a dramatic voice, and strikes a pose. “I’m the one and only Jackieboy Man! Protecting the city from crime, day and night!”

“I know,” they say, laughing a bit. “I’m-I guess you can say I’m-I’m-I’m a fan. My name is—” they hesitate for a moment. Should they give him their real name? Most of their characters know them as Brigid...but people had started calling them a nickname, of sorts, since they started becoming more active in the community. It feels...right, somehow, to use that instead. “I’m Crystal.”

“Crystal, huh?” Jackie tilts his head. He gives her a warm smile. “That’s a nice name. A, uh, fan, huh? I don’t really deserve that, you know. I’m just a guy in a mask and jumpsuit.”

“But you’re, like, a superhero!” Crystal says. “That’s so cool!”

“Well,” Jackie’s eyes light up. He thinks it’s very cool indeed. “I guess, but it’s not like I have powers. My friend—I mean, I have friends just like anyone else. I’m trying my best.”

“But a lot of people, um, you know, they don’t do the things you do. Even if-if they can. So, that you’re trying, you know, that’s important.”

Jackie considers this for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right. I can see that. Have a good night, Crystal.” He starts to turn away.

“Wait!” Crystal stands up, fighting down a surge of panic. “I just—um—I’m—did-did-did-did you know it’s Yule today?” She cringes internally. Stupid stutter.

“Really? Christmas isn’t for another few days.”

“No, it’s the winter solstice. The twenty-first. That means it’s Yule.” She feels her face growing hot. Unconsciously, she starts picking at the binding of her sketchbook. “It’s a, uh, pagan holiday. I’m Wiccan. I mean, I don’t practice it as much as I should, but if there’s any religion I can say I’m a part of, it’s that, you know? My-my family doesn’t celebrate it. And I mean, I love our Christmas celebrations, and the season is-is great. But I’d like to celebrate it and I was thinking—I mean—um—you seem nice. Can I, like, be with you? Like, hang out? I mean that!”

This couldn’t have gone any worse if they tried. They fully expect Jackie to just walk away. But, to their surprise, he stops, and consider. “That...maybe...” he muses. “...I mean, I can’t take a civilian out on patrol. But my friends are having a get-together tonight. I wasn’t expecting to be able to make it...but the question is, can you be trusted? I’ll be taking off my mask.”

“That’s fine!” Crystal assures him. She knows all the details anyway; she wrote his backstory, after all. “I won’t even be in this wor—in this town for long.” Yes, great idea. Tell your local superhero you’re a universe-hopping artist/writer with the ability to make anything with the power of drawing and words. He may or may not think you’re crazy, honestly hard to tell.

Jackie smiles, relieved. “In that case, feel free to come along. Though, my friends probably won’t be that happy about it. Don’t worry, I’ll convince them. Now come on!”

Smiling to herself, Crystal grabs her backpack and hurries to catch up.

The house looks exactly like she’d pictured it. A regular suburban sprawl with a big yard and two stories. Much bigger than her own, which was much too small for five people, two cats, and a tortoise.

“Ready?” Jackie had changed into his civilian clothes, ducking into an alleyway with a “no peeking!” Like she had any interest in things like that. Now, in his comfortable red hoodie and completely mask-less, he leads the way up the path and knocks on the door. A moment passes, then it’s opened by a man with a face just like his, hidden mostly under a gray baseball cap. “Jackie!” he says, excited. “We thought you weren’t coming!”

“Decided the city was safe enough for one night,” Jackie shrugs. “Oh, and I brought a friend!” He stands aside, and gestures at Crystal.

“Oh! Uh, hi. I’m Chase.” Chase can’t hide his surprise, though he’s trying his best. “We...weren’t expecting anyone else. We weren’t even expecting Jackie.”

Crystal laughs nervously. “Yeah, it just sort of...happened. It’s Yule.”

“Huh. Well, you’re welcome inside. Come on in!” Chase stands aside, allowing Jackie and then Crystal herself to enter the house.

Crystal’s eyes widen at the sight, and they can’t stop a small gasp from escaping their mouth. It was...all of them. It's kind of trippy, actually, seeing five versions of the same person, wearing different clothes, standing with various postures. Like that one project they tried to do in senior year film class, where they played all the characters. They never got around to finishing it, mostly because about a third of the footage went missing somehow.

