#watch me post a five line poem on the 31st lol

[lapinlunaire-games]

Halloweek Day 1: Lantern | Halloweek Prompts

The blurry orange halo resolves itself into a lantern, struggling valiantly against the wind and rain, as it flickers over A's dishevelled, soaking wet body.

tw: mild shock gore

You're nearly to the door when Gordon's voice breaks the silence, the sound of your name from their lips more sombre than you've heard it in a long time.

They aren't looking at you when you turn around, focused instead on the fog roiling outside the windowpanes. Two fingers worry the brocaded edge of their waistcoat, and if you didn't know them so well, you would have missed the barest pursing of their lip before A adds, "Sleep well."

At your hesitation, they press the edges of their mouth up into something so close to a smile you nearly believe it — but you know them too well. There's something A isn't telling you. And because you know them so well, you can read the resolution written behind the set of their brow and in their jaw just as clearly: that particular secret is buried too deep for you to coax out of them. For now, at least. 

A crack of lightning jolts you awake, your eyes snapping open just in time to be blinded by the brilliant white flash of the storm. In that instant of flat, incandescent illumination, you notice two things: the window is ajar, and there is a pale, severed hand lying limp across the sill.

Darkness floods the room and your head spins in the lurid afterimage imprinted on your eyes, dizziness made no better as you scramble out of bed and stumble to the window. Rain lashes at you with all the ferocity of a feral cat as you dodge the shutter before it can bang into your skull, snatch the severed hand, and squint out into the storm. 

Your plan is immediately disrupted by the feeling of wet skin crumpling in your grip: a wordless yell escapes you as you drop the hand in shock; it falls to the floor with a pathetic plop, dripping rainwater into the polished floorboards. Another flash of lightning, this one farther off in the distance, illuminates the room and reveals the hand's true nature: a fawn-coloured leather glove slumps before you, two of the fingertips torn and a jagged tear running from the bottom of the thumb across the palm. 

The window slams shut — you yank your fingers back just in time to save them —, the crack of the shutter augmented by a crashing round of thunder that rattles in your bones. You turn back to the window and immediately press your face against the glass, eyes narrowing in disbelief: out on the moor, bobbing wildly, is a mote of flickering orange light, growing steadily larger and stronger — approaching the manor.

The realisation comes with a twin spiral of curiosity and apprehension — the Veil remains still at the edges of your vision, making no move to gloss over the light. What Mundane force would be out in a storm of this magnitude — and what could have possessed it to do so at all? 

With another suspicious glance at the ripped glove, you stare back out the window. It takes a few moments through the torrential rain, but you lock back onto the orange dot — some kind of torch, or a lantern. It's much larger now, though you can't tell how much the illusion of closing distance is aided by the downpour blurring the edges of the flame. The storm howls and the window breaks free once again; icy rain lashes your face, driving down into the gap between your collar and skin with a fury. 

When you lean out to yank the window shut again, the dot pauses before resuming its journey, jerking frenetically as it grows nearer. Taken aback, you ignore the pelting rain to stare at it; at this pace and through the colourless blur of rain, it resembles nothing more than a puppet steered by a small, frustrated child. It occurs to you that perhaps Gordon could provide you with the context whose absence seems ever more pressing; with a last check to ensure the window is securely latched, you step carefully over the sopping glove and make your way down the hall to their room.

The first sign of something wrong is how much louder the rain sounds as you approach; the second is the cold, damp air creeping from the door — the third, you note with no small amount of alarm, is that the door is fully open. Lightning strikes again with a bout of roaring thunder, conveniently illuminating the rumpled sheets and thrown-back covers of A's empty bed. 

Propriety cast aside, you rush in, eyes darting over granular shapes in the darkness as you curse and try to find signs of A in the seconds of light afforded to you by the storm. There's no blood, no signs of a struggle.

Sharp, freezing liquid strikes your back like a whip and you whirl around to the window — it's thrown open, panel caught firmly in the thick curtain. Whether intentionally or not, you can't tell, but it's clear that A's window has been in this state for a while: the curtain is dark with liquid and the floor is slick. A's dressing gown is slung over a chair opposite the bed, looking rather forlorn. You stare around the room again, trying to piece everything together.

A shriek pierces the air, followed by a familiar voice, and your body moves instinctively; you're leaping down the stairs before you realise it, shouting Gordon's name. Mrs. Starrish appears with a candle, wild-eyed and frazzled, as you round the stairs, but the only response you can give to her alarmed questions is an urgent "Fetch bandages!"

Silvery threads follow you as you burst out the front doors and into the manor grounds, and your concern boils over into panic. A is Mundane and so is everyone else at Tamerisk — if the Veil is at work here, something is very, very wrong. The orange dot is nowhere to be seen, but you can hear someone sobbing, between your own roars of A's name — the Veil writhes into a circle in the corner of your eye, ringing a faint torch.

There's a curious burn in your lungs as you break into a full run; your legs are too cold and wet to feel the fire building in the muscle or the squelch of mud underfoot, but something is blazing in your veins, setting your limbs trembling as you race towards the light. The blurry orange halo resolves itself into a lantern, struggling valiantly against the wind and rain, as it flickers over A's dishevelled, soaking wet body.

They turn to you, eyes wide and bloodshot, as you skid to a stop and grasp at them. "He was here!" A shouts, gesturing wildly with the lantern; they don't seem to notice the chatter of their teeth or the way their frame shakes with exertion from the mere act of holding up the lantern. "He—let go, I have to find him!"

They yank their arm away, but you catch it again before they can take off in any of the directions their gaze is roving over. "Who?!"

For a moment, you think the crashing of the storm has erased your demand, but then A's eyes land on you again, aghast. "Don't make me say it! Not you, too!"

A makes to rip their arm from your grasp again, but you see them tense before they move; the solid weight of their body writhes furiously against your grip, every step back towards the manor a struggle as you haul them across the muddy grass. The lantern crashes to the ground, the shattering of the panes drowned out completely by the rain and A's shouts. You pause and glance down in trepidation, taking an elbow to the gut for your pains, but the rain extinguishes the flame before it can spread, leaving only the lightning to glitter off the broken glass underfoot. 

When you manage to get A back into the house, their mother is waiting, imperious as ever despite the curling rags wound in her hair. Lady Gordon sniffs suspiciously at A's shivering body and offers you a partially-thawed glare. A ignores her, staring into the crackling fire with a haunted pallor staining their face.

"The matter of your behaviour will be discussed in the morning," Lady Gordon glowers. "I encourage you not to find yourself unwell, A. Or accompanied." And with that, she sweeps out of the room with a pointed glance at you.

Slowly, you rise as well, unsure if A echoes their mother's sentiments — a pale, rosy-knuckled hand shoots out and seizes yours, gripping so tightly you flex your fingers in involuntary protest. A looks up, lips parting, and stammers, "I—please."

Their eyes dart around the room, mouth working silently before crumpling. "Don't go," A whispers, eyes locked onto yours. "I can't tell you why, but I can't...if he comes back, I'll see him and I can't. He's in this house, he's in my blood, he's in my head..." 

“Who?” you ask again, already fearing the silence you can see pooling like spilled ink over A’s face.

They swallow and shake their head silently, fingers tightening on yours. You fall asleep with the image of a single, flickering candle flame imprinted on your eyelids. Somewhere in the listless state between sleep and dream, its shape twists into that of a man. He turns his gaze upon you, and when you wake, you cannot recall his face.