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thetavolution · 19 days ago

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Death at the Holy House of Pym

Chapter 1

I wanted to write some Halloween-y stories to unwind. I also love the holiday.

I'm using my OCs/Tavs for these stories. I'm also open to feedback and even courage it!

Characters:

Paloma and Lamia are the leads. Newcomers will be introduced in time.

Summary:

Paloma and Lamia are summoned back to the orphanage they grew up in. When they arrive, they discover something dark has taken over the orphanage.

Inspired by Betrayal at Baldur's Gate, Death House, and The Devil's Backbone.

18+ (No smut, but it is meant to be horror. There is blood and gore.)

The orphanage never sent letters. Ever since Paloma and Lamia aged out of the Holy House of Pym, they had never heard a word from them. Not even to ask for money. Now there was a letter sitting on the dining room table from the Mother of the House. When it arrived, it looked like any other letter, except that its wax seal bore the mark of Ilmater.

Lamia did her best to sound detached. “So….”

“So?”

“We’re going, right?”

“We?” Paloma looked over at her. Lamia was avoiding her gaze, still attempting to seem disinterested.

“It was addressed to both of us,” Lamia pointed out.

Paloma had met Lamia in the orphanage, and Paloma had immediately adopted her as a younger sister. They understood each other in a way many didn’t.

Paloma was a drow, born in the Underdark but brought to the surface as an infant. She had no memories of her time below, but she was regarded with the same ire as any other drow. Lamia was a changeling, rejected by almost everyone.

Everyone at the orphanage knew that Paloma and Lamia had become sisters. It made sense to address the letter to both of them.

“Why would you want to go?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Paloma stared at her, silently. After a moment or two, she finally said, “You hated that place.”

Lamia spent most of her childhood bad mouthing The Holy House of Pym, an orphanage run by Ilmater painbearers.

The orphanage had always been underfunded, leading to burnt out and tired clergy. They didn’t always make the best choices. They could be short with the children, Lamia in particular. Her constant troublemaking had everyone on edge. No one knew how to handle her save for Paloma.

Lamia shrugged, trying so hard to seem noncommittal. “I’m allowed to visit places I hate. Besides, now I’m old enough to tell them where they can shove their bullshit.” She waited a beat before she added, “Up their ass.”

“Lamia.”

“That’s where they can shove it.”

Paloma sighed. “I won’t be going.”

“Why not?”

“I have no reason to.”

“I thought you liked it there.”

“It was enough at the time,” Paloma answered, truthfully. It had been enough when she didn’t know any better. “I never hated it, but I don't have a lot of love for it either.”

“And the masochists?”

“Painbearers,” Paloma corrected, though she knew it was intentional. “I haven't spoken to them in years. They always kept us at arm's length. I imagine it was so they could avoid getting their hearts broken if we were adopted or…”

It wasn't unusual for children to go missing from orphanages in Baldur's Gate. Some found themselves working for criminals or, in the worst case scenarios, killed. Orphans were a common target among the murderous. Orphans were vulnerable and often unattended. When they did go missing, very few resources went into finding them. It was up to the orphans themselves to watch over each other. You learned to trust no one but those in your cluster.

“That was their excuse. They could have tried harder.” Lamia didn’t mince her words. As far as she was concerned, they could have been more protective, and more aggressive in pursuing anyone who harmed them. The painbearers’ “hard on for suffering,” as Lamia would say, got underfoot when it came to taking care of the kids.

“True.” As a child, Paloma would have argued with her, wanting to defend the clergy. Now, as an adult with children of her own, she’d come around to Lamia’s side.

Lamia wouldn't gloat at getting Paloma to agree. She'd already been aware she'd won on this particular topic. “I wanna see how they're doing. Now that they have no power over us. Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't consider them to be worth my time.”

“You don't?”

“I built a life outside of them for myself. I have no reason to even think about them anymore.”

“Despite everything?”

“Because of everything. I owe them nothing, including my thoughts.”

Lamia considered this, and then shook her head. “I don’t do high road shit. I want them to see how great I turned out in spite of them.” “You're an escaped convict.”

“Exactly! And they thought I wouldn't amount to anything!” Lamia considered her status as a source of pride. Paloma didn't try to sway her from it.

Lamia had been in prison for the last ten years, missing a lot of her niblings’ lives. Paloma’s eldest, Orianna, was only two when Lamia was sent to prison. After years of being missing in action, the wayward aunt had ended up on Paloma’s doorstep during a thunderstorm, soaking wet. Paloma was convinced she’d let herself get that soaked on purpose, hoping to look like a pathetic wet cat to be taken in. Lamia was manipulative when she wanted to be.

Paloma knew she’d broken out of prison the moment she laid eyes on her. And Paloma knew the hulking dragonborn who stood over Lamia’s shoulder was her accomplice. (The duo eventually introduced the dragonborn as Allie.) Despite her better judgment, Paloma invited them both inside and made a place for them. As the dutiful older sister, she was far too accustomed to cleaning up after other people’s mistakes. Besides, it was her baby sister, she had to help.

Paloma didn’t reveal that she knew the truth of their situation. Lamia painted some tall tale about getting released for good behavior. That story would only work on someone who didn’t know Lamia. Paloma wanted to see how long it would take for Lamia to come clean on her own.

It only took a few weeks before Lamia admitted she was a fugitive. When Paloma said that she knew the whole time, Lamia couldn’t be upset or surprised. Paloma just knew things. Lamia promised they’d only stay a short while. Paloma knew that was a lie, too. She’d already prepared for an indefinite stay.

