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Project Skeptic | Chapter 1

Read from the Start | Read on AO3

Summer 2019

The first thing that she realized was the taste of blood. It was subtle at first, a light dance across her tongue with a metallic edge. But then it was dry, dry enough to make her want to dart her tongue out against her lips and dull the throbbing edge. She had a headache, that was observation number two. Number three came in the form of the thick restraint against her wrists, burning and unrelenting.

You don’t ever trust a stranger, Emily. Her mothers’ words would echo through her mind like a steel drum against an empty corridor. When she was younger it never made any sense. The mailman was just as strange to her as someone in a dark hoodie with unkempt hair. If they didn’t offer up a handshake was she supposed to remain on high alert? Katherine Junk would be spiteful right about now. Spiteful or worried.

Emily pulled her head back, drawing in a sharp breath as an undeniable ache pulsed against her spine. She was in a chair, one that creaked and groaned under her weight. Her consciousness was barely there but started to spark; there was a fire nearby, she could smell it and feel its heat on the side of her face. The room had a sweet and floral scent to it.

“Good morning, Sunshine.”

Loud. God that voice was loud and oh so familiar. Emily wasn’t fully there, her heartbeat deafening in her ears as she made a jumble of noise past her lips. Her whole body was stiff, and she blinked a few times to get used to the coloring of her surroundings, dark and rustic, and she could swear up and down that there was a Christmas tree situated in the corner. It had multi-colored lights and way too much tinsel. It had been meticulously applied branch by branch.

“I hit you pretty hard there, huh?” The voice was calling attention and Emily blinked three more times before focusing. The figure was, in fact, shaded in a deep orange that flickered against the floor sporadically. She was dressed casually, normally. Not like someone who would kidnap a person; a dark green sweater and jeans that contrasted from her deep ginger hair. Her eyes, even in the light from the fire, were sparkling like broken waves. “You’re okay though, you’re strong.”

Emily drew in an easier breath and clenched her jaw, which was sore too. Claire, Callie maybe even Chelsea Emily’s mind was searching for a name to the face. It was her next-door neighbor; she can remember the conversations they’ve had at the mailboxes and the golden lettering on their forest green door. She recalls that this woman has a wife, a music producer that’s too grumpy for her own good, but her name. God, what was her name?

“What’s going on?” Emily asked, swallowing the bloodied taste in her mouth. Her voice was dry enough to be unrecognizable. “Where am I?”

“That’s classified, I’m afraid. But we’ll get to that depending on how well you take this.”

“Take what? Being kidnapped?” She let out a small groan and rolled her neck again. “Who are you?”

She couldn’t remember much; the walk home from work, the elevator ride up with her neighbor nodding and asking her about her plans for the rest of summer. Emily explained she would work like she always did and struggled to find her keys in her bag. She remembers an earth-shattering pain in her temple and a warm sensation before everything went dark.

The woman let out a deep sigh as if Emily was inconveniencing her. Maybe she was at this point. She sat down on the edge of a leather reading chair that was positioned right across from the wooden seat that Emily was fastened to. It had a large studded back and reminded Emily of something that would accompany a glass of scotch and imported cigar wrapped in gold.

“I’m Chloe, I didn’t’ technically kidnap you, and this is a secret organization dedicated to keeping the holiday season sacred.” She had rushed out her words like a band-aid and Emily wasn’t sure if this woman was completely nuts or if she wasn’t exactly hearing her right over the pounding in her ears.

None of this registered, however, so Emily simply said, “But it’s only June.”

“Oh, I know,” Chloe slumped back in her seat completely, letting her hands hang over the sides of the chair. “We’re so behind schedule. Recruitment was supposed to be in May but being so close to you proved very difficult. There’s a lot we have to catch you up on, Emily.”

“Can you-?” Emily tugged at her restraints, trying not to flinch too hard at the stinging pain that moved through her skin as she shifted. The woman lifted her eyebrows and moved forward, almost as if she had forgotten entirely.

“Yeah, sorry about this. We’re not usually so violent but it’s not every day that you refuse orders from the big guy. You know, don’t you? You work for some big television company.”

Chloe talked too fast, Emily decided. She had an innocent edge about her, and at this point, she didn’t’ care if she had to keep the conversation up. She reached to the side table and pulled a golden crafted letter opener, gently trying to saw through the rope. It came undone easily and Emily let out a relieved breath she didn’t’ know she was harboring. She rubbed the raw skin, eyes searching the room.

It looked like the inside of a cabin that her family used to rent by the lake, from the stone figures all the way to the throw that was draped over the edge of the chair Chloe sat in. It was too eerie, too familiar. There wasn’t a door, that same flutter bubbling in Emily’s chest.

“You’re taking this remarkably well.”

“You hit me in the head. I’m afraid I don’t’ believe you.”

She was scared to move her fingers up to her temple. She was sure it was sticky. She could practically feel the blood that has soaked into the collar of her shirt. Instead, she resided into staring into blue eyes that looked silver.

“Do you believe in Santa, Emily?”

Did she? It was a loaded question. The fiction of it all was ripped away violently when she woke up to her mother’s hand wedged under her pillow when she lost her first tooth. She was a light sleeper. Emily remembered crying as she asked her mom about a bunny who hid eggs and a man who delivered toys in exchanged for burnt cookies and room temperature milk.

“You stopped believing when you were six years old. After that Christmas didn’t’ feel the same anymore, and your mom would let you pick out what you wanted at the store, didn’t’ she?” Chloe asked, “You knew what was under the tree every single year until the tree vanished completely and was replaced by a card with a fifty-dollar bill in it.”

Emily slumped back in her seat, because yes, that was exactly what happened. It didn’t’ feel so sad when her mother told her she was going on a cruise instead of sticking around and dealing with the stress of the holiday season. The way Chloe told the story deflated her. A story that she hadn’t talked about, not even to Aubrey.

“Say you are telling the truth,” Emily started “Say you’re apart of a secret organization that rotates around Christmas… what do I have to do with it?”

The younger woman wasn’t sure why she was entertaining the idea. It might be the pounding in the side of her head or the fact that her bubbly little neighbor had a complete backstory on how her Christmases had played out, but she simply dug her fingers into her sore shoulder and looked at Chloe was expectancy.

“The world is changing, Emily. It’s growing bigger, some would even argue better, by each day. For the past five years it’s been too much for one man with a couple of reindeer to handle, you know? The old guys retired.”

“Is he now?”

There was sarcasm leaking past her voice. It wasn’t intended, but it spilled out like a pool of steam over fresh hot chocolate. This room smelled too much like cinnamon, Emily decided.

“He is. And when he’s away he trusts in this organization, Project Skeptic, to deliver presents, grant wishes, and keep the Christmas spirit alive.” Emily swallowed roughly. Her mouth still tasted metallic and Chloe’s words hadn’t yet settled with her. “We’ve kept an eye on you, Emily. We know that all you want is to get that feeling back.”

December 2019

Emily pressed her stomach to the cold of the wooden floor, it’s edge soaking through her jumpsuit in a simple motion. It was the type of cold that she remembered as a child when her bed was given to her older cousin from Kansas and she drooled all over her pillow. She hadn’t even bothered to wash it before throwing it into the trash. Emily had slept on the hardwood flooring for two weeks.

Now she was struggling to hold her breath, letting it catch in her throat as she stared up at the windowpane above her. The sheer white curtains caught the light of a passing car, one that stalled- she could hear the crunch of tires against gravel and practically smell the gasoline that rested in the tank. She pressed her cheek close to the laminate and listened. It eventually pulled away, breath short as she was bathed in darkness once more.

Emily brought her frame back up to a standing position, careful not to let her form show in the large bay window; the house was normal, a large pre-lit Christmas tree that was filled with family ornaments made from Styrofoam cups, the angel on top that seemed to stare her down, and the plate of cookies that were stacked high enough to not only feed one reindeer but twelve.

She didn’t dwell too much on her surroundings. Sometimes it was different. The house wasn’t as decorated, or the tree was a live one. Very seldom was it just a barren wasteland with nothing more than cold granite countertops and a fire that was unlit.

Emily reached against her belt, pulling a simple laser pointer from its leather confines. She felt blindly for the little switch, the thing smooth under her fingertips. She pointed it at the ground, drawing a neat little line with its electric blue light. She could almost taste the charge in the air as she squatted down, reaching her grasp into the clutches of the glow.

This type of technology had scared Emily at first; a simple laser pointer that created a hole in the void to grasp Christmas presents that had already been pre-made. Now it was like second nature, a warmth engulfing her skin as she unshelled packages wrapped in paper with little candy canes and bushels of holly.

Emily learned not to question the size or weight, or the elegantly written Santa on the paper. Instead, she questioned other things: How many parents were in the house? Did the kids have a habit of staying awake? How full was the moon and how visible would it make her?

There was a subtle growl that cut through her little atmosphere like a butter knife through a grilled steak. It leaked grease and edged a deep feeling in the pit of Emily’s stomach. Were there any dogs?

She moved her hand over the line of electricity and plunged herself into innate darkness once more, slowly standing as her palms faced the floor. She could hear the rumble in the German shepherd’s chest, practically feel it close to the wooden floor. Its jowls dripped, hot saliva fell in thick strands.

Emily kept her eyes on the animal as it took a step forward. It was blacker than brown, and its eyes caught the green lights of the tree behind her. If it wasn't cheap plastic, the scent would be seeping into her clothing. The dog licked his gums, stepping closer.

Before she could protect her throat, the lights flashed on. They were almost worse than being mauled by a house pet. Her fingers moved against her stare to block out the stage glow, to blink away the afterlight that dominated her vision. There was an alarm too, a loud one that should signal fire but instead brought defeat.

“Emily!”

She let out a deep groan before anything else, slumping her shoulders and shaking her head. Even through the light, she could see everyone rushing around, could hear the door that stood next to the windowpane open and close- a simple little house rigged to produce nightmares.

“We have talked about this,” Chloe let the door fall behind her, “You need to check your compact before you get into the house that way you’ll know if-“

“There are any animals on the perimeter, I know.”

“If you know, then why didn’t’ you?”

Chloe didn’t’ wait for her to answer, instead, she clicked her tongue and had her follow from the faux room and into a standard hallway. Standard in the way that Emily could walk into any building on Wall Street and come in contact with the same generic paintings of beach scenes to make it feel a little less frigid in the winter. The red fire alarms stood out against tan colored walls. Chloe Beale looked ragged and tired.

“As much as I love you, Emily, you’re not going in on your own.” She finally said, breaking the silence. “Do you even have your compact?”

Did she? Emily felt against her waist and she did. It was easy to run her fingers along the extensive little device. It held everything she needed; the ages of the children in the house, what they wanted, if there was any unexpected company like a guard dog- even if it was simulated.

“Of course, I do, Chlo” Emily stopped in the middle of the empty corridor, pressing her fingers against the woman’s elbow. The Kevlar on her black jumpsuit was cool under her touch. “You know how I operate. We’ve been through this training a million times. I’m just… nervous, I guess.  A lot is riding on this.  Making and breaking Christmas.”

Chloe’s cerulean eyes softened at this. She looked tired. Her skin was pale under the neon lights and her jaw was clenched- nothing like it had been before, the stress of the holidays edging against her frame and making it stiff. “You’re telling me. This is my block- hell, it’s my city. But it’s no excuse to forget what you’ve learned.” She tapped the compact with her fingers. “What we’ve taught you. Right?”

Emily allowed herself to smile softly at Chloe. “Right,”

“Go get changed. We’re meeting 007 tonight for dinner.”

“Oh, Chloe I am not third-wheeling with you and your wife again.” Emily all but whined “She hogs all the noodles. Besides, don’t you two ever get tired of me tagging along?”

Chloe rolled her eyes in a dramatic fashion, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked intimidating in the small hallway. “First of all, Beca is the youngest of three, she’d bite your hand off for those noodles. And second of all, no we don’t get sick of you hanging around because you’re family now.”

“You don’t have to take pity on me,” Emily scoffed playfully “Just because my girlfriend is halfway across the country on business 90% of the time does not mean you have to suffer through me at the end of the couch during movie night.”

“We invited you, end of story. Go, get cleaned up.”

Emily saw no benefit in arguing with Chloe Beale. She was already high strung enough as it was, her back straight and eyes always trained on the little clipboard of hers. It sent a quick twinge of guilt through Emily, forgetting her compact like that didn’t help anyone- especially not the crew that set the whole elaborate thing up in the first place. Fake snow and a rabid hologram of German Shepards.

Everything that Emily would have chalked up to insanity seven months ago. Seven long months of working her day job, only to slip into a dingy warehouse on the east side of town. Scanning a badge, she hid among old candy wrappers and half-used Chapstick. No one would go searching in there.

The training had been embedded in her head, by Chloe herself, mostly. She sat in a classroom with unlimited servings of hot chocolate stirred with candy canes. Something she quickly grew tired of- cringing away from the sugary drink now. She had taken the defense courses and the Child Protocol lectures. But her anxiety continued to spike in rebellion, Christmas approaching fast.

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket, Chloe narrowing her eyes “You can carry your phone, but not your compact?”

Emily ignored the comment and stared at the screen. “Oh, Shit.”

“There a problem?” Chloe asked.

“Nothing major, my mother just informed me that we’re having Christmas at my house this year.”

Her voice was calm, but a flutter of anxiety licked at the back of her mind. That was one of the first things that they had taught her- no connections, plenty of excuses. Most of the people here didn’t’ have anyone depending on them for the holiday season. No obliged trips to church or brunches consisting of runny eggs.

For the past two years Aubrey had to work through Christmas and Emily would travel a few miles out of the city to be with her family for a few hours before she facetimed her girlfriend and they shared a long call littered with apologies, and Emily explaining that it was just a day.

“Oh,” Chloe sounded out evenly “You know what, no big deal. I’ve hidden this from Beca our whole marriage. Some would say it’s concerning how oblivious she is.”

Emily hummed in agreeance. Chloe was shockingly calm about the situation- about having to sneak out right after dinner on Christmas eve. About breaking into houses until the sun rose behind morning clouds.

Chloe must have sensed her worry, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “It’ll be fine Em. Now, go get changed.  She’s probably taken out half the restaurant at this point.”

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Summer of 89′ | 004

Read from the Start | Read on AO3

Declan Wolfe had been the bane of Beca Mitchell's existence for three whole years before her resolve finally began to crack in the slightest. That’s 1,095 days and 26,280 hours of her life she would never get back- but she wasn’t counting. Declan had one of those faces that would just sell whatever someone wasn’t in the market for.

He had once launched into a story about his foray into the door to door salesmen industry during their lunch hour. Buzzing like a gnat trapped against a windowpane. Beca went from wanting to gently open it to the summer air, to wishing she had a human-sized fly swatter dipped in bug spray.

But his stupid peppered hair and somber look had grown on her. The way he would listen intently when she spoke, the way he would only wear suits despite both of them taking up employment in a radio station where no one would see his efforts. The way he searched for the strange and other-worldly, just like her.

Declan Wolfe wasn’t so horrible. Not after he got her roses for her birthday and split a cheesecake with her when his wife had to leave for a work emergency, catching the nice flight from Maine to Tulsa. She even found herself picking him up coffee for their ungodly hours in the office.

“Right, I’m not completely dismissing the idea,” He said from his seat across the small table. The On-Air sign shaded his features in a bloody red. “I’m just saying that it’s human instinct to look away from something like that. The movie was unrealistic.”

“Oh, I beg to differ. Haven’t you ever been stuck in traffic after an accident? Half of the reason you can’t get to work is because they’re cleaning up the scene, the other is because all the drivers roll down their window in morbid curiosity.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve never covered your eyes during a horror movie.”

Beca leaned back in her seat, playing with the cord to the headphones strapped around her neck. This studio was quaint- a small round table that housed their equipment and two laptops to look up information in a matter of seconds. There was a glass window leading to the two producers that alternated out depending on the day. Alec Wexler gave her the signal to keep talking through the glass.

“When you go into a horror movie, you expect to get scared. That’s fun. When you see a fire truck whizzing by on the freeway a part of you wants to chase after it.” Beca countered “It has everything to do with the adrenaline, man.”

Declan laughed and shook his head. The two of them would banter between today’s greatest hits mixed with a splash of earlier decades. The station seemed to like the appeal of co-hosts that didn’t always get along, ones that weren’t afraid to tap into deeper topics while drivers sat bumper to bumper.

“Okay, if you’re so sure of yourself, let's take a few calls. See what Maine’s wonderful residents have to say about that.” He scooted forward and pressed the first button lit among many. Each phone line labeled with masking tape and most blinking rapidly. “You’re on with MER9, what’s your name?”

Beca tended to hold her breath during the first call. They had an intern from the nearby college screen the callers, even give them a little sheet with general information on it before they were greenlit. It was to avoid incidences- a system they refined greatly after Beca was hired as a co-host.

She had crawled into her car after her first day, drove the nearest parking lot, and cried until her throat was raw and she had nothing more to give. She could still feel the grooves of the steering wheel and the way the frigid air of her hometown snuck through a cracked window. All of her regretted flying back across the country at that moment. After the countless calls branding her a killer, asking if she had any remorse.

Four years later and her palms still sweat profusely when Declan pressed that little button next to line one.