“Hey everyone, Jackie’s here!” Chase announces.

“Ah, Jackie! We thought you weren’t making it tonight!” If she couldn’t tell from the glasses, the voice is a dead giveaway for who that is.

One of them waves. The clothes and the silence are also dead giveaways.

“Who’s the kid?” Process of elimination leads to the obvious conclusion for the last one.

“Oh, uh, guys, this is Crystal,” Jackie introduces her. “I ran into her on patrol, and she said she was a fan, and so I invited her to come.”

“They,” Crystal whispers, forcing the single syllable out.

“Hmm? What was that?”

“I’m, uh, good with ‘they’ too. If you don’t mind. ‘She’ is good too. But, um, just...so you know...” Crystal trails off. It’s the first time they’d ever, in person, made that point clear. She’d never even told her family. The only people who really know are the people who read her blog description and maybe some people on Discord.

“Well, okay then!” Jackie smiled. “Don’t worry, I get it.” She knows he does. This is a world where her headcanons are canon. And damn the canonicity of the SP playthrough, a queer hero is cool. And maybe...there were personal reasons why she thought that, but...it doesn’t stop it from being cool.

“Yeah, okay, whatever makes you comfortable. I’m Marvin, that’s Henrik, call him Schneep, and Jameson. You already know Jackie and Chase.” He points out each one as he says their names. “Feel free to make yourself at home.”

“Hey! Who’s the host here?” Chase sounds indignant. He turns to Crystal. “Feel free to make yourself at home.”

Schneep and Marvin roll their eyes in perfect unison.

Jackie gasps dramatically. “Snacks!” He runs towards the coffee table, which holds a variety of sweet and salty foods. “We got chips, we got chocolate, we got other foods starting with the letter C...”

“Hey, dude, can you leave the plain candy bars alone?” Chase asks. “Bobby’s allergic to nuts so she wants those.”

“The kids—I mean there’s a kid here?” Crystal asks.

Chase nods. “Yeah, I, uhm, got my kids, Bobby and Trevor, for the weekend. They’re in their room right now, but they told me they might come down later.”

“That’s cool,” Crystal says. “I like kids. I’m kind of good with them, I think. I mean, my sister is better, kids just love her.”

“Chase, if you ever need a babysitter, I think they are volunteering,” Schneep says lightheartedly.

“What?! I—uh—no, I can’t. I won’t be in town for long, I’m just here for Yule.”

“Isn’t that, like, a witch holiday?” Chase asks.

Jameson shakes his head, then makes some quick symbols with his hands. Not for the first time, Crystal wishes she’d fully learned sign language. Even ASL could help in a situation like this. The others understand, nodding.

“Pagan, huh?” Marvin plops down onto the couch. “Interesting. What made you choose that?”

Crystal thinks. “It seemed...the most right. It makes the most sense with my...worldview. And I like magick. That’s the kind with a K, but if regular magic existed I’d like that too.”

Marvin chuckled. “Well, keep your hopes high, kid.”

Crystal smiles softly. She feels a bit...giddy inside. Marvin was her second favorite, and here she is, talking magic with him. Kinda. More dancing around the subject. But it would be weird to let on that she knew everything about these guys.

Time passes. The five fall back into their comfortable back-and-forth banter, the sort Crystal loves to write. Hearing it come to life, and more importantly, actually sounding like something they would say, made Crystal feel full of joy. But even more so, the fact that these five characters who she’d held so close to her heart seemed to incorporate them into their dynamic so easily...even though Crystal was just jumping into conversation occasionally, they felt a ball of light and fuzziness inside themself.

Eventually a small brunette girl and a tiny blonde boy came out and joined for a while. The two are greeted with familiar enthusiasm. Bobby and Trevor are clearly well-known and well-loved among the group. After a while, Chase herds them back upstairs for bedtime. Marvin and Schneep get into a competitive Mario Kart race, which ends in controllers being thrown across the room. Jackie convinces everyone to watch Spider-Man: Homecoming for a while. The snacks are devoured. Then, it’s one o’clock.

“We should probably all go to bed soon,” Schneep says, looking at the clock.

“Oh, so says you, Mr. All-nighter,” Marvin laughs.

“I have work to do! You have no excuse and needs your rest!”

“Except you have a day off tomorrow, so you have no work and also no excuse,” Jackie points out.