The fugitives became a permanent fixture. Paloma put them to work helping around the house. Raising kids in a house with two convicts wasn’t ideal, but they didn’t live in an ideal world and she trusted Lamia. When it came to family, Lamia was loyal to a fault.

“Come with me,” Lamia begged.

“Why can't you go alone?”

“It looks better if we're both doing great, which we are.”

“Are we doing great?”

Paloma knew the truth: Lamia could face down creatures ten times her size or a fleet of Githyanki, but she couldn't go back to the House of Pym alone. She needed her big sister.

“Allie can watch the kids,” Lamia added.

“No.” That was one mistake Paloma would never repeat again, much to the children's dismay. They hadn't seen anything wrong with the wanton destruction Allie encouraged. The kids considered mom to be a buzzkill.

Orianna had dramatically told her that she was “stifling Auntie Allie.” The eldest Silkflower child had discovered that it’s important to “be yourself” and hadn’t grasped a lot of the nuance of that yet.

“Fine, the old woman next door can watch them,” Lamia said, exasperated.

“Alright.” Paloma could see this was important to her. “I’ll ask Mrs. Rosemaul tonight when she gets home. I want to take her some bread anyway.” She had emphasized the woman’s name, trying to shift Lamia from calling her the old woman next door. Paloma wanted to instill some kind of manners into her.

Lamia smiled. “On that note,” Lamia pushed herself out of her chair. “I’m gonna go mess with the kids.”

Paloma smiled as Lamia exited in a hurry. Paloma really did consider herself lucky to have her sister back in her life. As she turned to the stove to finish preparing dinner, she heard the familiar screams of her kids being “terrorized” by their aunt. The screams were followed by giggles. Paloma couldn’t help but laugh.

Later that evening, armed with freshly baked bread and cheese, Paloma asked “that old woman next door” if she could sit for the children the night Paloma and Lamia would be at the Holy House of Pym.

Mrs. Rosemaul agreed to do it, rejecting the small stipend Paloma tried to pay her. The older woman had become a widow at a young age and raised her children alone. She understood a single parent’s plight. It didn’t hurt that Mrs. Rosemaul was lonely and loved having the children around. They breathed life into her aging bones and that was payment enough.

It would only be two days later when Paloma left the children in Mrs. Rosemaul’s care. She and Lamia then set out on the road toward their old stomping grounds. It had been at least a decade, but the way felt familiar.

Lamia confidently led the way to the orphanage, possibly empowered by Paloma’s presence. Paloma clutched a weave basket in her hand, the soft raffia giving a slight crunch under the pressure. She had refused to come empty handed, so she brought a few bottles of wine as a gift for their hosts.

The winding hill the orphanage sat on no longer felt so mountainous. It was still a trek though. As they climbed the hill, they were followed by the sickly sweet smell of heliotropes, a familiar childhood scent. Trees lined the dirt path that would lead them to the Holy House’s front door.

Paloma stopped a moment, noticing a familiar tree. It stood out among the others, as it was covered in carvings. When they were children, they had picked an enormous oak to carve little messages and names in. It looked like the tradition had died after they left. Had the children carried on, the tree most likely would have been a toothpick by now.

“Do you think it’s still there?”

Paloma jumped at the sound of Lamia’s voice. She whipped around to see Lamia was only a few feet behind her.

“Our names,” Lamia clarified.

Paloma returned her gaze to the tree. It didn’t take long to find them. She was amazed they had lasted so long. She ran her thumb over her own name, feeling the roughness of the bark and sharp edges caused by the carving. Her penmanship had improved since those days. She lingered a moment before pulling her hand away.

“Come on, we should keep going before it gets dark,” Paloma said, returning to the road. The sun had already started to set. There wouldn’t be much more daylight left.

Lamia quickly caught up to her. “Remember that druid kid who cried when he saw all the carvings?”

“Bobbin.”

“His name was Bobbin?”

“You don’t remember?”

Lamia responded with an insouciant shrug. “In my defense, he wasn’t around for very long.”

“He aged out of the orphanage with us.”

“Huh, I guess we just didn’t talk very much.”

“We talked to him every day,” Paloma’s voice rose as she grew more incredulous. “He asked you to help him ask out that girl from town. He tried to invite you to the wedding! How could you forget him?”

“Maybe he shouldn’t have been such a background character if he wanted me to notice him.”

Paloma let out a deep breath. She wouldn’t keep pressing for the sake of her own sanity. It’s not like Bobbin would ever know about this conversation. Thank the gods for that.

It wasn’t too much longer before the towering orphanage came into view. Even now, the place made Paloma feel so small. Its walls were made of dark limestone and the steepled roof was covered in black tiles. The long, thin windows were darkened, making it impossible to peak inside.

It was possible that the painbearers were reading stories by the fireplace, letting it be their only light. One of the fond memories Paloma had of her childhood were of those nights. She hoped the tradition had continued on.

The two sisters approached the wooden doors. Paloma reached for one of the silver knockers.

“Wait.” Lamia grabbed her wrist. She pointed to the door handle. Paloma looked down to see a bloody hand print just above the doorknob. Paloma’s blood ran cold. She grabbed the handle, shocked when the door simply opened with a slight push. It should have been locked. Paloma pushed the door open wide. The little bit of daylight left poured in through the doorway.

“Gods….” Paloma’s heart dropped into her stomach. She felt Lamia grab onto her arm for support.

Blood. It was all over the floor, the walls, and the antique furniture. Pieces of skin and gore littered the entryway. Paloma spotted a chunk of scalp on the corner of a table. Someone had lost it in what must have been a horrifically violent fight. The stench of death was overpowering.

One thought immediately came to Paloma.

“Where are the children?”

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