“Hi, my names Jenny,” She said politely a part of Beca relaxing instantly. “And I just wanted to say, I agree with Beca on this one.”

“Oh, I like you already.”

“People want to know what’s going on in the world, or just on their street, ya know? That’s why we have news coverage of stuff like this and reporters that nearly kill themselves to get the next story. Which is why they make movies about it too”

Beca smiled triumphantly at Declan “Alright, thank you so much for your clearly correct answer, Jenny. I think it’s time we hear from another caller?”

She pressed the button for line two, settling into the routine they did every morning between the greatest pop and rock hits that the world had to offer. She had gotten used to the early call times and the scent of popcorn coming from the office kitchen, despite the fact that day had barely broken.

“Uh yeah,” A male voice, deep and scratchy filled the line. “I actually have a question for Beca.”

Declan lifted an eyebrow “Go right ahead.”

There was a silence that took over the studio, Beca casting a wary glance towards Alec. The producer simply shrugged and adjusted his headset, not bothering to tell her to switch the lines or cut to something different completely. Instead, they stared at each other and he lilted his head to the side.

“You were basically in a horror movie yourself, weren’t you?”

The man sitting across from her opened his mouth to speak but bit his tongue and watched her carefully. It wasn’t a statement outright claiming she had done something; not like the messages written on her car in spray paint, or the letters from listeners demanding that she was terminated. It was haunting and slow, curiosity at the crumpled-up cars on the side of the road.

“I… suppose so, yes.” She shifted, “That was a long time ago.”

“Thirteen years this Saturday.”

Beca struggled to laugh it off. “As I said, a long time. But that doesn’t’ change my stance on the topic. Stuff like that sells, it’s human nature to flock towards the unknown. Why do you think I wake up at four am every weekday? It has nothing to do with bigfoot sightings, I can tell you that much.”

“Do you remember what you did that night?”

“Ah,” Her attempt at steering the conversation away from her past had failed miserably, and Declan turned towards their producer with a strained look on his face. The producer wasn’t looking up, instead, he was scribbling something down on a piece of notebook paper. “That’s something that’s hard to forget.”

Alec slammed his message against the window. Keep him on the line. Tracking.

That’s just what Beca needed, another restraining order. It would have been easier to just hang up, to pass this off as someone else who made her whole entire body feel numb like black water was once again filling her lungs and clouding her vision. Like the muck of a lake was crawling between her toes and the salty taste of rancid water coated her tongue. She swallowed.

“How could someone do something like that?” He asked, voice raspy.

“Out of self-defense.” Declan answered automatically “She was seventeen. She did exactly what she thought was right. She got out of there. You all know the story by now, God it’s certainly written in a million different ways. She didn’t kill anyone.”

She didn’t’ know how many times she had to hear those four words. She had fired a gun, she had felt the kickback in her wrist. She had watched the blood spill against loose dirt. But in the end, she hadn’t taken a life. Not at that camp. She almost lost her own.

“Maybe not herself.” The man spoke coolly “But doing nothing is doing something.”

The line went dead then, and Beca shoved the headphones down to her neck as she moved away from the microphone and drew in a cold breath. Declan stumbled through another awkward statement before flipping on the music, followed by a string of commercials that would give Beca more time.

Alec burst through the doors, having removed his own headset. He looked frazzled, blonde hair falling into his eyes as he crouched down in front of Beca. The On-Air sign buzzed against the side of his features like the wrong side of the sun.

“Hey, you alright? That dude was just some fuckin creep. I don’t even know how he got through the interns.”

“They're interns, that’s why.” Declan proclaimed as he paced against the small space, avoiding the table. “I want all of them fired. Replaced. Whatever.”

“No,” Beca drew in a shaky breath, putting her hand on Alec’s. “It’s okay. It was a mistake I’m sure.”

Alec watched her carefully as she excused herself to get some air. The damp morning wind drawing in from the nearby docks. A funny place to put a radio station. She could smell the murky water and hear the seagulls searching for their morning meals. The light just peeking over the horizon, a blue hue filling the air.

Beca needed a cigarette.

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Summer of 89′ | 003

Read from the start | Read on AO3

There was an undertone of bleach in the air. Something that didn’t hit Chloe the second she walked through the sliding doors. Instead, it was gradual. Creeping up the back of her throat and clouding her lungs until she couldn’t recognize it at all. It used to bother her, the scent of bleach.

Everything was too clean in the hospital for her liking. She had grown up in a home that wasn’t afraid to get dirty. Mud was tracked against the kitchen floor when a good heaping of rain was dumped on their ranch property. The tub was rimmed with a line of black after every bath as a child- because dirt was natural. Messes were natural, or at least they were when it was anywhere but here.

Chloe closed her umbrella, letting the stray drops of water slide down her hand and past the cuff of her jacket until the cold streak touched her elbow. She dug her boots into the black mat right past the doors, leaving behind the very dirt she was self-conscious enough not to leave tracked against the Hospital lobby.

It was relatively desolate considering the full moon hung in the sky like a golden ornament on a Douglas fir. It wasn’t peak flu season, and Chloe thanked the higher powers for that. But that didn’t’ stop everyone from faking coughing fits and begging her to test for a fever one more time because their temperature was sure to have spiked over the last two minutes.

She punched the code into the worn-down pad next to the second set of doors and was met with another long white corridor lined with shy wooden doors. The sound of machines whirring, and IV’s dripping carried on like white noise. She walked with confidence.

“Doctor-“The voice echoed against the walls as one of her latest interns trotted up next to her. Her magenta scrubs stuck out like a beacon in a white sea. She quickly flipped the metal chart back to reveal a paper. “I’m so glad you’re here. I was wondering if you could take a look at the medications given to 207. Doesn’t seem right to me.”

She was annoyed. She would have been annoyed at anyone at this moment, reminding her of a job she kept for one summer at a sandwich shop. Customers came so frequently that that same disgruntled edge of dissatisfaction pulled at her. Still, she nodded and glanced at the chart.

Sixty-four-year-old Damion Coves. A repeat offender of the Emergency room, once or twice a month if Chloe could remember. A strong reason she had given the patient to her Intern in the first place. Sometimes it was a broken arm, but most of the time it was in relation to a back problem he refused to fix. He had worked as a fisherman for countless years, hauling product and gutting sea life.

“Hydrocodone and acetaminophen?” Chloe mumbled, as she furrowed her brow and looked up at the doe-eyed girl.

“Yes, Ma’am. He’s been complaining about the pain escalating. Demerol hasn’t done the job in quite some time and by the looks of it, he’s refusing the surgery.”

Chloe hummed, “He doesn’t like his odds against the possibility of being paralyzed from the waist down. Switch these to Propoxyphene. Damion Coves is an alcoholic, the second you pump him full of those and send him on his way he’ll stumble off the docks.” She shoved the metal chart back into her hands “Get to know your patient. You can smell the bourbon on his breath from a mile away.”  

She continued her journey until she made it to her office. It was three corridors deep, surrounded by cool cement and filled with old copy boxes that had case files. Ways she would teach her interns with gallbladder removals and that one stomach-churning patient who was almost sawed in half at the old mill.

Chloe breathed in the musty scent and flicked on the light. Her desk was the only clear thing about the office- despite her working here for four years, having the place all to herself. There was one picture of her girls hidden away in the bottom compartment of her filing cabinet. Her computer was covered in yellow sticky notes, and a nametag rested in the center of the surface.

“Ilene” She scoffed before pulling on the white coat slung over the chair and clipping the metal to the collar.

Her rounds started in a few minutes, she left the stuffy office and walked back into the sterilized hallway. She made it the nurse’s desk without another interruption and grabbed the stack of metal charts left by the attending on first shift.

“How are you tonight, Chloe?” her breath caught, she was halfway through the notes on Mrs. Robinson’s chart. She silently cursed herself for not hearing the heels against the linoleum. “Ilene.”

She drew in a deep breath, “Oh, absolutely fantastic, love these overnights.”

“fewer people.”

Chief Mary Saxe leaned against the counter next to Chloe, a smug look on her face. She had pulled her hair from the usual bun and let the curls move over her shoulders in waves. She was graying but in the most flawless way possible. Her jacket was pressed and her shirt was tucked in with professionalism despite the ungodly hour.

She had a point. It was quiet at night, visiting hours had faded away to nothing and the only people Chloe had to deal with were those listed in the charts, and whoever found themselves in the ER with appendicitis or a fever too high to register.

The two of them started walking towards the front of the corridor again, a round of silence plaguing them both before Chloe spoke. “You don’t have to babysit me, I’m fine.”

“I’m going to pretend I believe you.” She stalled before grasping Chloe’s elbow and bringing her to a halt. “I’ve known you for a hell of a long time, practically watched you grow up. You always get weird around today.”

Chloe swallowed roughly “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m here to do my job. Save lives and kick ass. Your motto, remember?”

“No, yes, I remember just. I’m speaking to you as a friend, not a colleague here. If you need to leave, I understand.”

“And I’m telling you as your friend, I’m okay. In fact, I would rather be around other people then shut in my room binge-watching the bachelor with a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream. So, can we please get on with rounds and just drop this?”

Doctor Saxe stared at her for a few moments, trying to figure out if Chloe was being genuine or not. She eventually decided that it didn’t matter if she was. Both of them continued on their way and made it to the first patient behind curtain number one.

It always felt like a game show to her. She never knew what would be behind the thin veil of plastic. Of course, she could always look at the chart before she went in. But that would take the fun and surprise out of it all.

The same intern that had approached her earlier about Damion seemed to have done all the heavy lifting. The little boy that sat on the bed directed his strained attention. His hair was adhered to his head with rainwater and mud. His arm was being placed carefully into a splint, and his mother was pacing a hole into the linoleum.

She stopped mid-stride and turned her hawked expression to the two doctors. “oh thank god, this girl looks too young to be a doctor.”

“Ma’am, I assure you, Stephanie has gone through all four years of medical school.” Chloe said slowly “And she’s doing a fantastic job. Mind telling me how this happened?”

She quickly forgot her anger towards the doctor, switching the string of her own son instead. “I told him not to go outside. Said that there was a storm coming and it was best to stay out of that old treehouse of his. But he never listens. The wood got too slick and he fell, broke his arm.”

She nodded and Doctor Saxe watched the situation unfold. She stayed silent, keeping a lingering eye on Chloe more than anything. Her arms were crossed and Chloe minded herself, directing her next questions towards where the kid sat and kicking his feet.

“Anything else hurt, little man?”

“Nothing does.” The mother answered in a clipped tone instead. Cutting off her son completely.

Doctor Saxe capped her hands together once and boasted a smile. “Okay! Stephanie, ma’am, why don’t’ we go out into the hallway to discuss how to take care of that cast. I know it’ll be hard to keep it dry in this weather- but we’re going to show you how.”

Chloe mouthed a thinly veiled ‘thank you’ as the woman and her intern cleared the room completely so she could do the rest of the exam. She slid on violet gloves and pulled a stool over to the young boy. He seemed comfortable, if not sleepy from today’s events. There was a thin line of blood on his chin and another on his forehead.

“Did you hit your head at all, when you fell?”

He gestured no “I don’t think so, I heard my arm break. Johnny broke his arm at the ice rink two years ago and it sounded the exact same. I didn’t think it would hurt that bad.”

“Oh?” Chloe gave him a smile, gently getting a better look at the lacerations “Yeah, it’s not the greatest feeling in the world but you know what? You’re very brave for getting through it. And look at that amazing cast you have! Is blue your favorite color?”

“Yes! And look, someone already signed it!”

Chloe lifted her eyebrows. Stephanie had just been finishing it up when they walked into the room. His mother must have worked fast, maybe even kept a sharpie in her purse wedged between some hard candies and wet wipes.

“see.”

Dread owned Chloe Beale in that moment. Directed all of her thawed blood to rush past her ears and her vision to fog up. She stared at the words scribbled in silver sharpie against the polymer-coated cast. The lettering was neat and precise, too well thought out to be ignored. Too concrete to be imagined.

Summer of 89, remember?

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Summer of 89′ | 002

Read from the Start | Read on AO3

Present Day

Aubrey Posen’s heels were muffled against the carpeted hallway. They didn’t carry the same power that she craved so meaninglessly. The kind that made people aware of her presence. No, that was reserved for long corridors with wood floors. The music leading up to the big boom- the person on the other side of the mirror. The one too afraid to leave the dark until someone more vulnerable was in the room.

Now she held her shoulders back and walked with her unripe eyes trained forward towards the door with her name scrawled on a paper and tacked with masking tape. Her perfectly manicured nails were digging little crescents into her pale palms.

“Aubrey that was phenomenal! I’m telling you, the absolute best performance you’ve ever given. The way you answered those questions, just brilliant.” Sidney Jane Taylor moved her hands around frantically as they walked.

“You wrote very specific cue cards,” Aubrey responded flatly, pushing the sleeves of her blazer up to her elbow. She welcomed the cold air. It prickled against her skin, a different sensation from the hot stage lights. “But yes, you’re right, I can read profoundly well.”

Her agent let the comment hang in the air and pulled the door open to the dressing room. She paraded her client into the chair, the mirror in front of them rimmed in white lights. Aubrey thought she looked older, she felt older too. Her bones burning and feet aching from the heels that were nothing more than a power statement.

Sidney hugged her shoulders and stared into her reflection’s eyes, crouching her lean body down next to Aubrey’s. Her hair was jet black, curls deflating after a day on set. Despite her title, she wore a simple black t-shirt and jeans. Her headset had been removed and was around her neck. She didn’t’ need to feed information to Aubrey from here, though she was still in her ear like the demon she resembled.

“Look at yourself, Bree.” Sidney smiled “Look at us. The books, and the conferences, and the sheer perseverance that you possess has all lead to this.”

“Another interview with Nancy?”

“No,” She hissed the word in a sharp whisper “Don’t be naïve, Aubrey. The movie. This is just to put you back in the public eye.”

Right. The movie. Another chapter in her life that she had yet to write.

Sidney had called her in the middle of the night four months ago. Sunrise Studios had begged her agent for the rights to the books that Aubrey had penned. They had hoped for the next big trilogy of films- a new villain to join the reinks of Jason and Freddy. This one, armed with a crossbow and a dangerously vile past.

Aubrey remembers laying in a puddle of her own sweat that night. Her balcony windows were open, and a warm night breeze rushed quickly to dry the moisture on her skin, making her feel tight. A doll trapped within itself. She watched the ceiling for hours until the sun's shadow stretched across it.

“What about the girls?” She asked the next morning at breakfast. There was a feast in front of her, but she didn’t touch a single bite. Sidney shoved a forkful of pancakes into her mouth before quirking an eyebrow.

“What about them?” She countered, pointing the prongs of the fork in Aubrey’s direction. “You haven’t uttered their names in what? Twelve years.”

Aubrey swallowed back the sour taste in her mouth. Had it been that long? She supposed that it had been. She felt like she still knew them, she spoke about them in every interview and had written them into page after page of the manuscript. But when had they become less like people and more like a means to an end? A character in her narrative.

“It’s their lives…” She sounded out, thumbing the knife on the side of her plate. “A book is one thing, they signed those wavers when we were kids. But a movie?”

“Look, Bree” She swallowed down a gulp of pulp-free orange juice “The studios don’t care and frankly, neither should you. They bought rights to your book. Doesn’t matter if they object to it or not because it’s not their story anymore. It’s yours.”

That had been months ago, and she had been slowly telling herself that it was okay. A trick that her father taught her-if you believe that it’s right, if you practice that it is, then it will be. Eventually, it will be. And staring into this mirror, with Sidney’s perfume shoving itself down her throat, she believed that maybe it was.

“Right,” Aubrey pulled back a smile and straightened her posture. “We worked hard for this.”

“Exactly! That’s the spirit, the announcement went off without a hitch. Which is why we should celebrate.” Sidney pulled the headset from her neck and frowned “I told them to have champagne ready when we got back. I swear, I’m the only one that knows how to do my job around here.”

She muttered a few things into the microphone before letting out a heaving sigh and walking towards the door.

“Bree, why don’t you take a shower, change into something more comfortable. You’ve had a long day. Guarantee when you get out, I won’t just have alcohol, I’ll have a cake too.”

Aubrey didn’t feel much like either at this point, but she just nodded in agreement. Sometimes it was easier to go along with what Sidney said to get her to relent on the big things. Compliance was key in this industry, and that was something she came to know quite well.

She was alone now, in the large green room that leads to a bathroom with a shower. It reminded Aubrey more of a hotel- one of those fancy ones they stayed at during the first and second book tour that they had just rounded out.

Her muscles did feel tight, tight enough to warrant a warm shower.

Aubrey stood from the uncomfortable makeup chair and walked into the unsettlingly white bathroom. She stripped away the black blazer and then the floral shirt that had sweat stains under the arms. Everything felt like clockwork. Slow and methodic clockwork.

The water washed over her, warm and cold all at once. It had to wake her up, had to make her skin feel like it wasn’t buzzing anymore. Though, the anxiety still ate away at the back of her mind. Aubrey refused to face the showerhead, instead keeping her body positioned to the stark tile wall.

PTSD her therapist called it.

Her father called her insane. At least that’s the word he thrust at her the summer she stayed with him after her freshman year of college. She would almost get all the way into the shower without breaking down into sobs. The feeling of a knife ripping her apart from the inside out would reduce her to a quivering mess on the tub's floor.