Jameson signs something, and Crystal vaguely recognizes one of the signs, though she doesn’t remember the meaning. Luckily, the others are not so inhibited. “Alright, dude,” Chase says. “You want us to walk you there?”

Jameson shakes his head. “Are you going home?” Crystal asks. When Jameson nods, they continue, “I should probably go to. You, um, don’t mind if I walk with you...for a bit? Not all the way?”

After a moment of consideration, Jameson nods. A chorus of goodbyes follows the two of them out the door.

It’s dark. Crystal can’t help but be a bit scared, though she knows that with her sketchbook and pencil in hand she’s well-prepared for any threat. If she has enough time to draw something to defend herself, that is. Jameson doesn’t seem worried. Then again, he’d faced worse than street criminals.

Crystal tried to think of something to say. Come on, this should be easy. JJ is their favorite, and they really wanted to talk to him. But...this was good too. The two of them walk in silence, but it’s a companionable type of silence. Crystal isn’t really comfortable with being the shorter one of the two, even though they’re shorter than most people. Maybe because they’d always thought of JJ as the small one, even though his height is basically the same as the others, give or take a centimeter or two.

Still, Crystal has something they need to say. “Can I call you JJ?”

A nod, accompanied by a friendly mustache wiggle. Crystal laughs. “Thanks. I...” she swallows nervously. “I just want to say I’m sorry.”

JJ looks at her, confused. “For all you’ve gone through, I-I mean,” she elaborates. “It’s-it’s awful and-and-and you’re so nice, um, you know? So you didn’t deserve it.”

JJ can’t hide his confusion. He’s stopped walking, directly under a street lamp. It was very dramatic. He knows that Crystal can’t understand BSL, but he makes some vague gestures that she takes to mean, what are you talking about?

“I know a lot,” Crystal says simply. “And I...have my own demons to face...actually I, um, just realized that one of her names also starts with A.”

Jameson’s eyes widen. He starts to gesture again, but Crystal shakes her head. “No, we—um, I don’t want to. Not now. And you’ll-you’ll-you guys’ll probably never see me again. I need to go back home. I have stories that I need to work on. But...I’m really sorry.” She feels tears in her eyes. “I’m really so sorry.”

Still confused, but understanding a bit more, Jameson nods. Crystal gives a watery smile. “Goodbye. Tell the others I said bye too.” She turns to leave, but JJ taps her shoulders. He spreads his arms wide, almost questioning. “I...don’t do hugs,” Crystal explains. “Not always. But, um...this is going to sound weird, but give me your hand.” JJ complies. Crystal grabs it with both of her own hands and squeezes tight. “This is the same thing to me,” she explains. “But it feels better. You don’t mind, do you?” JJ smiles, shaking his head.

After a moment, Crystal lets go. She backs away. “Goodbye!” she calls one last time. JJ waves. She turns and dashes away, eventually turning down an alleyway.

The downside of her creations coming to life? It makes the painful parts of their stories so much harder to write. Crystal can feel a hard knot of guilt and sadness in their chest. But without despair, there can’t be any bliss. Without struggle, there would be no peace. And they always ended stories on a hopeful note. They always wrote a happy ending that made everything worth it.

The creator presses her pencil to a fresh sketchbook page and quickly draws an outline of a door. It’s familiar to her, a white rectangle with a silver doorknob. When she looks up, it’s embedded on the nearby wall like it’s always been set there. She steps forward, pulling it open. On the other side is a well-lit basement room, a bed and two overflowing bookshelves, tan walls hidden by posters. She crosses through, closing the door behind her. It fades away.

[cedarmoons]

in the woods somewhere

because the world needs more stardew valley gothic. none of yall follow me for sdv, but you’re getting it anyway. don’t know if this’ll be continued or just limited to headcanons - depends on the response lol. | ao3 link

The bus ride to Stardew Valley, Nevada, from Denver takes fifteen hours and costs $249.99. The bus isn’t a Greyhound; it’s run by a company whose name you can’t remember, and you had picked it because it allowed animals on board, and it had been cheaper than the Greyhound’s $299.99 fare. Chester is sleeping in his crate, snoring softly, and you are one of five passengers on the bus.

The other passengers are all wearing sunglasses and strange, brand-new earbuds. The other passengers are all utterly unremarkable, and you forget their faces the moment you look away. It makes you wonder if they forget you, too.