Now, after thirteen years, she could shower in a bathroom by herself. But still wouldn’t allow her eyes to face the faucet. Not without feeling that dominating ache in her shoulder. The warmth of blood dripping down into a drain.

Aubrey drew in a sharp breath and snapped the water off in a mere second. She stood cold and shaking for a moment, watching the rest of the water slide down the pipes as her hair moved down her back. She blindly reached for a towel and reveled in the warmth it created. Her feet left darkened marks on the bathmat.

Aubrey padded softly on the white tile and then back onto the carpet that ran through the main green room. She headed straight for her duffel bag, rooting around for a moment in the clothes. She found what she needed, a ratty old t-shirt from college and a pair of sweatpants. Comfort.

Her emerald eyes lifted to the mirrors that lined the wall, their white light shining against the entirety of the room and the metal bucket that was now resting on the table with a bottle of champagne. A note from Sidney was signed in cursive and marked with a little smiley face. She must be working on that cake.

Ice ran through Aubrey’s veins in a moment, blood rushing past her ears as her heartbeat found her throat. She could see her reflection right behind the crimson red words smeared against the glass in a broken script. She clenched the towel closer to her chest, tears blurring the statement.

I know what you did, Summer of 89’.

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Summer of 89′ | 001

Read from the Start | Read on AO3

[A/N: Before anything else is said, I just want to give you guys another huge thank you. I have never put so much effort into a series before and I genuinely appreciate every single comment and interaction that you guys provide. Hopefully, you stick around for the rest of this crazy journey!]

JULY, 1989

The scent of burning rubber dominated the cab of the old El Dorado. It was barely noticeable against the dark backdrop of the ever-stretching pine trees. A full moon hung like a hole cut from velvet. It illuminated thick drops of rain that fell against a windshield. Beca found herself wishing for a cigar, a painkiller, something to dull the surroundings that were ever-present.

The seat belt cut into her skin as Chloe brought the car to a rapid stop. Smoke from the tires rose into the air and unmatching labored breath was the only thing that could be heard aside from the purring engine revving at the sudden halt.

There was a sizable dent in the hood. Beca Mitchell wasn’t one for cars, she had dragged her feet every moment until her father finally forced her to get her own license so he wouldn’t have to haul her everywhere she needed to go. But even she, in the near pitch night, could tell that whatever they had just hit left sizable damage on the left side of the car.

“Shit,” Chloe breathed out. She had her fingers against her throat, separating where the belt had assaulted too fresh wounds. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“What the hell was that?” Beca asked.

Her eyes flicked towards the rear-view mirror. Even through the rain, she could see a dark figure curled into itself on the ground. A deer, maybe. She considered herself lucky in this moment. Two antlers could be piercing the seat on either side of her neck- instead, all she had was whiplash and an obnoxiously fast heartbeat. A relief short-lived.

Chloe started to unbuckle her seatbelt, the engine still running. “What the fuck are you doing, dude?” Beca asked, shoving the lock back into place and holding it there. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Guys, we have to keep driving.” Aubrey’s timid voice came from the backseat. Her fingers were shaking and numb, covered in blood that wasn’t hers. She did her best to keep Emily awake, the younger camper staring blankly at the ceiling of the old car. Her breathing so soft and barely there. Beca was tempted to hold a mirror against her lips, just to watch it fog. “I don’t- she doesn’t have much time and the nearest hospital is still seventeen miles away. Please.”

Chloe stopped glaring at Beca, those sharpened blue eyes focusing instead on the mirror and the heap that bled freshly against asphalt, only to wash away with the present storm.  She moved her hands from the buckle to the ribbed steering wheel and white-knuckled it. “That was a person.”

“You don’t know that, Chloe,” Aubrey said. “Who the hell is out in the middle of nowhere like this?”

“We are.” She responded coolly “I’m getting out and checking.”

“Not alone-“ Beca protested.

Aubrey’s annoyance turned to outright frustration as she narrowed her green eyes in the innate moonlight. She ran her bloodied fingers lightly at Emily’s temple. Long ago having moved hair from her stare. Now it was an act of comfort, something to distract from the cold numb feeling that Beca couldn’t shake since the lake. Like she held the sun in her hands and Emily needed that light to hang onto in order to make it, to survive.

“Neither of you are going anywhere. Chloe if you step out of this car, I won’t hesitate to leave you on the side of the road, are we clear? Emily is dying. She needs to get to a hospital now and I won’t let her die in my arms because of your stubbornness to just drive.”

Chloe swallowed the thick feeling in her throat and looked back at Beca. The girl's own hands clenching the dashboard with anticipation to flip it open and light one of those gold-wrapped cigars. Wilkens probably died with them on him, just like his gun. Her palm still burned.

“Drive.”

It was a simple word, but it let Chloe release the hold on the brake. The car creaking back to life before she applied pressure to the gas. The tires turned more than once on the wet pavement before finally, the little black mass in the center of the road grew smaller and smaller. Beca pretended not to notice the tears streaming down Chloe’s reddened cheeks as she struggled to keep her own in check.

Her heart didn’t’ stop pounding until the road signs started to mention civilization. Norton Falls. It had a population of 1200 in total and was practically dwarfed by the city another 80 miles away. Beca remembers a fall festival that her parents brought her to a few years before their divorce.

The streets were lined with houses painted different colors and the mailboxes had prominent last names scrawled across in permanent paint. She faintly remembers the scent of kettle corn and the warm sun that countered the bitter October breeze. The way her mother told her that she would never see trees change like this in the city. The way they both laughed at stupid kitten face paint and cracked pumpkin carving contests.

Norton Falls looked different at night.

Its roads stretched on endlessly, streetlamps were staggered, and any hope of summer was starting to fade out into the beginning of a school year. Cars were parked and collecting frost, porch lights were shut off completely. The wind howled as Chloe slowed slightly to match the speed limit exiting the highway, though not too much.

There was a food joint that looked like it had sprung out of nowhere. A small diner with green neon lights to attract passing and tired drivers. The sign read Starlight Diner and had an all too tacky lit up star with a pink path behind it. A few blocks later, a taco place that had just gone dark, and next to that a 24-hour ATM.

Beca watched as the different landmarks passed, noticing the blue signs for the hospital that Chloe seemed to follow numbly. Aubrey had quieted in the backseat, not saying a word as they finally rolled up the quaint building- it was smaller than the one at home, lit up like a Christmas tree and almost blinding compared to the rest of the dead town.

She exited the car first before it even rolled to a stop in the medical bay. Beca felt like she forgot how to walk like everything was numb and her lungs were still submerged in murky lake water. The door hissed as it creaked open.

It was a quaint waiting room, nearly empty aside from a woman wrapped up in a few jackets as she coughed into a cloth towel. A man that was holding his bleeding thumb and his son carrying a manual for a nail gun. She ignored both of them as her wet shoes squeaked against the floor.

A stocky woman sat behind a counter that was painted puke green. Her scrubs were an abrasive shade of turquoise and she hunched behind her computer. Not bothered by the sound of someone approaching.

“Fill out these forms and a doctor will be right with you.” She shoved a clipboard across the counter. The woman didn’t’ look up from her screen. She was protected by a glass window. Beca didn’t’ know what she would do if she wasn’t. “Pens in the bucket.”

“I don’t have time for that.” Beca placed her hands on the counter “My friend is hurt and she’s dying.”

“Yeah, so is everyone else in the waiting room. Fill out the forms. A doctor will be right with you.”

Beca let out a distant sigh, glancing around at the two other people sitting in the tacky patterned chairs. She grasped the clipboard, lifting it slightly off the desk before slamming it back down with force strong enough to create a gun-shot pop. Her fingers shook at the sound, but the woman with the ghostly eyes snapped her attention to the girl. She leaned back in her chair, taking in the drowned mess of muck and blood that she was.

Her voice was hushed. “Someone tried to drown me tonight, lady. My friend is in the backseat of a car bleeding to death because a psycho bitch with daddy issues tried to kill her with a… a makeshift bomb in a watershed. I will not be stopped by a woman with a god complex who hates her life more than she hates her job.” She took a steadying breath. “Get me a doctor before I walk through those doors and get one myself.”

“What’s the problem here?”

Beca was met with another bout of forest green. A stoic woman who looked like she was fresh out of med school. Her auburn hair was thrown into a messy bun and a white lab coat was draped over her arm. In her other hand was a brown sacked lunch, Beca supposed. Her stomach clenched at the thought of food. Even the simple promise of a bologna sandwich on wonder bread was enough to stir the murky water that she was she had swallowed.

“Dr. Saxe, everything is fine.” The woman behind the desk stood, recollecting herself.

“No, it’s not.” Beca turned completely. “My friends hurt, she's in the backseat of a car and bleeding out-“

The doctor, Doctor Saxe, from what Beca could collect, set her items on the counter before walking towards the sliding glass doors that opened to the parking lot and the humming El Dorado. “Lead me to her. I can help.”

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Camp Beaverbrook | 020

A/N: Well, that's about it for Camp Beaverbrook. And I must say, I'm super proud of myself for actually sticking with it even if I did go off schedule a little bit. Either way, I want to thank everyone who has stuck with me during this absolutely insane reimagining of classic 80's horror films. You guys are truly amazing and supportive and I'll never forget that.

(Oh, and uhhh I'm going to take a month or two to focus on getting my other stories filled out before I tackle the sequel, but the girl's stories don't' end here. I'll answer any lingering questions you have, just keep your eyes peeled for what happens next. Because we all know final girls don't necessarily stay final girls)

READ ON AO3  | READ FROM THE START 

Chloe Beale had read somewhere that Hospitals were liminal spaces. An area akin to a waiting room, or a train station, even a bus stop across from a cemetery in the middle of New Orleans. A place that was meant for transition. Somewhere no one stopped for too long, heading to the afterlife or simply to the nurses at the front desk who reluctantly handed over discharge papers.

Chloe felt like she would be here forever. There was no second stop for her, instead, there was a dark examination room where she had been separated from the rest of the world. There was a slight hum from the x-ray chart that lit the room in a blue glow. A slight breeze against the robe that she was instructed to put on- they had taken her clothes and stuck them in a little clear baggie. She hugged herself closer against the sterile air.

Parchment paper against the examination table was stuck to her bare skin. She waited for a knock, or simply for the slate wooden door to open. A doctor of a police officer- that’s what she was expecting. Someone to handcuff her or probe at her already stinging injuries. Anything but this stalemate.

She tried to count the number of casualties like sheep with sloppily painted numbers against fleece. There was Jane, Jane who could have gotten lost in the woods but couldn’t have been a simple accident. Then Gail- sweet Gail who had run the camp in her stead for years and years. And Wilkens. A man she didn’t know but felt as if she did, smelling of cigar smoke and spilled blood.

“Ms. Beale?” It was a voice instead of a knock, but the door seemed to creak open immediately after that. She jumped despite knowing that someone would be coming for her. It was the same nurse that was dressed in washed pink scrubs. The one who had given her the robe and looked at her with inept solitude. “Sorry to startle you but, the doctor would like to see you now.”

Chloe nodded and fought back a wince at the pain it caused. She felt stiff, the bruise that wrapped around her skin like a choker was burning hot like a branding iron and she fought the urge to run her fingers over the raw spot.

The doctor seemed to be a woman straight out of med school. Her hair was darkened, almost black under the blue glow. It was thrown up in a messy bun but strands fell evenly into her ghostly stare. Her face was bare of makeup but pretty, a white lab coat over a button-down shirt that was an even forest green. Her nametag read Dr. Mary Saxe.  

She had a soft way about her, but not obnoxiously so like the bubblegum nurse who had tried her best to make Chloe feel at ease. It didn’t work so well, but this woman had a presence around her. An authority that was otherwise unmatched.

“I don’t want you to speak, okay? Not before I can take a look at your wounds.”

Chloe didn’t do anything this time. She didn’t answer or nod. Instead, she just watched the woman wet her hands under the sink and slide on a pair of purple nylon gloves. She didn’t bother pulling up a seat, instead, she stood right in front of the young girl, eyes hard and focused.

She couldn’t’ help the sharp inhale that filled her lungs as Dr. Saxe made the first contact. She traced the ring of clotted blood with delicacy before applying certain pressure beneath where Chloe thought here tonsils were. Before she got her tonsils removed as a kid, a lot of other doctors poked around there too. This time it brought tears to her eyes and she felt a certain heir of embarrassment, to choose now to cry. To break over a soreness rather than when the actual cord wrapped around her throat.

“Right,” The doctor seemed unphased. “I’m going to need to do some x-rays, make sure nothing got crushed or fractured. Amy here is going to get some pain medication and that should stop the discomfort.”

Dr. Mary Saxe did something unexpected then, she put her hand on Chloe’s shoulder. Maybe in an attempt of comfort or to get the girl to focus on something other than the tears that dripped off her chin and soaked into the ugly turquoise gown she wore. “Chloe, we’re going to catch the guy who did this, alright? You’re safe here. I don’t want you to believe otherwise.”

Chloe knit her eyebrows together, staring at the stressed features of the stranger in front of her. The woman who had such intense focus. The one who still had her hand on her shoulder and her eyes level. She mustered the courage to speak- much against the woman’s orders.

“He’s… dead.”

A flash of horror shifted to understanding in a moments time, she nodded her head, squeezing Chloe’s shoulder. Did she know? Had Chloe been the only one not to give a statement in the nightmare that took place over these last few weeks? She had a feeling that all four of them had been separated for a reason- Dr. Mary Saxe turning to leave before Chloe grasped onto the fabric of her lab coat.

“Emily?”

“Your friend.” She responded, eyes flashing down to the death grip Chloe held. “She’s lost a lot of blood. The shrapnel split an artery and we stitched it up as well as we could, but we had to put her in a medically induced coma. It’s up to her to wake up now.”

It was Chloe’s turn to nod and think, her stare focused on the cross-sections that the tiled floor created. She heard the door open and shut and acknowledged the presence of the nurse who handed over a Dixie cup of water and a little orange pill. It burned on the way down.

Beca Mitchell was slumped against a chair in a way her father would call despicable. Her back was touching the wall through the open design and her legs were spread against blue scrubs that were too big on her. A sickeningly gross blue that made her look pale, her bare feet cold against the tile floor.

They let her take a shower.

She made one of the orderlies sit on the toilet seat while it filled up with a toxic mist, heavy and hard to breathe through. The woman made small talk with her about the weather and how it was unseasonably cold for this time of the year before moving into the topic of her newborn grandbaby. Beca had allowed herself to focus on her soothing words as she stared up at the stream of water, refusing to blink, watching as the muck and blood washed down the drain. Her chest ached.

Beca stared blankly at the floor in the hallway. She hadn’t looked up as the food cart passed, or when another nurse handed her a Dixie cup with a little orange pill. She tipped her head back and swallowed it and crushed the frail paper between her fingers.

The girl didn’t glance up with the chair next to her suddenly became occupied with another. Instead, she stared, stared at nothing in particular and thought about the throbbing in her nose and the throbbing in her heart. She had shot someone- nonfatally.

“What if you’re right?” She finally whispered, “About me being a terrible person. About it being in my blood.”

Aubrey Posen drew in a calculated breath. She had on her own set of scrubs, the cut on her hairline had been stitched cleanly and was coated in a thick smelling medicine to quell the pain. Her arms were bruised, and her hair was wet- thrown into a dark ponytail. Despite her injuries, she sat up straight.

Beca sniffed and turned to face the girl completely. “We learned about Aristotle in summer school. How he thought people were born amoral- not good or bad. It’s something that’s learned over time and cultivated and” She took a shaky breath. “What if I was just born bad, and that’s what made it so easy for me to shoot Jesse?”

“That theory has been argued amongst centuries, It’s not even-“She got ahead of herself, stilling her thoughts. “It was easy for you to pull the trigger because someone you cared about was in danger. You weighed the options and no matter what, you didn’t fire the killing shot. Don’t blame yourself for helping us live.”

“Is that what you’re telling yourself?” Beca’s voice was watery. Aubrey grimaced and looked away. “About what happened in the car? That you did what you did because Emily was going to die if we hadn’t of driven away?”

They returned themselves to the quiet that wasn’t quite silence. Aubrey slumped in her seat and tapped her fingers against the armrest. The phones rang at the reception desk a few corridors down. The machines beeped in unison and a man with an awful cough hacked up his second lung for the night.

Then there was the sound of loafers tapping against the linoleum and Beca’s Chest seized. She wasn’t sure if all people in law enforcement were required to wear the same type of shoes or if there was a convention every year under big-top tents to purchase them. He walked with vigor and purpose.

Detective Luis Desmond, Beca remembered. She had seen him more than once at her hearings, his suits always pressed neatly and his hair cut close to the scalp. His dark skin popped against the lavender tie he wore, opting out of the blazer jacket that hugged his frame in court. Wilkens and Desmond shared cigars as they leaned against the car that was wrapped in neon tape at this point.

Beca pushed herself up in her seat and ignored the discomfort it created as the scrubs rolled up against her skin. Desmond didn’t say a word as he sat across from the two girls who cast a wary glance between one another before returning their attention to him.

“Well, girls, I’m going to be frank with you. None of this looks good.” He formed his fingers into a teepee and leaned forward against his knees. It made his pant legs ride up and expose his black socks, but not quite far enough to show his ankles. “We have a dead camp director, a dead federal agent, a body burned beyond recognition and one with an arrow expertly shoved into his throat.”

“We told you everything we know.”

“I’m not finished yet.” He said sternly. “There’s a blown-up shed, a dead little girl with parents who just want answers, and a sizeable dent in a car that you stole.”

There was enough quiet that followed to inform them that he was done now. Beca didn’t’ think it a good idea to mention that it wasn’t technically grand theft auto if the man who held the title was gutted like a fish. She also didn’t’ find it the right time to disclose the fact that she was about to lose the rest of the lake water in her stomach all over those nice leather loafers.

“We’ve called your parents, and then your guardians. They’re all on the way.” Desmond said with a slight twinge in his voice before he stood. “I’ll advise the four of you not to leave town in the following months. It was nice to see you again, Rebeca.”

“Pleasure.” She croaked out, giving a halfhearted wave. He walked back the way he came, and they watched with laser focus before he pushed through the double doors and vanished completely.

“He’s just trying to scare us.” Aubrey exhaled in a shaky breath.

“Yeah, it fucking worked.” Beca slumped further in her chair until she could feel the cold air against exposed skin again, her eyes trained on a little dip in the floor in a space that seemed entirely too liminal.

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Camp Beaverbrook | 019

A/N: Things are in fact drawing to a close, which is kind of emotional for me because I’ve poured so much into this. But that being said- Major trigger warning. This one is rough. 

READ FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

A leaden bullet pierced skin with a sickening crunch akin to a twig snapping against just the slightest bit of pressure. It was almost instant, the scent of blood that filled the air. Beca Mitchell noticed the sharp pain in her wrist first, how hot the gun was against her palm and how much she wanted to let it fall to the dirt next to the patterned tire of the black El Dorado.

A thick syrupy blood rushed against Jesse’s hand. He let out a cry like a wounded animal and released his hold on Chloe to clench the gushing wound. She scrambled away best she could, behind Beca, behind the only weapon that the girls possessed.

“Fuck!” He shouted, stomping his foot against the ground as he let out a howl of pain that dissolved into a maddening laugher. “Ah, I should have seen that coming. Going for my arm. That was smart. A classic Bond move.”

He smiled at them then, halfway crouched over as the pale moonlight darkened the spot of slowly glowing liquid. Beca swallowed back the burning in her throat, hand quivering at the thought of shooting again. Just a bit of pressure and it would all be over. She had him right where she wanted him.

“Doesn’t the bad guy always end up going to jail?” Aubrey spoke up behind the open door of the car. Logic was replaced with an icy demeanor.

“Most of the time, yeah. They do. But they’re naive enough to work alone.” He laughed again, echoing against the trees. “Then again, you’re all clever enough to know I couldn’t be in two places at once. I didn’t have to be, I had help. I am the help.”

“You tried to drown me.” Beca’s voice was watery, her chest seizing as the memory of the murky waters toxic taste washed over her like waves. It made her tighten her grip, grit her teeth at the thought of it.

He smiled fondly at the memory. “I did, helped Chloe out with drying her hair too. Thought it would do the trick- but we got you pretty good, right?” Jesse’s attention was on Emily, steadily losing blood from the gash that pushed close to her knee. She grimaced and turned her cheek. The streaks would be easy to see against the ash.

“Who else?” Chloe’s voice was strong. Her nails digging into her palm. “Who are you helping?”

The smile faltered against his pale lips. Blood dripped in even drops from his fingertips. They twitched involuntarily from the cold, from the bullet that left a little mark in the tree behind him. A clean in and out wound that would call for some physical therapy, which he couldn’t’ attest to behind bars.

“Two lovers park a car along the side of the road after a long date, when they hear the radio crackle. It’s a special announcement.” He mocked at Aubrey; eyes glassy.

Beca’s chest seized. That stupid campfire story from the start of the summer. She had been buzzed and her mind focused too acutely on the fact that Chloe Beale was close. Close enough to smell her strawberry shampoo and the alcohol that riddled her breath. Nothing about it stuck out to her- the same story with the same killer, missing the rainy weather and the hook for a hand, but still a classic.

“Drowning… Strangling…” Aubrey’s voice was hushed, her unripe eyes trained at one spot on the ground that kept the world from spinning. When she glanced up, tears rolled towards her chin, gravity having no mercy. “You sick bastard, the camp story? That’s what all this is about? Recreating some urban legend?”

“Not an urban legend!” He exploded, voice echoing. “Did you know that poor terrorized kid had a son? Just a baby when he escaped. He’s grown now, old and dead and rotting in the ground. But he had a daughter, and that daughter had one of her own.”

This silenced the four girls. There were never any records to search for- maybe there was a kid who had been terrorized to the point of flowing insanity. A kid who was sent to an asylum and stewed against a padded room with a straight jacket binding him. Festering with revenge and finally getting far enough from his restraints to take it. Jesse seemed to quiver with excitement at the realization that washed over all four of them. The big plot twist that had been festering since day one.

A distinct sound mirroring that of a bullet pushing past tendons once again filled the air, but Beca had the sense not to pull the trigger. She hadn’t applied any pressure, in fact, the tip of the gun was pointed at the boy’s feet now, mouth half-way ajar and stomach in a series of knots.

An arrow.

It was silver against the metallic moonlight; it’s pointed tip pushing into Jesse’s throat. He sputtered and choked and released his hold on the bullet wound to attend to the new one. His teeth were stained black with blood, a gurgled attempt at words blocked by the arrowhead. Jesse Swanson fell to the dirt- body heavy and dark eyes somehow darker.

“He talked way too much.” The voice came from behind the craft director and her loyal lifeguard. Aubrey’s grip on the car door tightened and Emily stared blankly at the body that lay on the ground before directing her attention with the rest. “On and on about all the movie references. I mean God, can you just shut the fuck up?”

Stacie Conrad walked between two looming Douglas firs, her crossbow by her side. The same one she loaded with arrows each day. She had taught Emily well enough about aim- had gotten the tip to push past the black into the blue, telling her to keep her arm straight and keep her focus on the motions instead of the target.

She had opted out of the traditional bow now, switching to something that had more force, more control. Her white Camp Beaverbrook shirt was stained with sweat and dirt and something that looked like blood. It mixed into a terracotta red and hugged her perfectly in the moonlight.

“he stole my thunder,” She pouted, pushing her bottom lip out. “I didn’t get to see the looks on your faces when you found out about dear old grandfather. About daddy who’s locked up in bedlam. About Mommy who killed herself out of shame. Oh! There it is, that’s the one. Emily, you always come through, don’t you?”

“Stay back!” Beca prompted, finding her confidence, raising the gun back to her target.

“That’s endearing, sweetheart, but I think you’re out of bullets,” Stacie responded, staring her down. “Detective Wilken’s was kind enough to let me borrow it. He only came up here with a couple of rounds. I fired one into Gail’s head and you-“ She looked at the cook folded like laundry, chuckling. “You aimed for the arm.”  

Beca unclipped the magazine, fumbling with her numb fingers. Stacie was right- absolutely nothing but the vague scent of gun powder and a trembling in her chest. She pushed the gun aside, letting it fall to the ground next to the body and the slowly growing scent of blood.

“So what now?” Chloe croaked out “You torment us for weeks before killing us? Just like that?”

“Oh, I didn’t want to kill you. Not at first. I attacked Aubrey in that bathroom for a little bit of fun- but when she started blaming you, Beca, that’s when I knew I could push it further than my imagination could comprehend. It’s when I recruited Spielberg over there too. From there I suppose family instinct took over.”

Emily let out a grunt of pain, losing her grip on the front of the car, Chloe not there to hold her up, Aubrey twitching with anticipation to get near the girl. She narrowed her eyes, staring like she wanted to move, but couldn’t before an arrow could break skin.

“I knew the two of you would be smart enough to smell gas in the shed, but wow, did you cut it close? Really, the diving technique was impressive. And You?” Her eyes flicked towards Chloe “You’re just lucky that Beca was there to pull Jesse off.”

The youngest camper had edged to the bumper of the car, pushing her fingers into the dirt. She couldn’t stand anymore, her breath hissing. Her lips were blue under the moonlight, running out of time. Stacie’s eyes twinkled at this.

“Wouldn’t that have been a cool way to go?” She asked, “Murdered by a hairdryer, hell, pulled down in the murky water until you just let everything escape you? I always thought drowning would be the best way. Painful, but peaceful all at once.”  

“How…” Emily choked out, her voice deep her chest shaking. “How do you feel about burning alive?”

The flame was slight, a small edge in a sea of blue. It shaded Emily’s face in the warmest light, leaned up against the front of the car with as much strength as she could muster. A silver zippo that was in Jesse’s pocket. It emitted gas at an alarming rate, Emily’s aim the best it could be.

“Wha-“Stacie’s voice cracked as the leg of her jeans caught a hot ribbon of light trailing until it pressed against the base of her shirt. She dropped the crossbow, letting out a grunt as her hand rushed to pat out of the blaze to now avail. “Fuck, you fucking bitch!”

Chloe let out a scream of terror the best she could as she pushed into Beca’s neck, refusing to stare as the copper flame ate away at flesh. Their whole world became illuminated in a blazing red- shouts of pure pain and furry echoing against the trees as she dropped to her knees, and then her hands- the scent of burning skin pulling at the back of their throats rushing in their lungs.

Then it was quiet- the fire cracking against the mass, spreading across the grass like. Stacie’s fingers stretched past the flames, twitching as they melted. The warm color shading all of their faces, fire cracking without the story of an escaped patient. Just his granddaughter perishing in the night.

Aubrey was quick to kneel down next to Emily, her breath puffing out in short edges of smoke. She guided Emily’s amber eyes to hers, trying to see if they still flickered themselves, her chest moving in short rapid movements. “How did you know that would work?”

“It took me a long time to smell the gas in the shed.” Emily whispered, “Not this time. I just hoped she spilled enough on herself to…”

Her voice was fading, weak and webbed at the edges. Blood was smeared against the corner of her lips like neon paint against white canvas. Beca’s lungs felt heavy, filled with toxic lake water and slowly melting bones. Aubrey let out a thick breath and knelt down to Emily, moving her gaze, trying to get her to focus. The silver lighter twinkled under the moon.

“We have to get her to town,” Aubrey said, voice choked “She’s lost a lot of blood if we don’t-“

Chloe dropped down to the cold, wet grass before numbly searching Jesse’s pockets. She was holding her breath, patting down his bloodied shirt before pawing around his pants. Beca let the gun fall to the ground, bringing her palms up the hairline as she struggled to steady her breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Keys!” Chloe croaked out despite the pain her throat. “he had them on him, come on, I’ll drive.”

Things seemed to move in slow motion, Beca lifting Emily with ease, Aubrey holding her up from the other side. The black El Dorado sputtered and kicked until it roared to a vengeful life. The grass turning black as night, reflecting the edge of fire against the dusty windows of the old car. The tires skidding against mud before crunching against gravel.

Emily lay with her head in Aubrey’s lap, staring with golden eyes up at the padded ceiling with cigar burns sprinkled like a dalmatians coat. Beca sat in the passenger seat, holding on to the leather to keep her hands from shaking, Chloe white-knuckling the steering wheel. They drove quietly, precisely until the dirt turned to asphalt- sprinkled with green road signs leading to the next town over, speed no option.

“Is it over?” Emily whispered; voice weak. “Aubrey, is it over?”

Aubrey swallowed back the sour taste in her mouth, moving her thumb against the girl's cold cheek- her hair pulling away from kind and flickering eyes. “Yeah, Em. It’s over.”

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Arachnid | 001

READ IT ON AO3 | CHECK IT OUT FROM THE START

Dead men tell no tales. That’s the first thing Michelle Jones’s father taught her when she was younger. Secrets never spilled from cold blue lips. Drowning souls could only breathe water. All the good stuff that a man should instill in his daughter when she was sitting cross-legged in a sandbox with a plastic shovel in hand.

He wiped the hair from her face and gave her his dazzling Jones smile that could get him so far in this world. It was crooked, yet devilish at the same time, warm like the sun and hot like the fire that pushed into a starless sky.

Then a passing El Dorado with its windows tinted and its front bumper dragging opened fire. A small park on the corner of seventh and Waldon got four smoking bullet holes through its brand new swing set donated by the city- and two in Phillip Jones ’s chest.

MJ didn’t remember much of that day, but she had heard the tales; they had morphed over the years. The make and model of the car had changed. The sandbox had shifted to a bench on the far end of the park, and the bullets had multiplied in numbers, but never lowered, because it should take more than two shots to put one of the most powerful men in Queen’s in the ground.

She does remember the blood. The way stained his smile orange and two slowly growing spots of crimson quickly wetted his chest before he fell forward and someone grabbed her while the car did it’s best to speed off, sputtering toxic smog through the city like a carbon trail.

“Earth to MJ,” The words startled her, and she glanced up from the blank notebook page that was in front of her. Gayle was holding up two sundresses that looked the same in length and style. One pattern was red and the other was a seafoam green. Both, MJ was sure, would look fine. “You spaced out on me for a second, everything okay?”

Gayle Jones was a sophomore in college that still came back to their small place in the Bronx to leech of whatever their Aunt Anna decided to cook for the night and to do laundry. Not that any of them minded, but it made their tearful farewells at the college dorms seem a little less meaningful if she slithered her way into her old room every other weekend.

She carried the greenest eyes Michelle Jones had ever seen, the unripe color popped against brown skin and curly hair that flowed around her shoulders. She had the same smile her father had. She remembered that clearly compared to what her sister did. Warm, yet burning.

“Yeah, yes. I’m fine. I like the green one.”

“You’re going to have to work on your lying before you get accepted to MIT.” Gayle let out a long sigh and threw both dresses on the end of MJ’s bed. The hangers clanked loudly before the younger girl tapped her pen twice against the blank notebook page and slammed it shut. “Maybe I’ll just go naked.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would love that.”

Gayle squinted her sharp eyes before grasping at the closest fabric to her before holding it flush against her chest and staring intently in the mirror tacked to the inside of the door. “Green it is then. What are you trying to write?”

“A thing for class.” She responded in a beat. “It’s about the escalating violence in Queen’s. You know, the backstage stuff.”

She froze, and Michelle Jones made stilled eye contact with her through the very same cracked glass that had been in her room since she was carted in with a suitcase and the feeling of blood still on her lips. Her Aunt Anna told her that was the only safe space for her to color with markers in the whole room to keep her away from the vintage wallpaper. It worked for the most part.

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“It’s a little close to home, don’t you think?” Gayle turned around before she stripped off her t-shirt and shivered from the cold. “Still is if you ask me. They keep that shit from you, from me even, so both of us can graduate and get out of here. But just because it’s hidden doesn’t’ mean it’s not there.”

“Poetic.”

“I’m serious, Jonesy.” Gayle took that tone that she hated. The motherly one that seemed to fall into place naturally. It leaked of desperation and concern and MJ couldn’t fault her older sister for that too much- for growing up early. For worrying the way that she did. “You can trip some wires you didn’t’ even know were set up. It’s your junior project, right?”

MJ frowned, but nodded. It was half her grade; study hall had been dedicated to picking a researching topic related to the city that they called home and pushing as far as they could before it scathed the judges completely. The topic was easy for her to find. The writing was gnawing at the inside of her mind like a saw’s teeth on wood.

“Easy then, do it on cell phone radiation. That’s what I did.” She shrugged. “Really knock’s their socks off, you know. Makes em’ think.”

She let out an uneasy sigh and closed the notebook before setting it aside completely. Her junior project could wait. It wouldn’t’ be the end of the world- maybe the start of a few all-nighters fueled by hate and red bull. But it would be enough to keep her buzzing. Instead, she stood from her bed and walked over the window.

It wasn’t a glamorous view, and it never had been. A small alley that was separated down the middle with a chain-link fence and a few metal trashcans that her cat, Scratches, would always lounge around on until she shooed him away. The house next door was overrun with weeds and a clothesline that swung when the wind picked up. It sat vacant until two days ago- a giant moving van carried in most of the furniture and a small pick-up kept tarp-covered boxes in its bay.

“Did you get a look at the new neighbors?” Gayle shimmied out of her jeans and threw her dress over her head while MJ leaned heavily against the side of the window. She squinted, trying to see a figure in the window directly across from hers. Blinds were drawn but a darkened shape moved with ease.

“No, not at all.” She said.

“Real shame. You could use some friends.”

Michelle Jones let out a snort of epic proportions and tossed the closest throw pillow her sister’s way.

Their forks scraped against their plates loudly. Maybe it was the silence that amplified the sound altogether. Michelle Jones pushed three lone peas into a sea of gravy, watching the struggle against the current as she frowned down at the mess of food that her Aunt had prepared. Good, hearty food.

The china was rimmed in gold and Aunt Anna insisted on using it for every meal even if it was frozen pizza thrown in the oven- the pepperoni moved to one side of the cheesy dish before it was cut. She found it overbearing but still filled the metal sink with soapy water every night to wipe away the dirt with a cloth.

Her aunt was a stoic woman that had given away to the grey in her hair over the past few years. It curled evenly against chocolate skin and made her looked aged in the best way possible. No ounce of exhaustion dominated her despite being thrown into raising two young kids at a child’s age herself. She scratched at the back of her neck now, testing the water. It was cold.