The desert seems endless outside, pitch black except for the neon lights of the motels and gas stations you pass. Other than Chester, you’ve brought a guitar you don’t know how to play, your grandmother’s old carpet bag—stuffed with your favorite clothes, ratty T-shirts and shorts, and that one pair of overalls you’d bought to be ironic—and the deed to Rosebrook Farm, mailed to you from Stardew Valley after Grandpa’s death and accompanied by a letter written in his own hand. Neither of these things had had a return address, other than Stardew Valley.

You’ve read all of Grandpa’s other letters, which had first been addressed to Dad, then to both Dad and you; their delivery had slowed as the years passed, until they stopped entirely a few years before his death. But a handful of them had gone in-depth in their descriptions about how green the Valley was.

You wonder, briefly, how someplace in Nevada could ever possibly be green. By day, it’s all beige, all yellow, all orange, all dirt and scrub and mountains. By night it’s all neon, unnatural colors and abandoned gas stations.

Every one of Grandpa’s letters had included an invitation to visit the valley. Every one of Grandpa’s invitations had been crossed out with thick heavy black strokes, until the words had been almost incomprehensible, until you’d had to hold them up under the lights to actually read them.

Your phone buzzes, pausing your podcast, briefly. You glance down, brushing red hair out of your eyes, and read a text from Dad ✨. How’s the 🚌 trip so far? it reads.

almost there, you text back. just a few more hours i think. eta 830

Dad replies: 😊👍💖.

Dad loves using emojis. He’d discovered them on his own last year and now they’re everywhere in his text messages. It’s adorable.

You lower your phone and look out at the endless desert. It’s 5:10 right now. At the next rest-slash-refuel stop you’ll have to let Chester out to stretch his legs and pee. But right now, you’re halfway across the desert, a thousand miles between you and your old life in Denver, and there’s nothing you can do but resume your podcast, rest your head against the window, and watch the blue-purple horizon.

At 7:40, the bus enters a tunnel under the Calico Mountains. Orange lights shine across the empty seats; you are now the only passenger on the bus. You don’t remember when you became the only passenger on the bus, rather than one of five. You don’t remember the bus stopping at any time other than for a refuel an hour ago, when Chester had been allowed to stretch his legs and pee.

You don’t remember if the other passengers had come back after the refuel stop. You sit up, glancing over the top of your bus seat, but you only see cracked brown leather bathed in stripes of orange. So you stand, looking around; all you find in the empty seats are abandoned sunglasses and strange, brand-new earbuds.

Instinct tells you to turn away, return to your seat, not mention this to the bus driver. You are bathed in alternating colors—orange, black, orange, black. You look at the folded pair of sunglasses, wedged between the bus seat’s back and cushion.

“That’s all for you tonight,” Cecil says. Your podcast is still playing. You don’t know how many episodes you’ve listened to. “Good night, Saige. Good night.”

You glance down at your podcast, eyes widening. Cecil has always said listeners, never your name. He’s fictional; there’s no way he knows your name. Is there?

A shiver runs through your whole body. “What the hell?” you whisper. You exit out of your podcast and go to your music app, where you put on a bouncy pop song whose lyrics you can’t recall. Still shaken, you look back up, only to see that the abandoned sunglasses and strange, brand-new earbuds are all gone. You’re the only person on this bus.

You think that maybe you always been the only person on this bus.

You swallow and turn, sitting back down on your seat. You check inside the crate, heart racing, and Chester smiles up at you, tongue lolling. You smile back and straighten, turning to watch the orange lights go by. You turn up the music volume to drown out the rushing sound of the bus’s tires on the road.

Forty minutes later, the bus emerges from the tunnel to blindingly bright light. You squint, and as your eyes adjust, you are shocked to see so much green. It’s like you’re in Ohio again, where you’d lived as a teenager, surrounded by cornfields that were only broken up by farmhouses. You think that maybe the world shouldn’t be so bright, after nearly an hour spent in that tunnel. You feel that the world shouldn’t be so green, here in Nevada. Hadn’t you been surrounded by desert just an hour ago?

Ten minutes later, the bus rolls to a screeching stop. You look out the window. The land is green, misty, like someplace out of Washington or Oregon. The bus stop is the only structure you can see. Straight ahead, the road comes to a dead end. There is only forest around you, and the tunnel behind you.