Then there was a knock at the door- loud and startling in the silence of yet another Sunday night dinner. MJ glanced towards the foyer and set her fork down on the side of her plate. Her fingers reached instinctively for the butter knife that matched the china in its gold finish. Her grasp tightened as her aunt stood from the table.

No one bothered them on a Sunday.

MJ stood, following her aunt as she leaned against the banister in the foyer. The walls were painted a honeycomb yellow and their muddied shoes lay by the door. A little plaque for keys held a red lanyard that swung back and forth the second the door was opened. She clenched the knife in her fingertips, mouth dry.

It wasn’t a brute. It wasn’t her cousin with a bag of groceries that he insisted on bringing by even though both of them were capable of traveling to the small bodega on the corner themselves. Instead- it was a dusty looking man with a badge strapped to his leather belt. This was worse.

He wore a kind smile that wrinkled at the sides and a distressed brown suit. His hair was salt and pepper and almost long enough to fall into his slate eyes if he didn’t have it slicked back. This was unprecedented. The NYPD had an understanding with the Jones family- they left the most high-profile mafia clan to run the city. To keep death off their doorsteps even if it meant in sighting some through closed doors.

But that was Chief Wicker. He had been the head of the department for more than 50 years. MJ had slid into a nice black dress and clinked glasses with the rest of the department at his retirement party. They knew a new face would show up in her part of the city- just not at the front door with what looked to be a store-bought bunt cake slid onto a plate that still had the price tag plastered to the bottom.

Aunt Anna’s eyes drifted to the badge before coldly moving to the gaze of the man.

“I told you the badge was a bad idea.” A new voice shined through, clean and muffled as she whispered something into the man’s ear.

MJ skillfully shoved the butter knife up her sleeve as she cocked her head to the side and looked at the girl that stood at almost the same height of what had to be her father. They had the same nose. Her eyes were a deep chocolate brown and equally as dark hair fell over her shoulders. She had a slender frame and straight cut bangs cut across her forehead. She had a kind smile- wearing a black t-shirt for a band that MJ had never head of and acid-washed jeans. She didn’t offer up a smile as willingly. In fact, she squared up MJ just the same.

He let the side of his suit jacket fall to cover the offending object before he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to bother you so late, we just… I’m George Stacy. My daughter Gwen and I just moved in next door and I wanted to introduce ourselves.”

Gwen looked like he was biting her tongue, but she shoved her hands into her pockets and didn’t’ say a word. Anna Jones seemed to soften at that, her shoulders losing some pent-up tension. MJ moved quickly, bouncing back from the intrusion.

“Oh, you brought cake!” She said, smiling forcefully as she took the plate from George Stacy’s hands. He looked relieved and Gwen’s lip turned up in somewhat of a smirk. It bothered MJ. Rubbed her the wrong way but she was too focused on keeping the butter knife from falling out of her sweatshirt. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing, really.”

“Why don’t you both come in for a slice?” Aunt Anna finally gained her confidence back as she pulled the door a few more inches open. “We can get to know each other, seeing as we’ll be neighbors and all.”

George seemed to relax into things now. He nodded in acceptance and followed the Jones women into their family room. He commented on the art that decorated the walls and even nudged his daughter a few times to get her to say something, anything.

They sat awkwardly on an olive-colored sectional while Anna dished out some of the cinnamon-flavored cake. Gwen scanned her golden stare over MJ once more- this time she raised her eyebrow- pierced my two little silver balls like a snake bite- a vampire bat, maybe. She was close, sitting on the couch next to MJ who found the cake more desirable than the meal before. She took a generous bite.

Aunt Anna launched into asking the standard questions: “Where are you from? What made you move to Brooklyn? Oh, I’m sorry to hear about your wife… my brother he-“  

MJ glared down at the cake and Gwen seemed to be more interested in the pictures on the mantel than the conversation in front of them. She felt like a child at the kiddy table during thanksgiving. The grownups are talking now, she reminded herself.

“Are you going to Midtown?” MJ whispered, low enough for the two of them to hear.

Gwen nodded and shoveled another forkful of pastry past her lips. “I start on Monday. Is it stereotypical?”

“I… don’t know what that means.”

“You know, the jocks, the cheerleaders that sleep with them. The introvert that barely speaks.” She nudged MJ’s shoulder, and the girl tried not to take offense to that.

“I’m not an introvert.” MJ placed the plate on the coffee table and turned slightly towards Gwen. Her bangs were shading her eyes. They looked black. “I just don’t like people, alright? They’re shitty. They assume things too quickly- like a fight or flight method.”

“Right,” Gwen drew out the word “That’s textbook definition of an introvert. Not a bad thing to be just… obvious.”

MJ let out a long sigh and became painfully aware of the butter knife up her sleeve. Her family had taught her six different ways to use it- and she wouldn’t mind testing one of those methods out on her neighbor right about now. But something told her Aunt Anna would be upset about the upholstery.

“Let me guess, you’re the editor of the school paper? Or maybe just the photographer. Oh!” Gwen said a little louder, but not to alert her father “Maybe you’re the recorder for whatever sports team takes president over the others.”

MJ scoffed and reached forward for her glass of milk, she hovered it over her lips. “You’ve got me all figured out then, huh? Labeled just like that. I bet you’re the rebel without a cause. There must be a few tattoos under those sleeves of yours. Stick and poke I’m guessing.”

It was Gwen’s turn to smile- her teeth pointed and dangerous as she shook her head. “You have no idea.”

“Yeah, well. Neither do you.”

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Camp BeaverBrook | 018

READ FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

Emily’s grasp was thick and domineering. Bloodied fingers dug into her side hard enough to leave little purple moons against clammy skin. Aubrey didn’t mind too much- she figured that was a good sign. Maybe she hadn’t lost too much blood. Maybe the fact that she was so cold wasn’t due to a slowly flickering flame- maybe it was just the frigid weather.

The moonlight leads the way, she can’t decide if that’s a God sent or not. They can see what’s in front of them as clear as day: The way little crystals of ice form on Beca’s ice-cold hair. The way A bruise wraps its deathly hand around Chloe’s neck. The wet blood that dripped around Emily’s lips. Who deserved justice more?

There was an eerie calm that had fallen over the camp. The campers had left- the counselors that were smart enough to follow were probably sitting in a warm diner right about now, or one of the darkened hotels that presented itself along the interstate. None of the name brand stuff that offered breakfast, the places where you would be lucky enough to find a room without a switch that made the beds vibrate.

She couldn’t hear any crickets, though. None of them could. That was a sign of danger and everyone knew it.

When she was younger, the house two blocks over caught on fire. Plumes of toxic smoke floated into the sky and the decaying scent of rotting wood being enflamed filled Aubrey’s lungs as she rode her bike around the corner and stopped just short of getting hit by an ambulance with roaring sirens.

She noticed a lot that day, a lot of noise that was impossible to drown out. But one thing that did hit her was the silence of the morning birds that sat on the powerlines and watched a family home destroyed in utter silence. Maybe it was out of respect, or maybe it was out of fear.

She hugged Emily closer at the memory and adjusted her fingers against her hip. Chloe held wordlessly onto the other side While Beca walked ahead of them all, her fingers on a trigger that she probably didn’t even know how to shoot. It made Aubrey feel uneasy.

Every time she blinked; she swore she felt it. Felt the wood under her fingertips as she pushed into the cabin that she had signed her final paperwork in. But it wasn’t just a cabin, it was Gail’s home. She braved the winters up here- felt safe up here. Until someone, Beca, maybe, stormed in and shot her between the eyes. A mercy killing. The blood dripped from her nose like cherry syrup.

“She couldn’t have been in two places at once.” Emily’s voice carried with the wind.

“Huh?”

“Beca… fuck, she uh, she was with Chloe and me. It’s not humanly possible for her to get across the camp in that amount of time. To blow up the shed… to strangle Chloe. She’s right, there are two of them and she’s not either.”

Aubrey frowned. She nearly failed statistics in her junior year. Not due to lack of trying, just because the logic of it all would throw her off from the equation. It was hard for her to admit that she was wrong, even harder when it was some snot-nosed counselor that pushed her buttons every single chance she got. She decided to focus on the old car in front of them instead. Its doors closed and something of a dummy leaning against the driver side window.

He almost looked fake and blue under the full moon. His eyes were closed, and that same dried brown liquid was spilled from his throat. Beca let out something like a grunt as she pressed her shirt sleeve against her lips with her free hand. Aubrey could smell it too. The blood and tobacco.

“Someone help me here,” Beca said, pulling open the door with conviction. Hesitation if not for survival. “He’s a heavy dude.”

Aubrey wordlessly leaned Emily against the hood of the car. Chloe instantly kneeling to adjust the strip of fabric that was keeping the young girl from fading out completely. It was soaked to the point of being pitch, like the sky.

“What was he like?” She nearly choked on the laden air as she grasped the other side of the fallen officer. His badge was luminescent in the moonlight. Beca edged herself around him, letting him crash to the ground in a heap of weight.

“He was a dick. A real pain in my ass who smoked enough to make up for a textile. But now I can see why he did it.” Beca placed her knee against the now empty drivers’ seat, the leather cold as she searched around in the scare visibility for something, anything, that resembled keys. “They’re not here.”

“What?” Aubrey asked.

“You heard me, they’re not here. I swear to god I left them in the center consul when I grabbed the gun but-“

“Don’t you know how to like… hop a car or something?” Emily asked from the front of the hood.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I went from tagging walls to Grand Theft Auto, Emily.”

Chloe shot a deathly glare from her perch next to the wounded camper and Beca slightly coward under it before she dragged her fingertips around the console once more. No keys with a fuzzy white rabbits’ foot on it. Nothing but ash that stained the grooves in her fingertips a dark grey.

“Do you need some light?”

Aubrey’s chest seized, her heart in the throat and a cold sweat instantly beading against her skin. that voice, a voice, that she recognized whole-heartedly but never expected to become privy to while they searched a dead man’s car for a set of keys that may or may not start an El Dorado whose gas tank was probably on empty.

Beca Mitchell apparently held the same affinity for the situation. Her hand quickly wrapped around the weapon with a dull click as she whipped around and pointed the weapon dead in the direction of the newcomer: Jesse Swanson.

Brown eyes were wide, and fingers twitched in the cold of the night. He wore a dark flannel over his yellow camp shirt. That stupid little green beaver glared at them, almost mocked them. “Whoa, Jesus Maverick, I thought you had never seen Top Gun.”

Beca glanced sparingly at the other girls as she adjusted her stance, shoving the weapon back into the hem of her pants. “You can’t sneak up on a someone like that dude. Not now. What are you even doing here? I thought you would have left by now?”

“And miss the genuine chance to be a part of something this big? Haven’t you ever seen Sleepaway Camp?” He said excitedly. Almost with pure glee. “there’s no way I’m passing up that chance… where’d you get a gun anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve got that light?”

Jesse nodded and rounded the other side of the car before he pulled the door open with a long creak. Aubrey stepped to the side, her arms crossed over her chest, part of her wanted to pull the warmth in. The other part thought that if she held tight enough maybe it would keep her bones from falling into a pile on the soft grassy floor like an old Steamboat Mickey cartoon.

He flipped open his chrome zippo and it gave an instant orange glow to the car. Beca could see now that it had more to offer than just ash. There was a half-smoked cigar and a few ketchup packets that had yet to be unopened. She never took Wilken’s as the one to get fast food, but she couldn’t’ blame him.

She glanced up, frowning as the hot glow shaded half of her face in ghostly shadows that screamed in the night. “I don’t see them.”

She hadn’t noticed it before. The night dark and her heart echoing in her ears like a steel drum. The brown scratches against the edge of his cheek. Cutting across clear skin that was beading with cool moisture. A bruise stretched around them like a marking- a brand. A dead give-away.

Beca mumbled a few profanities before she stumbled back from the car altogether. It was useless anyway. The keys were gone, probably shoved into someone’s pocket. It was nothing but a barrier. Aubrey nearly caught her, but Beca was quick, once again grasping for the gun- breath thick with the scent of blood that seeped into the soil like water. She didn’t pull it, not just yet.

“What happened to your face?” She asked, the girls watching from the hood.

He laughed, scoffed really. “What?”

“Your cheek. It’s scratched. What happened?”

Jesse glanced around; four blinking eyes boring into his. His fingers reached up to the welt, barely noticeable when the light from the zippo vanished in his movements. “I work in a kitchen, Beca. I nicked it is all, no big deal.”

Beca tightened her grip around the gun. She was fast. It was somewhat natural of her now, to pull it- to have the adrenaline rush through her veins. Fast was something she had always been: Fast with excuses and fast when it came to dodging the local law enforcement through city streets.

Jesse was faster. Her pulled Chloe flush against his body as she let out a sharp scream, as much as she could muster. He moved her arm against her chest, keeping her in one place with the tip of a hunting knife against the edge of her throat- once more in peril. The steel blinding against a browning bruise. Emily stumbled into Aubrey, pressing her fingers against her lips.

“It was you at the lake-“She said, voice tight. “You tried to drown me!”

“Yeah, I did. And maybe if I had you’d have a better chance at finding your keys.”

“Why?!” Beca yelled over his last words. Tears were threatening to boil over. They were dripping down Chloe’s muddied cheeks in clean lines. Her fingers dug into Jesse’s arm, struggling to keep it from pressing too hard. “Why are you doing this? Tell me or I’ll shoot!”

“You’re not that good of a shot, Mitchell, don’t fool yourself.” He hissed; words reaped with poison. “I’ll shove this blade into her carotid artery before you even have a chance. She’ll bleed out just like your mall cop did.”

Beca sniffed, pulling in as much oxygen she could as she pushed the base of her palms against her forehead out of frustration, the gun pointed to the sky for just a moment before it was aimed back at its target. Her eyes were red, the tears finally spilling over and dripping past her chin.

“Do it,” Chloe choked out. “Beca, it has… it has to stop. It’s okay, look at me.”

She struggled, swallowed in a gulp of cold forest air. Chloe’s eyes looked bluer than they ever had before. Maybe it was the dull moonlight or the darkness of Jesse shielding her from the rest of the world. But there was honesty there. It was warm. The only warmth she had felt all night.

Her voice was one with the camp, a demand. “Do it.”

Beca let out a scream of frustration, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Dead Ivy | Chapter Six

CHECK IT OUT FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

Her fingers ran against the edge of the bark. Its surface was old and withered, the scent of premature rot pressing against the back of her throat like a blade with a sharpened edge. If she were daring enough to swallow it would cut into soft skin and draw the faintest color of blood. Vibrant against the rest of the fenced in back yard.

Sweat soaked into Beca’s shirt, wicked in a pattern with dirt. She was panting, the summer heat cloying as she struggled to run the paintbrush evenly to the wood- a distraction, she thought. Fixing up the back yard in exchange from the house that loomed across the bridge next to the old woman with the growing weeds. Her father wouldn’t mind the extra work. And she certainly couldn’t’ fault herself for keeping busy.

Beca had mowed the lawn, taken away the brush that had been overgrowing in the light of the day. Her father, he had forgotten most things. To mow the lawn, to drink water, to put gas in his car and pay the electric bill. Her heart ached for him these last few weeks. Painting the fence was the least she could do- even if it was a deep pasty white that reflected the sun. speakers blaring a soft rock in response to nature.

She was halfway through the perimeter when a slight knock pulled her away from dragging the brush evenly down the wood. Beca drew in a hot breath and turned towards the break in the fence. A falling archway made of thin white material stood in all its glory- like a gateway to a mystical garden that had fallen slave to an evil ice queen with freezing powers. Under that, stood a young girl.

Blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail and a dark crystal stare lit up at the sight of Beca. She wore overalls and a striped shirt; her fingers grasped a plain white paper bag that was crinkled from the ride over here on a bike- Beca was guessing. Riley, beaming in all her glory. Beca let out a breath and couldn’t’ help the smile that formed against her lips.

“I brought you some lunch, or you know, breakfast,” Riley said as she walked across the expanse of the yard. Beca rose to her feet, feeling the exhaustion from the early morning rise. Her clothes were speckled in paint and dirt and she couldn’t help the way her stomach clenched the second she got a whiff of pastry. “To thank you for yesterday… the groceries.”

She took the bag gratefully “How’d you find me, kid?”

“Small town, remember? What are you doing anyway? It’s like a thousand degree’s out here.”

Beca shrugged and reached for the food. A small apple fritter that was coated in a warm icing, even after the long ride over here. She couldn’t help the moan that escaped her mouth as soon as she took a bite. Her taste buds squirmed as she breathed in the soft cinnamon smell. Riley beamed and let out a scoff. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

She decided to shove the rest into the bag for a snack later before she rubbed her hands on her already spotted pants. “I’m fixing up the backyard, making it look less like a war zone.”

“Humph, I’ve seen worse.” Riley wondered aloud. “Mind if I help? Last summer I painted houses with my aunt for my allowance.”

The older girl rose a brow and looked around. She had been at this for hours and had only gotten halfway across the yard. Guns and Roses started to blast from the speakers under the large oak tree and her newfound resilience to sitting still was starting to waver. So she nodded towards a brush and knelt back down in front of her own plank of wood, Riley starting from the top of the one on her right. They painted in silence for a few moments.