You look back out your window, and see two people—a man and a woman—waiting by the treeline. You check your phone for the time. It is 8:30 exactly. You try to remember the last time you’d seen a time that hadn’t ended in 0, but can’t. A moment later, you shake your head.

Doesn’t matter. You’ll check again in a minute, and it’ll be 8:31.

You turn away from the bus window, focus on getting your stuff together. The bus driver, wearing sunglasses and strange, brand-new earbuds, helps you carry your stuff out to the bus stop. You let Chester out; he steps out of his crate, tongue lolling. He promptly trots over to a fern and pees on it.

“Good boy,” you say. Behind you, the bus rumbles. You turn and watch as the driver, his features concealed in shadow—you can’t remember his face—carefully turns the bus around and disappears into the darkness of the tunnel. Orange-and-black light seems to swallow it whole. The air smells like forest and diesel gas and exhaust.

When you turn around, the two people who had been standing at the treeline are right in front of you. You startle, catching yourself before exhaling and smiling, extending your hand. “Hi,” you say, shaking the man’s hand. “Mayor Lewis and Robin, right? I got your email.”

You remember, suddenly, the day you’d decided to quit your job as a Joja cubicle monkey and move to Stardew Valley; an hour after you’d made up your mind, you’d gotten an e-mail from Mayor Lewis, asking if you intended to take up ownership of Rosebrook Farm. Otherwise, he would like to purchase the farm from you, as Joja Inc. had been looking for new land to build a Joja Warehouse.

It had been… good timing. When you’d responded to him that yes, you did intend to move to Stardew Valley and live on Rosebrook Farm, he had told you that he and Robin, the local carpenter, would be there to welcome you.

Strange that you’re just remembering that now.

You shake that thought off. They’re perfectly normal people. You’ve just been listening to your podcasts too much.

“Saige Holland,” Mayor Lewis greets. His palm is slightly too-cold in yours. He’s smiling, you think: the edges of his iron-gray mustache are higher than the rest of it, and his eyes are crinkled in the corners. “It’s good to finally meet you! Your grandfather was one of my closest friends, you know. Why, you’re his spitting image.”

Grandpa had never mentioned Mayor Lewis. Not in his letters to you, not in his letters to Dad. His final letter is in your jacket’s pocket, but you don’t get it out. Instead, you decide to take Lewis’s word for it. You nod and finally manage to pull your hand free from his. Robin takes it immediately, shaking it firmly. Unlike Mayor Lewis, she lets your hand go after an appropriately long handshake.

“It’s been ages since we got anyone new,” Robin says, smiling. “And so young, too! You know, my son Sebastian’s about your age. Eighteen. He’ll be nineteen this winter.”

You are twenty-four. You smile and decide not to tell her this.

“Right. Um, quick question,” you say, as you shrug on your guitar case and take Chester’s crate in one hand, and your carpetbag in another. “Are we—are we still in Nevada?”

Robin and Mayor Lewis exchange a glance and burst into laughter. “Why wouldn’t we be in Nevada?” Robin asks, grinning. You think of fifteen hours’ worth of endless desert and purple-blue skies and stare at her. Robin puts her hands on her hips and inhales, deeply. “We’re just a few hours from Zuzu City!”

You’ve never heard of Zuzu City. But, to be fair, you don’t know any cities in Nevada, other than Las Vegas. You don’t even know its capital. Maybe Zuzu City is Nevada’s capital. You look around the verdant, misty forest that seems straight out of Washington or Oregon, wondering if you had somehow died, or crossed worlds under that tunnel, a world where Nevada was a pine forest state and Washington was all arid desert instead.

You can’t shake the sense of wrongness that has stuck with you since realizing you were the last passenger on the bus.

Lewis’s mustache corners lift, concealing his presumably smiling mouth. “I’ll show you the way to Rosebrook Farm. It’s not a long walk—about twenty minutes or so.”

You whistle for Chester to hurry after you, and follow Mayor Lewis into the thicket of trees that frame a dirt path. Robin cheerfully explains her role in town as the local carpenter, responsible for any upgrades or farm buildings you might need, and then takes her leave before the shadows of the trees fall upon you all.

Mayor Lewis wishes her a cheerful goodbye, and you see Robin’s smile change, almost freezing, fixing in place. It is a very strange expression. She turns on her heel and walks away, almost too quickly. Past a certain point on the path, she vanishes. You blink, squinting, wondering if Robin’s disappearance had been a trick of the light, when Mayor Lewis places a hand on your shoulder. “Come on, then,” he says. He’s smiling, though you can’t see his mouth under his mustache.

He steers you back around, guiding you into the thicket of trees whose canopies curve over the path like a natural arch. A cold breeze brushes over you both, but you are the only one who shivers. Mayor Lewis doesn’t even seem to notice. “Now, Rosebrook Farm really was something back in your grandpa’s day,” he tells you. “But nowadays it’s pretty much a wilderness. If you ever need help clearing it out, let Alex know—he’s strong, and he helped out your grandpa when he was getting on in years.”

Alex, you think, trying to remember that name. Mayor Lewis steps over a fallen log and helps you cross it as well, taking the carpet bag from you so you can scoop Chester up, tucking him under your arm as you step over the half-rotted log.

It’s a twenty minute walk to the farm, as Mayor Lewis had promised. The ground is choked with weeds and overgrown grass, fallen trees and stumps wider than you are tall, boulders taller than you and stones that reach your knees.

You can’t imagine how this was ever a farm. You stare out at the wilderness, try to superimpose a cornfield over it, and you fail, utterly. Mayor Lewis keeps walking, chuckling as he tells you to watch your step, and you think you see the shadows shift at his approach. You think you feel eyes upon your back when you pass those same shadows.

Yeah. You’ve definitely been listening to that podcast too much.

The “cabin” is actually a rundown Victorian-looking house. Patches of the roof are missing, and the white paint has turned grey and chipped. Dead trees and bushes flank the wraparound porch, and the roof windows that face you are cracked, fogged, or boarded up. Dead ivy has grown up the side of the house, nearly swallowing it in a veil of brown and death.

You stare.

Grandpa had only died ten years ago. How had the farmhouse fallen into such disrepair since then? How had the farm vanished?

Mayor Lewis crosses his arms, letting out a soft whistle. He looks at you, sees the dismay that must be naked on your face, and laughs. “Yeah,” he says, “it’s seen better days.” He looks back at the house, then the wilderness that surrounds you both. “But this farm was your grandpa’s dream, once. He loved it with all his heart. Just show it some love and it’ll start loving you back, I wager.”

Chester squirms out of your arm; you let him go. Mayor Lewis gazes up at the decrepit farmhouse and thumbs the end of his cap, then looks at you once more. His eyes are warm, kind, though the brim of his cap casts an oddly-shaped shadow over his face.

“Yep,” he says, smiling. “It’s nice to finally have a fresh face around these parts. Nobody ever leaves this valley, you know. Nobody.”

What a weird thing to say.

You stare at him, and his eyes widen. “Oh! Almost forgot.” He laughs to himself, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a large paper. He hands it over and you look down at a packet of parsnip seeds, no bigger than the palm of your hand. “Some parsnips, to help you get started. Consider it a welcome gift from everyone in Stardew Valley.”

He shows you the shipping box—a gift from Robin—explains that he’ll sell whatever’s inside, and dips the brim of his cap toward you once again. Then he takes his leave, whistling cheerfully, leaving you alone in the wilderness that has taken over Rosebrook Farm.

You sigh, whistle for Chester, and head inside. There’s a hole in the porch that you almost fall into, but catch yourself at the last moment. You glance over the edge of the hole into the darkness within. A groundhog blinks up at you, then scurries into the shadows under the porch, disappearing from you view.

There shouldn’t be groundhogs in Nevada, you think. There shouldn’t be so much green and mist and life, even if the heat matches the rest of the state. There shouldn’t be pine trees in Nevada.

You straighten and turn back to the front door of your grandfather’s—now your own—house. A piece of paper is stuck on the front of the door, which is just as gray and terrible-looking at the rest of the house. The paper itself is brighter than the paint, and the ink alternates between black and red.

WARNING! you read. This property has been winterized. The water has been shut off and antifreeze added to all toilets, sinks, and taps. Electrical appliances DO NOT WORK. Do not attempt to turn on the water or electrical facilities, as that may cause damage to this property. YOU will be responsible for paying for any damages inflicted upon this property post-winterization. Any visit to this property before it is put on the market to be sold is TRESPASSING. Violators WILL be prosecuted.