“Jenny said you were from Los Angeles.” Riley finally said, dragging the bristles across the length of the wood, sloppy white paint dripped but she was agile enough to catch it before it hit the grass. Beca frowned. When did the band leader have time to say that? “What’s it like?”

Beca glanced over. “Why, you planning on making that the destination of your bus ticket?”

“I never said anything about a bus ticket. You did. I’m just curious is all. I’ve only ever seen here, you know. Small town charm and all. You’re a stranger. At least to me.”

“You mean a trespasser.”

“Either way, you’ve seen more of the world than I have. So, tell me, what’s LA like? I bet you see celebrities every single day.”

Beca smiled and laughed. She thought that’s what it would be at first too. At the supermarket, or at the gym. But instead, she rolled into town with four dollars in her pocket and a studio apartment that had a futon and one light that barely lit the tiny space. The walls were cracked and laden with mold- but it was home, and she didn’t happen upon any famous faces.

“Not every day,” She settled on her words, dipping the brush in the paint again. “I did see that girl who’s in all those Lifetime movies during Christmas at a stoplight one day. But honestly, I was more interested in her dog.”

Riley laughed with a nod and they fell into a rhythmic silence for a few more minutes before the young girl found her footing once more. “Was it hard?... to leave here?”

She sat back on her heels and stared at her paint-covered hands for a moment. The white was speckled across slowly reddening skin. Beca frowned and Riley stopped painting altogether, her eyebrows lifted in the pursuit of an answer.

“This town is kind of like a snow globe. You’ve seen one of those before, right? It’s gorgeous and small, and there’s just the right amount of glass to keep you protected from the outside world.” She glanced up, staring at the girl. “But breaking out… it’s almost unheard of. Like you’re betraying the people who are daring enough to shake it up and make it snow. Does that make sense?”

Riley crinkled her nose in familiarity, her freckles defined in the sun as she shook her head. “No,”

Beca gave her a sad smile and a sigh “When I moved, there was one thing left for me here. And back then, I didn’t think it was enough but now… I think it was the only thing that I’ve ever needed. And now that I broke that glass, I don’t think it can ever really snow again.”

The soapy water washed over soft skin, a thick scent of lavender and mint toying with her lungs as she sunk her aching body into the tub. The porcelain was frigid, and she flinched against the way it clung to her skin. She hissed but eventually settled against the water.  Her toes barely touching the far edge.

“This tub is perfect! And so is the backyard, oh my god! Do you see that view”

Beca could almost hear her mothers voice. It was happy then, barely cracking under the pressures of the world. Her father still had most of his hair and Jason was dashing around the same backyard that she was renovating now- his shoes pulling in mud but none of them really cared. It was one of her earliest memories-

The way her mother balanced her on her hip while she held her stuffed bunny close by the neck. The woman, the beautiful soul that she remembered as her mother, leaned down then- she set her on the floor by the white paneling of the bathroom. The realtor tapping her foot impatiently as they studied the popcorn ceiling and the wrap around porch.

“Don’t worry little one,” She beamed that classic smile “One day you’ll be tall enough for us to mark on this wall right here-“ She stretched her hand all the way up “You’re going to grow up here, would you like that?”

Beca did like it- for the most part. Her parents moving away from the big city so her mother could work at home and her father could open his own business. It was the tub, the tub that sold it and the faint pencil markings that kept them here all this time.

Goosebumps rose against pale skin as she reached blindly for the towel that rested by golden carved legs. She wrapped it warmly against her mid-section before stepping carefully from the tub and over to the wall. Her mother kept adamant on her promise.

Beca let out an even sigh and ran her fingertips over the heights written in her mothers’ script… Jason was always taller. He’d purposely put things on higher shelves- but Beca was crafty back then, they both were. Devising plans to see what Santa had brought. To get the fruit snacks on the top shelf.

“I’m sorry,” She whispered, drawing her hand back as she turned away from the writing. “I’m sorry.”

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Dead Ivy | Chapter Five

CHECK IT OUT FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

Beca Mitchell rocked back and forth on her trainers. They squeaked against the linoleum floor, but not enough for anyone but her to notice. This store made her nervous, had made her nervous since she ran into Chloe Beale here a day and a half ago. Besides that, the lights were too bright and unnatural, the scent of freshly procured produce clawed at her throat.

She held the basket like a good helper, even though she was the older one in this situation. The plastic felt uncomfortable against her grasp and she was trapped in the loaded loop of anxiety that came with accompanying a kid to a candy store. It looked suspicious, and she was still very much drenched in sweat from her three-mile jog into town.

Riley had wiped the tears from her cheeks and was now glaring openly at the list in front of her. She had mentally checked off more than one of the items, making the basket heavier. She looked paler under the fluorescents, her eyes a vibrant shade of blue.

“I think that’s everything. You know you didn’t’ have to stick around? I could have gotten this stuff by myself.”

“I don’t mind, really. Besides, I had to cool off a little.”

Both of these things were half-truths. Beca had enough buzzing energy to take off and run to the docks another two miles away, and then the five back. She was itching to get out of this grocery store. They passed the aisle with the rubber gloves and Clorox wipes and Beca blinked away from it.

While they walked Riley talked about anything to fill the silence: The way they switched to getting their food from big corporations now because it was cheaper, and how they were thinking about remolding the store to fit current times but Mr. Roberts didn’t have that much money to front and why change something that was working in the first place.

Beca wondered that herself. She put the food that they had pilfered from the shelves on the conveyor belt and nodded along to the girl’s ramblings. Everything here had been a safety net, and some people are fine with making a hammock out of it- why change it. But she thought that was cowardice and would personally write a check for Mr. Roberts if he hadn’t caught her shoplifting spearmint gum when she was just past Riley’s age.

“Beca Mitchell?” The cashier’s jovial tone was enough to pull her over the edge. She was a stout woman that had the vague reality of being familiar, but not competently registering. She found herself flicking her eyes down to the obnoxiously lime green vest that had a tag pinned to it. Jenny. Emo Jenny from homeroom that almost burned down the school, or Band leader Jenny who could do the splits and deep throat anything in the name of school spirit? “Oh, my word, I heard you were back in town from a little birdy.”

Band Leader Jenny, it is.

“Yeah, not for pleasantries, I’m afraid.” Beca cupped her fingers behind her neck as Riley looked up at her with a squinted expression.

“Oh yes, you poor thing.” She clicked her tongue, or maybe sucked her teeth, Beca wasn’t sure. “When I heard about your brother, I said to myself, who thinks to do a thing like that? Who drinks and drives when there are plenty of other reckless things to do without harmin’ others?”

She had scanning things at a fast pace, placing them in paper bags like Tetris. Beca could feel her fingers reach for her wallet as she searched for her card, still making eye contact with a random girl she barely knew from high school.

“Anyway, how are you doing?” She finally interrupted, seeing as no one else was in the line for the chatty woman. She knew it would never end unless she changed the subject.

“Pretty good, sweetie, thank you! I married Chet and the two of us settled down right on the edges of town. We have three kids now, they're all one year apart and practically triplets if you can believe it. I swear they are joined at the hip- your total is 22.75- and they’re starting school soon. I’ll be glad to get them out of daycare, you know?”

“Oh, I can’t imagine.”

She plastered on a cheesy smile that made Riley snort and press her fingers against her lips. Beca could feel the corners of her mouth turn up into something more genuine as she grabbed the bags from Jenny and promised to catch up with her in a less public setting before she headed back off to that high-class life of hers.

Beca passed the bag to Riley and relished the hotness of the sun for once in her life. Her fingers felt numb and cold- apparently, everyone goes to the grocery store, because she couldn’t’ seem to avoid slaps in the face from her past. She had smiled as she did at the funeral. This seemed raw though. She started walking towards the direction that she came from.  

“You didn’t’ have to pay for that. My mom gave me thirty bucks.”

“Pocket it and don’t tell her, kid. Start saving up for something.”

“Like a bus ticket?”

Beca stopped in the middle of the sidewalk at that. She turned and stared at Riley, who was breaking a sweat trying to keep a handle on the paper bag that looked like it was about to bust through. She had a defiant look on her face and one eyebrow raised. “What?”

“I mean, that’s what you did, right? You got a bus ticket out of here as soon as you could.”

“No, no I didn’t.”

She was chained a full year after she had walked across the stage, and maybe that’s what hurt her the most. The fact that she didn’t’ hop on a Greyhound the second she finished the obliged diploma. Instead, she shut herself away in the clutches of her old ranch house. Her chest felt tight and her throat felt even tighter.

“What that woman said about your brother-“Riley spoke softly “What happened?”

Beca let out a soft breath and raked her hands through her sweat caked hair. This kid had no sense of boundaries, none at all. She had half the mind to steal the thirty off her and sprint back home for a long and numbing shower: instead, she squatted down, taking the bag from the girls’ hands. “He died. A car accident a month ago.”

Riley blinked a few times and stared her down, scouring her features.

“Aren’t you going to say it?”

“Say what? That I’m sorry?”

Beca nodded dumbly. She had seen her fair share of head tilts and the way there was an instant glazed softness to people’s eyes. The way they thought about their own brother, their own sister or parent succumbing to an accident- a freak accident set into motion by bad choices. But Beca didn’t’ see that in Riley.

“I’m not going to say it. I don’t’ think you need to hear it again” She said, taking the bag back in her hands “Thanks for the groceries.”  

She watched the key that shook in her grasp. The vibrant oranges and earth-shattering yellows of the fallen sunset reflected off the windows like a forgotten blaze left to burn in the hills of a forest. The lawn had grown darkened and brown, the paper that Beca had yet to cancel continued to stack up in front of the door like a barricade of daily news.

Beca had placed her hand against the red painted wood and felt the head the morning sun had left behind. There was a chill picking up in the air, her hair still wet and thrown into a loose bun on the top of her head. She had been avoiding this for most of the day, waiting until the end of the day to pull herself back out of bed.

She clenched her jaw and watched.

Jason wanted to get a dog after his wife left him, but he never had. He would busy himself with projects. Ripping up the carpet in the house and replacing it with wood in fear that the dog would ruin the fabric. Putting up a white picket fence because an animal with that much energy needs to have space to run freely. Searching through links on Facebook and visiting the pound every other day. He used to tell Beca that nothing truly clicked. He never felt that special connection he was craving and Beca didn’t’ think he would, not with an animal.

“Are you going to go in or not?”

“I went in the first time.”

Beca stilled her gaze on the old woman. Her features were shaded by the sunset. She looked younger somehow, leaning over the white picket fence with her hands grasping the wood as hard as she could. Her eyes shined like a dark forested day. Greener without that large hat of hers. She felt more daring when garden sheers weren’t waved in her view.

“Not for long.”

“Don’t you… I mean why is this a thing for you?” She pivoted on her sneaker for a moment, slinging her arms against her chest. “To prod and poke until you get the answers that you want?”

She edged her mouth into a thin line, lilting her head to the side in the same exact way Jenny from the Stop and Shop had earlier. This time it was more condescending and Beca didn’t care much for the fact that she didn’t’ have a garden tool as a weapon anymore, she still terrified her. Beca continued to stand her ground.

“Jason would come to mow my lawn, has been for the past four years. I would make his lemonade too sweet and he would tell me all about his family. His wife. You, his sister, I presume.”

Beca didn’t’ notice how unruly the lawn looked aside for the pristine bushes of red budded flowers and sharp thorns. The grass was growing too high, almost reaching past the woman’s ankles. Still- it was green and thriving compared to the patchy grass of her brothers spotted land.

“People are probably doing the most to step around you right now.” She continued. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve spoken to him more than you have in the past years. That I’ve been a constant presence and you’ve been…”

“Gone.” Beca ran her thumb over the edge of the house key that was warm like putty in her grasp.

“Not gone,” She took a step away from the fence. “Just absent. He missed you.”

“I uh-“Beca blinked away from the woman with a jungle for a lawn. “I have to go inside. Clean this place up.”

“Okay,” She nodded, the corner of her mouth turning up in a slight smile. “Okay.”

Beca turned her attention back to the door. Back to something she didn’t want to push open again. She waited until she heard the creaking of the screen to her right. She could hear the crickets that chirped against the surrounding forest and the way the air got heavy with moisture as clouds filled the sky. She could sense the electricity, stare evenly at the red paint.

Beca took a step back and pocketed the key.

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Dead Ivy | Chapter Four

CHECK IT OUT FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

Her skin prickled against the air that the window unit created. It fought tirelessly against the propped open front door, the porch light pouring warm light into the hallway. It reflected off the hardwood with more subtly than the shifting waves of the lake paired with a crescent moon. Beca was drunk. She let her keys fall into the dish by the door with a little clank- and she stared at them for a moment.

When she was younger, she had a curfew. It was ten o’clock on school nights and eleven on weekends. Her mother would wait up with a book in hand and the curtains drawn. She would let the night air take over the house, the screen door not doing much against the elements. Beca would still try and sneak in, even if the hinges creaked more than the wrap around porch. Then her mother died, and she didn’t have to tip-toe anymore. Just like she didn’t have to now.

“Beca? That you?”

Her father had changed out of his work clothes, though the oil was a permanent fixture under his nails. He looked tired, like the ghost of a man who had once had everything. Maybe that was the moon. Or maybe it was the fuzzy feeling that accompanied Beca, but it made her feel a deep ache. She felt bad for him. How she was the only one he had left.

“Yeah, it’s just me, dad.”

“I waited up for you… you didn’t call.”

She stared at him curiously. Even when she was a teenager, he hadn’t done that. After coming home from work he would shut himself away in his garage and work on yet another car. Her mom used to say it helped him think, but Beca always believed that it helped him be anywhere but here: Trapped in a southern domestic life with two kids and a wife that was dying.

Besides, Beca was an adult. A twenty-nine-year-old woman with a career and an apartment on the West Coast. He didn’t’ need to wait up for her, just like her roommate didn’t’ ever need to call her an Uber when she was out drinking late. She accepted both gestures as they were.

“You’ve been drinking.”

Beca breathed out heavily, she could still taste the ghost of her whiskey sour on her lips. “Yeah.”

Beca turned her attention to the staircase, putting her right foot against it. Her palm was met with the initial shock of the cold railing.  She went for a second one when her father spoke. “Did you drive?”

A certain weight overturned in her stomach like she had swallowed something a little bigger than a marble. The glass was turning against her insides in a cold and unnatural way. The greasy slab of pizza that she had scarfed down after walking back into the bar was threatening to resurface. “What?”

“Did you drive home tonight?”

“No, no, I heard you.” She swallowed, dropping her hand from the railing. Her father’s face was hard, and his eyes were dark. Maybe it was because he looked so sickly, but she was sure that wasn’t it. It was anger. Seething anger that seemed to be contagious. “I took a taxi. Why would you ask me that?”

He kept his features smooth, but let out a labored sigh, finally frowning down at the hardwood floor. Beca could feel her nails digging into the railing. Whatever buzz she was carrying had tapered off. She could hear the deafening click of the hands on the clock hung beneath thoughtfully arranged family photos. Nice snapshots in time that made everything look so pristine.

“I don’t know, Bec.” He ran his hand over his freshly shaped hair. “It seems like the rational thing to ask. You’re my kid, I’m allowed to worry.”

“Not about that. You think I would get behind the wheel after that happened?” She asked, and his eyes snapped back to her with a flash of anger. They quickly softened. “I’m not some reckless teenager anymore. I’m not going to get plastered and then…”

Beca’s voice and thoughts wandered off. It wasn’t a teenager who had hit Jason, and she knew that. It was an older guy, sad and drowning his sorrows in a few whiskeys at the local bar. He taught himself how to drink and still stay within the lines. Fell asleep behind the wheel, maybe- but he had walked away with a few scratches and nothing more. Jason hadn’t walked away at all.  

“You really think I would do something like that? That I would endanger not only myself but everyone else on the road because of a stupid fucking choice?”

“Someone did!” He rose his voice, dropping his hand to the side “Someone got drunk and got behind the wheel of a vehicle before smashing it into Jason’s car and I lost him. He’s gone, and he’s never coming back. Not to me, not to you, not to his ex-wife. Because he can’t. He fucking can’t.”

She swallowed thickly, fingers tightening around the banister. She stared at him for a moment and he stared right back. He looked like he had woken up in the middle of the night to grab a glass of water, but instead, he walked away with glassy eyes and a sullen face. “Goodnight, Dad.”

“Goodnight, Beca.”

She forgot how painful a hangover could be. How her head would pound, and her mouth would feel deadened with a metallic edge. The AC unit continued to hum evenly and Beca let out a breathy sigh when she heard her father’s car start up in the driveway. The sun had barely begun to peak out, and part of her hated the fact that she was awake in the first place.

Beca reached blindly for the water bottle next to her bed but settled for her phone instead. She cringed away from the seemingly blinding light and pulled open her notifications. Facebook. She didn’t even know why she kept it on her phone. It was a place that linked her here.

Stacie had tagged her in a few different posts that she doesn’t remember posing for. If people in town didn’t’ know she was back before, they knew now. She was posing sloppily next to the older woman, her nose pressed against her cheek and a drunken smile on her face. Stacie captioned it: Some things never change.

But a lot had.

She continued to scroll through the notifications before clicking on her memories. She found herself doing it every morning- looking at things she had posted on this day years before. Eleven years before. There were a few posts about school, mainly how she had just gotten her license and was looking for cars. But then there was Chloe.

A picture of the two of them leaning against the tree that was in her backyard. She could see the base of the carving. The sun peaked from behind the large oak, haloing Chloe’s natural red curls. Her eyes crinkled at the sides when she smiled, and her focus was solely on Beca. It made her stomach knot up.

Beca let out a sharp huff and clicked off her phone, staring up at the ceiling instead.

Everything about this town had plunged her into a world she worked so hard to forget. But burying the bad came with dismissing the good. And Chloe was everything good. Even after eleven years, Beca felt like this woman knew more about her than anyone.

She blinked away any sleep from her eyes and peeled the duvet back, sweat already wracking her body. She remembered the first time she saw her roommate going for a jog after a long night of drinking. They both had the same amount of liquor and Beca had curled up on the end of the couch while Aubrey resounded to taking a shot of ginger-infused juice and went for a run around the block. She was fine and Beca suffered. She thought it was an LA thing, but Aubrey pointedly told her that it was a human being thing.

So, she found herself jogging. Not because she was hungover, or the vague memory of what her father had said to her last night, just in general. Because it was something to distract her from the phone she left on her nightstand, and the sudden urge she had to go into the tool shed for an ax. Getting in a few blocks seemed like an easier option than sawing down a tree the size of her house.

Beca placed her headphones accordingly and began her journey along the sidewalks in her neighborhood. This place used to feel so big to her: the classic southern ranch homes that occupied families covering their own secrets while searching for others. They would sit on the porch and sip their sweet tea and wait for someone like her to run by. Following her with their eyes, the daring looking up from their books to offer a wave in exchange.

She could feel the back of her shirt cling to her skin, the spring heat eating away at her as her feet pounded against pollen dusted sidewalks. She expertly dodged couples walking their dogs, edging to the end of the third block she covered. Beca pulled her headphones out, placing her hands behind her head as she struggled to catch her breath in the heat.

Beca turned around Montgomery street, ignoring the pounding against the inside of her wrist. She followed the beat of the song until she made a right on Hope Avenue. Then another left against main street. The small town suddenly came into view and her mind dripped with the thoughts of the last time she had jogged this far.

It was freshmen year.

Nina Blanchard had cornered her in the girl’s locker room, backed into another locker that wasn’t her own. She considered that a small mercy among miracles. Nina had hit puberty over the summer, had grown in height among other things. Beca took a few blows to the stomach and one to the face before she grabbed her bags and made a run for it.

She had sprinted across town and all the way to Hope before struggling to drag one breath into her starving lungs. She was drenched with sweat and her cheek throbbed. The door was locked when she finally made it home and Beca had sunk to her knees in the backyard next to a big oak tree. One that swayed in the wind, making its long arms tap against her windowpane during dark storms.

Beca stopped next to the flower shop on the corner: the door was propped open with a bag of mulch and Goldenrods hung under the windows. The coffee shop next store gave off the scent of pastry and Beca fought back the nausea in her stomach. She placed her hands behind her head and tried to steady her breathing.

A businessman balanced his coffee while sandwiching his phone between his shoulder and ear. Two women sat at the outside table, casting a few sparing glances to a little girl that sat on the sidewalk. Her hair was a mess of blonde curls, her head downcast as she picked evenly at the grass poking up between the sidewalks. Beca couldn’t tell over her heavy breathing, but she looked like she was crying, tears dripping from her chin.

Beca wanted to leave, to begin her long jog home, but instead, she pulled her headphones from her ears and lowered herself to the curb- not completely next to the girl, but enough for her to pick up her head and give her a strange look. They sat in silence while Beca continued to catch her breath.

“Why are you sweating so much?” The girl finally asked, voice foggy.

“I went for a run.”

“You stink.” She wrinkled her nose and looked up all at once. Beca was a bit taken aback by the sheer blueness of her eyes. She felt a pain beneath her ribs and she wasn’t sure if that was the three miles, or if it had something to do with the familiarity of them.

“Yeah well, you’re the one crying on the curb, kid.”

She frowned for a moment and Beca continued to stare before the two of them burst into laughter. This kid couldn’t’ be more than ten, maybe eleven, but she couldn’t’ tell. Either way, it pained Beca to see her eyes rimmed in red and nose on the brink of running.

“Some kids at my school… they’ve been torturing me since we could walk. Nothing really helps, you know? So I try to ignore it but sometimes it’s too much.”

Beca nodded as she understood, and for once in her life, she did.

“My mom sent me to get some things from the store, and I was going to, really, I was. But they were blocking the way and I ran in the other direction because that’s easier than getting pushed to the ground again.” She dragged her arm against the base of her nose. “So now I’m here with this stupid list I was supposed to get an hour ago.”

“Let me see that,” Beca reached out her hand and the girl apprehensively gave over the folded-up piece of paper. The handwriting was looped in a mix of cursive and print. Beca had to bite back a scoff. It was nearly unreadable, but she could make up the word eggs.  “Your mom write this?”

The girl hummed and took it back. She shoved it into her jean pocket and stared forward, blinking silently at the little crosswalk that had no one begging to cross it. “Sometimes people tear you down because they have nothing better to do. It’s easier for them to fight their envy against you than to face their own. You just can’t let it bother you, kid. Once you shut all of that out, life gets a lot easier.”

She shook her head, forcing a small smile. “Is that why you’re out here running?”

Beca laughed, finally letting her heart settle “Don’t be a smartass. Don’t you have a list to get?”  

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Camp Beaverbrook | 017

CHECK IT OUT FROM THE START | AO3 LINK 

[This hopefully goes without saying, but Trigger warning, guns] 

The moonlight filled Cabin number eight like flowing water. It rippled with the sheer white curtains and shaded the room in a mix of a deep glow. Beca couldn’t’ help but stare at the puddle of muddy blood that Emily had left on the floorboards. She was sitting at the edge of the bed now, staring down at the wound as it would magically seal itself up if she glared long and hard enough.

Chloe was shaking and Beca was silent. Her head was spinning, and her clothes were wet. Somehow that was the only thing that registered: her clothes were soaked, and she was numb and smelled like stagnant lake water. Wilken’s was dead. She was as good as dead. And Emily’s blood wasn’t as dark as his.

“What are we going to do?” Chloe choked out, her voice deep and raspy. She clenched her fingers around her neck. The bruise had grown into a swampy green. It made her mouth dry. “It’s three against two.”

“Four,” Emily mumbled from the bed, having laid back on the hard mattress. “Aubrey went to the headmasters cabin if she-“

“F-four against two.”  Chloe cut her off and Emily looked grateful for the interruption. Her own words had tightened to the same degree that Beca felt in her chest.  

Beca reached down instinctively and placed her hand against the back of the girl’s neck. It was cold, just like her touch was. She hoped that it was in some way comforting because comfort was what both of them needed right now- but she couldn’t tell. She didn’t’ have the energy to ponder it.

She was cold to the bones. The blood that flowed through her veins seemed to be devoid of warmth and she wasn’t sure if it had something to do with the muck-filled water she had been dunked into or the chilly air. Maybe even the fact that a psycho killer was stalking their every move.

“Did you take his keys?” Emily finally asked, staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. Her fingers wicked into the fabric of her shirt and her eyes clouded over in something that was number to pain. “Your officer- did you take his keys?”

No. She hadn’t. The thought didn’t’ even cross her mind to snatch them from the ignition. Her thoughts flashed back to the drive up here and how there was a lucky white rabbits’ foot that jingled the further they traveled up the mountain. She was sure it was stained a peachy pink now.

She finally settled on saying “They’re still in the ignition.”  

“We should get them,” Chloe said slowly, voice still filled with a rasp. Tears pinched at the corners of her steely gaze and she refused to lower her fingers away from the throbbing bruise. “If they’re still there, we can get down the mountain. Get to some help.”

Beca nodded and tried to not dwell on the fact that she had been so neglectful in the first place. The keys were more important than the gun. It was like the choice of an ethic that she had to answer in her debate class: If your probation officer is murdered and you have time to grab one thing from his car- would you choose his keys or his weapon?

She sucked at debate.

Beca wanted to object. Wanted to curl up under the cheap covers and warm her skin until she could begin to feel it again, but she knew there was no other option. They needed to get to civilization. Maybe that small gas station that they stopped at for jerky and a bottle of water that Wilken’s insisted they share, and she denied. It would just taste like chewing tobacco. She almost wanted to laugh at the fact that a blade was what did him in instead of side effects from his dirty vices. Almost.

Her grip tightened against the back of Chloe’s neck as the girl instinctively wrapped her own fingers around her wrist, pulling her closer. She smelled sweet against the musty edge of the cabin. The door creaked open, Emily forcing herself to sit up as she dug her fingers into the mattress, blood soaking past the pristine white sheets.

Aubrey Posen looked like she had brought the third plague with her: soot was smeared against her porcelain skin, the pad that was protecting her shoulder from fallen blood was soaked through, the brownish color seeping into the fabric of her shirt. Dirt was under her nails and her fingers curled into her palms on instinct.

It took three seconds for her to register everything around her. Eyes sweeping tenderly from Emily, to Chloe, and then landing with sullen intent on Beca and the gun wedged into her waistband.  There was a certain rage behind her red-rimmed stare. Something that pricked at the back of her mind. Beca had seen that look once or twice before but it was usually when she fucked up bad enough to spend the night in the drunk tank with a few other kids.  

Aubrey let out a growl, pushing forward with such rage that Emily forced herself to stand, hissing in pain as her leg nearly buckled under the weight. Her fingers ghosted over the woman’s shirt, not quite grasping it. Beca reached for the gun.

It clicked under her thumb as she pointed it like she had wielded a weapon of its caliber before, when in fact, she hadn’t. “STOP!” She shouted, keeping it even as Aubrey halted in her tracks, jaw clenched. “Seriously, one more step-“

“And what? You’ll shoot me?” her voice crackled.

“Aubrey-“

“No, Emily. It’ll just confirm what we all knew anyway. She’s a killer, a cold-blooded killer. She’s the only one with a gun around here.” Aubrey said, keeping her eyes on Beca as she slowly raised her hands in the air. “So, go ahead, Mitchell. Shoot me.”

“No one is shooting anyone!” Chloe stood from her seat on the bed, albeit shakily. Her words were as clear as they could be, her stance strong as she looked between the two girls. Beca adjusted her grip on the gun. “We’re already fucked as it is. There’s no way we’re getting Emily down this mountain unless we’re all alive and in that car. Put the gun down.”

“She came at me,-“

“Put the gun down.”

This time she was careful enough to push Beca’s hand to her side, the weapon dropping with it, gaping at the floorboards instead. Aubrey let a considerable amount of tension drain from her body and Emily fell into her, maybe from the weight kept on her leg, or out of pure relief. She pressed her nose against the nave of the woman’s neck, biting back a sob as Aubrey kept her glare steady, but moved to comfort her.

“Gail is dead.” She spoke, “Shot point blank between the eyes like it was some kind of mercy killing. She can’t help us, not anymore.”

“Then we stick to the plan,” Beca shoved the gun back into her waistband, pushing her fingers into her jean pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking. Her breath doing the same. “We get to the car, and we get the fuck out of Camp Beaverbrook.”

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Dead Ivy | Chapter Three

CHECK IT OUT FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

The house never looked that big before, it was a small two bedroom that was enough for Jason and his wife. He had repainted the gray finish into a pearly white that matched the picket fence. He had replaced the grass and drew little designs on the mailbox to make it look more like home- but now the grass was rotting to a deep brown, and the mailbox’s flag creaked as sticky wind hissed past.

Beca knew she should have grabbed the keys before she got out of her fathers’ truck.

That would have saved her from digging in her messenger bag. There were a lot of papers from the funeral in there, different documents and legal stuff that she would usually pay people to do that for her- which, of course, left a sour taste in her mouth. She hated people like that, but she hated not reading the fine print even more.

They had given her Jason’s things in a plastic bag that reminded her of prison. Beca just remembered staring at the doctor, dry-mouthed and silent against the buzzing fluorescent lights. How could her brother not survive but the set of keys in the ignition were salvaged? It left a thick feeling in her veins.

There was a CD that wasn’t labeled, something they had pulled from the wreckage. A couple of receipts and a picture of his ex-wife that he had, still clipped to the visor. Her father refused to take any of it, so she shoved everything except for the keys into the bottom compartment of her dresser. Of course, now, she couldn’t’ find them.

“Whatever you’re selling, he doesn’t want it.”

The voice startled her into gasping. If she was holding keys, Beca would let them fall to the ground. She had placed the cleaning supplies down by the front door and turned slightly within the bounds of the picket fence. A woman, probably three times her age, was leaning with her garden sheers, way too close to the barrier. She had on a large floppy hat the shaded her ghostly eyes and her pants were coated in grass stains.

“I’m sorry?”

“The young man that lives there, he doesn’t want what you’re selling. We have a strict policy against solicitors, and you can see that there is no car other than yours in the driveway.”

Beca blinked a few times at the woman. She didn’t’ think people like this actually existed. When she was growing up her father would get letters in the mail from the HOA talking about how they needed to trim their hedges or repaint their shutters or else they would get fined for tainting the neighborhood. She never understood people who looked out for that type of thing, but one was standing right in front of her, mouth pressed into a hard line.

“I’m not selling anything.” Beca felt the need to defend herself to this small-town southern belle of the ’50s. “I’m looking for the key.”

She went back to pawing around her back, shoving aside a half-eaten granola bar that was at the bottom. It left crumbs over everything and made it smell like peanut butter, but she supposed there were worse things.

“This place has been vacant for a week now.”

“He’s dead.”

Beca paused in her own movements. She hadn’t said it out loud. She had mulled over it again and again. Her older brother, the kid who used to pick on her about her hair, and her grades, and the fact that she couldn’t pass her driving test on the first try was dead. She had been preoccupied. Busy with arranging his service and keeping up house for the rest of the town. She finally found the key and looked up at the woman, who was quiet for what seemed like the first time in her life.

“He was so young. That’s tragic.”

“It is,” Beca let out a deep sigh and turned the key in the lock. She nodded briskly at the woman before pushing her way into the stifling heat of the house. She was hit with an instant scent of rotted food and stagnant water. The electric had been cut. It left her with the dusty darkness of a bachelor pad.

The house groaned in her presence and she drew in a cloying breath, pressing her back against the door. There were envelopes on the floor, scattered against the hardwood after being shoved through the mail slot. An instant brine of sweat began to adhere her clothes to her skin. Her brother's house looked normal.

Jason’s coat was still hanging on the hook by the front door. There were movies lining the shelves next to a vacant television. A throw moved against the back of the sofa and another picture of his wife was situated by the end table. Beca never understood why he left that there. But then again, she had never been over here to turn the smiling face to the mahogany that it rested on.

She let her boots echo against the flooring as she wondered through everything. There were two bedrooms, one converted into an office, the other had an unmade bed. The dining room was void of a table instead a worn Steinway piano was in its place. She ran her fingers over dusty cover but decided against listening to the notes.

They were both forced to take piano lessons as a kid. Jason wanted to go out for the basketball team instead, and he eventually did. But for three long years in middle school, they both sat with their backs straight and fingers hovering over alternating keys. Beca supposed she did have her father to thank for her affinity in music. Her understanding was owed to Miss Beale.

Beca walked over the fridge and frowned. That same rotted scent of decaying vegetation coated her lungs and she knew she would have to peel open a trash bag and get rid of the food first. It should have been done days ago- all of this had. Instead, she stared at the fridge.

There were letter magnets that were blocky and in primary colors. There didn’t seem to be any combinations that could be read, but they did hold up different poloids. Easter, 07’. Key West, 04’. Honeymoon, ll’. The one that stood out to her was Christmas of 01. Jason was behind Beca, his cheesy smile matching the onesies they both wore in front of a tree too covered in tinsel to ever be considered pine. She leaned into him and they both grinned like they were instructed to.  

Beca jumped when her phone buzzed in her back pocket.

She gulped back the rancid air and blinked away whatever moisture formed in her eyes before frantically fishing her phone out of her back pocket. She didn’t recognize the number, but she welcomed the distraction. “Mitchell.”

“It’s Stacie, I’m so glad I had the right number.” Beca didn’t ask her why, or how, she had gotten it before Stacie spoke again. “Listen, I was serious about getting together. You busy?”

Beca glanced around and brought her fingers up to her collarbone. She instinctively scratched at where a necklace had once been. A nervous habit, she supposed. “No, not at all. What did you have in mind?”

Beca Mitchell ended up at the Snake Eye, the very place she didn’t want to find herself in while staying in the sleepy little town. The music was too loud, and there was an undeniable thickness to the air that culminated in half-rate nachos and open mic nights. High school Beca would have loved this place- hell, college graduate Beca would have loved it too.

“I got you a beer!” Stacie called over the music, shoving a cold amber bottle into Beca’s hand. “I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s perfect, thanks!”

Beca would have taken rubbing alcohol at this point. Anything that would drown out, or at least dull, the sound of the pulsing music. Every seat was taken at the bar, and the few tables that the place had were occupied. Some college girl was mumbling her way through Bohemian Rhapsody, probably on a dare from her friends sitting a few booths down.