It is signed Morris, Joja Customer Service Representative.

You turn around. “Mayor Lewis?” you call. The forest seems to swallow your voice. You walk back to the stairs, mindful of the hole in the porch, and hurry to the place you’d last seen him, Chester at your heels. “Mayor Lewis!”

Nothing. There’s nothing, and no one.

You are alone. Perhaps you always have been.

“Shit,” you say, glancing down at Chester. He sits, paw raising briefly before falling back to the ground. From this angle he looks like a loaf of sand-colored bread, and you love him even more. “What now, huh?”

You have a wilderness for a farm, an abandoned house for a new home, and no one except your corgi for company.

Had there been contact info for this Morris on that piece of paper? Maybe you can talk to him, get Joja people to de-winterize this place. You hadn’t known that Joja was into real estate, but you’re not surprised. Before you’d quit your job at HR, Joja had been a grocery chain, a bank, an insurance agency, and an investment firm, just off the top of your head. Diversification and all that, but you hadn’t liked how many pies Joja Inc. had gotten its fingers in. You hadn’t liked how the Joja smile was slowly but surely appearing everywhere—on billboards, on storefronts, on websites.

And you have the deed to this property. No matter how bad it is, Morris shouldn’t have been able to winterize the house without your permission.

Determined now, you go back to the front door, only to see the winterization notice is gone, vanished, as if it had never been there. The door is still gray and chipped and flaking paint, but the brass knob turns, and the door opens. Light falls in a narrow beam across leaf-strewn wooden floors. The whole house seems to groan when you step inside, setting down your guitar case and your carpet bag by the front door.

The air feels… wrong, here. Like it is somehow full of grief and anger. It lies heavy on your skin. You take a step back, stepping onto the porch once more, and the sensation fades. Chester whines, turning in a circle, butt wiggling, looking up at you nervously. You bend down and pet his head before going back inside, ignoring the instant change in atmosphere.

There’s nothing in the foyer except a piano covered in dust and leaves and debris. Its seat is missing, and the wood finish is not great, but all of its keys are intact. You play a few notes of the Für Elise, and each note rings sour through the space.

Incredibly out of tune, then. No Beethoven tonight.

Behind you, Chester whimpers. You turn and see him sitting outside on the porch, long ears pressed flat against his ears, looking pleadingly at you. When you come back onto the porch, he stands, front paws treading nervously until you kneel down and rub his ears.

“Is it just me, or is this entire place super freaking weird?” you ask him.

Chester’s tongue lolls out, and he turns his head, licking your palm. You kiss the top of his head and stand up, going back inside and fighting a shudder at the change it atmosphere. With some coaxing, you manage to get Chester to pad over the threshold, though he doesn’t look very happy about it and returns to the porch within five minutes.

“Fine,” you tell him. “Stay there. I’ll let you know when it’s dinner time. Well. Breakfast.”

Technically his dinner had been a few hours ago, back at the rest stop on the bus route. But that doesn’t stop him; his ears perk up at the word “dinner.” A moment later, he starts dancing, paws scrabbling against the wood as he jumps, barking as he looks at you with hopeful excitement. Typical.

“I fed you an hour ago,” you tell him. “No dinner yet, buddy.”

He whines and lays down, transitioning seamlessly into his breadloaf form. He rests his head on his paws, watching you with heartbreaking sadness in his bright eyes. You sigh and shake your head at him, turning back to the mess that is your new house.

It’s time to inspect how much work you have to do.

The fireplace in the living room is choked full of ashes and dust. You find the kitchen, which is easily the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen, even discounting the obvious abandonment. It looks like the 1960s had vomited all over it—peeling pink-and-blue floral wallpaper, walnut counters with gray granite countertops, squat and rounded fridge. The sink runs, at least, and the stove turns on, and the fridge and freezer both work when you open their doors.

There is a lot of water damage in the walls and ceiling, but it’s old, not caused by the winterization of the property—if it had ever been winterized. You don’t know, and no one’s around to ask. There’s a sunroom behind the kitchen, but the windows are mostly missing, and those that aren’t are cracked or fogged.

You have no idea how to fix any of this. You have no idea who to contact to fix water damage, or replace ruined drywall, or even get a cuter kitchen.

There’s a half-bathroom, and another closet-sized space that holds an ancient-looking washing machine. No dryer. “Great,” you mutter, and go back to the foyer, climbing up the rickety steps. With every step, you hold your breath, expecting the wood to collapse under your feet, but the staircase holds, to your surprise.

The second floor is five rooms—a full-sized bathroom, complete with a shower-tub, three empty rooms, and a fourth room, the master bedroom that only has a twin-sized bed in a wire frame and a fireplace. The fireplace is just as bad as the one downstairs. The bed is a mattress and a quilt, no sheets, no decor, nothing. It’s empty.

You cannot think of any reason why there would only be a bed in this room and no other furniture. Why not take the bed, too?

You sit on the bed, bouncing on it, testing its weight. The bed and the floor both hold, which is only minimally reassuring. Chester is downstairs, but you still feel watched. When you turn your head toward the corner, you see a wooden trapdoor on the ceiling, with an attached pull-string, undoubtedly leading to the attic.

You don’t want to go to the attic.

Every survival instinct you have screams at you: do not go into the attic.

The air feels heavier, angrier, making your lungs feel too-tight in your chest. You decide you won’t go into the attic, and the sudden pressure on your chest lessens, slightly. You glance down, breathing deeply, fighting the shudder of fear that keeps trying to skitter down your spine. Squeezing your eyes shut, you stand and then kneel on the ground, bare knees scraping against old wooden floors as you look underneath and find several long shapes, their details concealed by shadow.

You reach in, and the shadows look like they move around your hand. Gritting your teeth, you grab the first item and pull out an axe. A hoe, a pickaxe, a sickle, and a dented watering can follow it, and after that, a massive worn backpack of leather. None of the tools look like they’re in any shape to be used as actual tools, but it’s the best you’ve got. When you try to put the pickaxe in the backpack, it somehow fits. You put in the rest of the tools, one at a time, and the backpack takes all of them, and when you shut the backpack flap, you get a faint impression of hunger.

“Huh,” you whisper, and pull the parsnip seeds from your pocket. You go outside with the backpack slung over your shoulder, and open the flap. The first thing you pull out is the sickle. You look at the overgrown grass and shrug. It can’t be too hard, right?

It takes you a long time to clear enough grass to plant the parsnip seeds according to the instructions printed on the back of the seed packet—one square foot for each plant. Probably two hours, if you had to guess. You frown and fish your phone from your back pocket, checking the time.

It’s 1:40.

It shouldn’t be 1:40, you think. You just got here. Time shouldn’t be moving so quickly.

You turn your phone off and go back inside to fill your watering can from the tap, then return outside to water your fifteen parsnip plants. When you check your phone again, it’s 2:00. You shake your head, filled with strange unease, and unlock your phone, opening your texting app to Dad.

You type: dad this place is weird lmao

Dad replies a few moments later: 🤔 ?

You take photos of the house, its interior, and the wilderness. Dad replies with 😱, then: It shouldn’t be that bad. Can you talk to someone to help fix it up?

You type: ik its weird. ill see if i can talk to someone. also weird q but what time is it over there?

The Read receipt of your first text says 2:00, but your phone says the time is currently 2:10. Dad replies with 2:10, and a chill sweeps down your back. Time should not be moving this quickly. Stardew Valley should not be so green, in northwestern Nevada. Winterization notifications should not disappear when you are the only one on the property.

You type: dad i think i’m in a horror movie lol, hesitate for a heartbeat, and then hit send. 

The text turns dull blue, and Dad ✨ is replaced with Sending… that blinks over and over. A few moments later, the text jerks to the side, accompanied by a red exclamation mark and the words underneath: Message failed to deliver. Send as text?

You send as text. You wait. A few moments later, the green text bubble jerks to the side, accompanied by a red exclamation mark and the words Failed to send underneath the text. It is now 2:20.

You text Dad: ok just curious

This message delivers. You try the horror movie text, but it fails to send again, and again, and again. Dad replies with his usual emojis, and the clock on your phone ticks by in increments of ten. You try the horror text one last time, and one last time it fails to send; you stop trying.

You can’t help but feel the “failed to send” was deliberate, somehow. You can’t help but feel you’ve made a terrible mistake, coming here to Stardew Valley.

You think back to Mayor Lewis, his smiling mustache and missing mouth. Nobody ever leaves this valley, he’d said.

Nobody.