Stacie pulled Beca into a vacant corner of the bar. It was oddly quieter on the plush leather seats. She set her beer down on the table and tried to distract herself by reading whatever was on the menu. It was tailgating food and all of it was a greasy mess, yet, Beca found herself craving jalapeno poppers.

“Sorry, this is such short notice. All my residents ended up coming down with the same flu that they were treating last week.” Stacie took a long gulp of her fruity drink. “I feel bad, but I’ve got the night off, and you probably need an escape.”

“I do, yeah, though, I refuse to get up on that stage.”

“What? The singing bug finally left your bones?”

Beca snorted and shook her head. She wasn’t much of a singer, to begin with, sure, she had a voice. Almost everyone from her childhood did. She remembered the after-school jazz band and the concerts that the school would put on.  “I’m more a behind the scenes type of girl.”

“Right, right. Bigshot producer now, I bet a few of your songs are in that book up there.”

Her cheeks heated at that, but she knew the doctor meant well. She was sure there were a few that she had helped produce. Big pop songs that let her top the charts without giving her the fame. Of course, she still found herself pulling her baseball cap down, or looking away from whatever cameras had spotted her. Not here, though. No one knew this place existed.

“That’s pretty cool, Mitchell. Getting out of this place and making a name for yourself.”

“Please, you are literally a doctor. You save lives daily.” Beca took a swig of her own beer, letting the sour liquid sooth her nerves a bit. “That’s dope, dude.”

“Not always. I pull more marbles out of asses than I do bullets.”

Beca frowned at the statement, scrunching up her nose before the two of them burst into laughter. If felt like it used to: she could remember sitting in the refinished garage that Stacie had converted into somewhat of a man cave. There was a fold out couch, and the hum of the dryer would lull them into placid conversation. Stacie stole a beer from her father, and they drank it in there. Two years later she produced a sloppily rolled blunt, and they smoked it there, all while making crass jokes and cracking up. It felt normal.

They both let out an involuntary groan as the first three notes of a Toni Braxton song filled the bar. Beca pressed her forehead against the table and Stacie shifted in the booth to get a good look at whoever had chosen a ballad like Unbreak My Heart.

“No fucking way,” Stacie mumbled, setting her sloshing drink down. “Mitchell, you wouldn’t believe…”

Though, when the first ballad started, Beca did believe. She had heard that voice a million times and had more than enough nights where she fought to forget it. Right now, it was shockingly crushing one of the hardest songs humanly possible to sing- though she had no doubt.

Chloe Beale. Restaurant owner. Single mother- and oh god, wearing really tight jeans.

There weren’t many lights that illuminated the half-baked stage in the karaoke bar. But that didn’t’ seem to matter. A mix of blue and white shaded Chloe while the whole place seemed captivated by the words of a heartfelt breakup song. Ouch.

“She’s crushing it.”

“Mm,” Beca could only hum in agreement as she traced Chloe’s body. Of course, a deep acid still burned against her veins from their curt interaction earlier that morning. She looked so different- so freeing with the mic in her hand and all eyes on her. “I think I need some air.”

Before Stacie could interject Beca pushed herself away from the booth and walked through the crowd that had all turned to face the stage. She didn’t blame them. Her whole body was on fire, like the atoms that made up her God complex were struggling to pull her back. She didn’t know if the hot Georgia air was doing her any favors, but it muted the song.

She let out a dull sigh and pressed her body close to the brick, closing her eyes. She could hear the crickets mix with the low croaks of bullfrogs. She used to find it odd when both were quiet. When she could only hear her breath- but she was used to LA traffic, a different type of loud and never that unsettling silence.

The music picked up again when the door opened and closed. A couple that was sure to move on to their next destination for the night. Stacie coming out to check on her. A bartender coming out for a smoke while they sat on an old plastic carton.

Beca let her eyes shoot open once more when the warmth of another cut through her focus. She steadied herself, hands grasping at her arms. Familiar. “Oh my god, I am so sorry, I-“Chloe Beale wasn’t alone, her breath scarce. She was still riding the high of the stage. “Beca.”

The girl that was with her was tall, towering with those brown doe eyes that could melt the sharpest hearts encased in ice. She wore a floral sundress, loud colors that somehow worked on her lanky frame. A leather coat was against her shoulders to counter the cold of the bar.

“Twice in one day, wow.” She said.

Beca scanned the stranger up and down, not taking her eyes off of her. She was pretty. Very pretty. “It’s a small town- I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Oh, we haven’t.” She said, chipper as ever. “My names Emily. And you’re Beca, Chloe has told me all about you.”

She raised her eyebrows, giving a slight tilt of the head towards Chloe. Her cheeks were red and Beca couldn’t’ tell if that had changed from before this topic of conversation was brought up. She hated the heat that licked at her own throat- she had no right, none whatsoever, to feel that surge of jealousy towards this tall stranger. They had forgotten each other. Forgotten the way they felt against each other. Forgotten how they loved, and how they hated. How they hurt.

“You did very well up there, Chloe.” Beca finally conceded. “Just like old times.”

“Sure,” Chloe’s eyes were hard, that signature blue not shining as it had before. Was it anger? Was it betrayal? Was it both? Beca couldn’t tell before Chloe looped her arm around Emily’s middle and lilted her head. “We have to be going. Have a good night, Beca.”

They walked past and Beca pretended not to get overwhelmed by the vanilla scent that both girls carried. Instead, she simply mumbled dejectedly. “You too, Chloe.”

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Dead Ivy | Chapter Two

CHECK IT OUT FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

The room was taken over with a brutal heat. The type of Georgia heat that would cling to every inch of her skin and worm past her clothes. When Beca was younger she would sleep with the window propped open, spread out over the quilt that her grandmother had sewn before she was born. That was folded up in the closet now, and a busted window unit struggled to pull outside warmth into cooler currents. It smelled like gas.

She felt the sticky brine of sweat on every inch of her skin, almost like a casing that she needed to shed. Her whole body was sore with the whispers of a hangover, though she had only downed two drinks before cautiously walking the side streets and leaving her fathers pickup truck in the parking lot of the Red Sun.

Beca didn’t’ bother reaching for her phone, scrolling through the multitude of emails that she could just mute, justifying it with an excuse. Her bosses could wait, hell, she could wait. Nothing was more important than sitting in her old room staring at the walled posters of boy bands that were shrouded in repression of sexuality. She squinted her eyes at Justin Timberlake and let out a soft groan. She was back where she started.  

The scent of coffee tickled at her nose as birds chirped outside. In any other situation, this would be a picturesque moment. But instead, she was thrust into her home town for a funeral. Her brother’s funeral. It left a strange ache in the pit of her chest that she frowned at as she pulled herself from the quilt that her grandmother passed down to her mom- and now it lay here, spread across her twin bed.  

Her father was sitting at the kitchen table when she wandered onto the cooling tile. She shivered as the surface bit at her bare feet. He wordlessly nodded at her as she fished for a mug and filled it with steaming liquid. The heat warmed her cheeks as she leaned against the counter.

“You don’t want any milk or sugar?”

“No, I’m okay. Thank you.”

He had run out of things to say after they walked back into the funeral yesterday. They both smiled sadly and accepted the handshakes, cleaning up in silence. The fridge was wracked with different Tupperware they weren’t expected to give back. Most of the dishes were covered in cheese, something about comfort, she supposed. Now there was an uncomfortable silence between them. Beca decided to read over the label stitched into his button-down instead. Mitchell Transmission.

“What are your plans for today?”

She lifted her eyes over the rim of her mug, mumbling into it. “I was going to go to the house.”

He sat back in his chair and let it groan, drumming his fingers on the table. None of this felt real. Was she actually going to use the key that was under the front mat and open into the place that sat desolate now? There was probably mail stacked in the box, no one aware that there wasn’t anyone to open them. But that was why she was staying so long, wasn’t it? To tie up loose ends. To get the old ranch ready to sell.

“Fine, that’s fine. Are you going to get rid of any of his stuff?”

“I’m not sure.” She set the mug down on the counter and let out a small breath.

Part of Beca knew she said it to ease his mind. What about his baseball card collecting? He would murder her if she even thought about touching that as a kid. They were encased in plastic, some of them marked with signatures. But now they were nothing. She would have to get rid of nearly everything, not willing to take it back to her apartment out west, and her father had no reason for it either.

“Well, I’m off.” He stood from the table and pushed in the chair with a shattering screech. It drowned out the birds that chirped outside. She nodded and he told her to drive safely. Something he had never done before.  

Beca went to the only general store in town to get trash bags. She had internally groaned when she peeled open the bottom cabinet in the kitchen to find that the only cleaning supplies her father kept was a dried-out pack of Clorox wipes that didn’t smell like lemon anymore. If it were up to her, and really, it wasn’t, she would avoid all public places like this. Especially with lighting so harsh.

She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket and struggled to keep her head down as she walked through the sliding doors closest to the produce. An instant smell crossed her senses: A mix between freshly baked bread and cut fruit. There was a slight chill to the air as she grasped a small basket and balanced it in her fingertips. She hoped it was early enough that the only people in here would be moms with nothing better to do, and maybe a drunk college student that hadn’t had a chance to sleep off a hangover.

Beca rounded the aisle to the cleaning supplies and welcomed the bout of heat as she got further away from the freezer section. Maybe Los Angeles had made her soft to the cold. She threw some off-brand trash bags into the basket, some wipes that were also generic, but had some moisture to them. Paper towels, a pack of plastic gloves, though she doubted that she would need them. That’s when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye.

The woman straightened up and flicked her stare to the base of the aisle. And that’s where she stood: her focus on a pack of detergent that she was glaring at under the fluorescents. She was impossible to miss, her fire-filled hair was done up in a messy bun, a t-shirt hugging every inch of her curves. She had tied a flannel around her waist, taking it off due to heat, Beca guessed.

Chloe Beale. Restaurant owner. Single mother- and oh god, staring right at her.  

Beca’s cheeks flushed instantly at the blue flash of light she saw before staring down at the product that was in her hand. She read the directions on how to put on gloves like she had never done it before. It was the most interesting thing in the world right now. She got all the way down to the warning label about ingesting the powder before she felt the warmth of another, always silent on her feet.

“Beca? I heard you were back in town.”

Fuck, that voice. It made her knees want to buckle. She was thankful they didn’t- instead, she calmly breathed in and looked up. She was so close, and her eyes, damn, her eyes were a breath-taking blue like they had always been. Her smile was strong, encouraging. She had missed it.

“Yeah, I… how are you?”

She mentally cursed herself. How are you? Yeah, I’m sorry that I bolted right after high school. That I broke up with you the second I had a chance to get out of the little town. Literally anything but ‘how are you’ would work. But instead, she stared and rocked back on the heels of her boots. Chloe had a cloying, yet graceful, smile on her lips. Obliged.

“I’m well, Beca. How are you?”

Beca blinked: Chloe either hadn’t heard or hadn’t the heart to mention it. Even the greeter at the front of the store had given her a sad look and that awful head tilt. This place was too small for no one to forbid pitying her. She hated it- but Chloe hadn’t done any of that stuff. Instead, she treated her like an old friend.

“I’m uh, I’m okay.” She cupped the back of her neck and peered up at the woman. She had a few things in her hands. A large pack of iodized salt with a little woman in a raincoat stood out to her. It was raining and a spinning sunny umbrella rested upon her shoulder. “Listen, I’m sorry that I’ve been MIA.”

Chloe lifted a brow at that. MIA would be a casual phrase one would use when it came to dodging texts for a few days, not moving across the country and successfully producing records for the past twelve years without so much as a friendly acknowledgment.

“It’s alright.” She finally worked out. “I know how much you wanted to escape this sleepy little town. And you did quite well for yourself.”

Chloe smiled at her again and ducked around her as Beca let her shoulders drop. There was hurt in her stance, eyes following the red-headed woman for a few moments before she vanished, walking up to a cashier who beamed right back at her.    

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Dead Ivy | Chapter One

CHECK IT OUT FROM THE START | AO3 LINK

Beca could feel the soil beneath her fingertips. It was soft, freshly overturned, and in a way, comforting. She was careful not to let her knees touch the ground- not privy to the dark stains that would splay against the fabric. The tree stood tall above her, stretching its large oak branches towards the pluming blue sky. A nice summer breeze tussled her hair, and she was sure that if she breathed in, she would smell freshly cut grass and chlorine from the neighbor’s pool.

The treehouse had long since been torn down to make room for her mother’s garden. Something that stood at the end of the fenced in yard. For a while, she grew tomatoes and zucchini. Beca could still remember the first red bulb that poked its head from the dirt. They made a salad from store-bought spinach and divided up the little thing, no bigger than a golf ball. It was still the best tomato that Beca had ever had.

She sighed at the hand that squeezed her shoulder gently. Her father smelled of aftershave and bourbon. His tie wasn’t fastened all the way to his white button down, and he had strung his suit jacket over his arm. He held a sad look that was shielded by the sun as Beca squinted at him. She pulled herself to her feet, feeling the age of her aching bones as she stepped back from the large oak tree and stared up at the branches.

“Do you remember when I fell out of this tree and broke my arm?” She asked.

Her fathers’ eyes crinkled at the memory as he gave her a sad smile. She had needed him to run beside her when he first took the training wheels off her bike. She had needed him when she learned how to drive and took out the Johnson’s mailbox. But when she dropped from a higher spot in the oak tree and felt something audibly snap, it was her mother that came to the rescue.

She had been clipping up sheets to the clothesline, claiming that the summer air was always better for stuff like that. A beautiful woman that would beam endlessly and cradle Beca in her arms with her stormy eyes and eerie calm. Beca needed that right now. Needed it to get through the handshakes and the hugs. The baked goods and casseroles that people deemed necessary when something like this happened.

“I do.” He chuckled wearily, “I got a call at work that something had happened. You scared the hell out of me that day, kid.”

Beca snorted at the nickname. She and her father had gotten along significantly better since she moved out on her own- took up a place and a prominent career across the country in Los Angeles of all places. She had, of course, taken time off work to come back for the funeral. To pull into the sleepy little Georgia town with a giant oak tree that shook in the summer breeze. She squinted at the bark, at the carving so crudely made by a grooved pocket knife.

C + B FOREVER & EVER

The second half was etched in different handwriting, something more elegant and thought out. It was funny, really. When they were kids, it was easier to think about the future in terms of relationships. Of course, they would always be with one another- they wouldn’t fathom being apart. But then college. Careers. Plane rides. Marriage, kids, and divorces. All inevitable. All anything but forever.

“She still lives around here, you know? Owns a little café in the far side of town.”

“That so?”

He grunted and sniffed away any feeling that still leaked in his voice. No one would question them for standing out here- but they still felt obligated to go back inside the old farm style house with the wrap around porch and the honeysuckle bushes. Beca didn’t know how he could still live here. “Yeah. You should pay her a visit while you’re here. I bet she’d like that.”

Beca simply nodded and let the tips of her fingers trace of the words that had been weathered over time, but they were still there. They had stood the test of time, unlike her treehouse. Unlike the little plants of tomatoes and zucchini that had rotted away to decaying vines that stretched like deadened ivy up the side of the fence.

“Right. Well, we should probably go back inside. The quicker we talk to everyone, the quicker they can go home and mourn their memories.”

It was a grim thing to say, but it was the truth, so her father let the words die in the air before sliding on the suit jacket to cover up the sweat stains against his dress shirt. She let her hand fall and looped it around his arm like he was escorting her down the carpeted floor of a chapel on her wedding day. Instead of white, she dawned black, though. And so, did he.

She thought that drinking and sadness walked hand and hand. It was why the only two bars in town did so well on any given night, and if things were bad, any given day. The other place, the snake eye, had karaoke on Friday nights and Beca didn’t think she was well equipped to listen to TLC, so she chose The Red Sun instead.

There were repurposed Christmas lights strung against the bottom of the counter, hot to the touch. A low rock ballad cracked over the loudspeaker. She wasn’t sure if the jukebox that changed light settings every few beats actually had a purpose or if it just ate up quarters. Either way, Beca Mitchell was in her own world.

She tilted her head back and let the bourbon burn on the way down. A nice and subtle sting that washed the taste of stale crackers out of her mouth. It was the only thing in her stomach- despite the spread that was now packed with tin foil in the fridge. Her father was drinking too, she was sure, at home in his study. The house was too quiet for her, though.

Beca felt a twinge of guilt in her gut.

She had ignored the last call from her brother. She was in the middle of the meeting, and at the time, the buzzing of her phone sounded louder than anything else in the world. She flushed instantly and clicked the side of the device before staring back down at her notes and sunk further into her seat.

He had died the next day, she had forgotten to call him back. A car accident and a drunk driver. Which, she supposed, defeated the purpose of being here- in this stupid some-hazy bar with nothing but time on her hands. She considered switching her flight to something earlier. But then reconsidered as quickly as the thought entered her mind. Her father needed her, at least for now.

“Beca Mitchell?” The voice startled her, it broke through the garbled focus of the next song. She blinked a few times and turned her head to the side. Stacie Conrad. She looked older, wiser even, but maybe that was the glasses. The smile on her face aged her, but in the best way. Still impossibly attractive, and confident, it seems. “Is that really you?”

“As I live and breathe.”

She winced at her use of words, but Stacie didn’t seem to notice as she quickly wrapped her in an awkward hug, Beca still half-sitting on a bar stool. Still, she craved the embrace and hugged back naturally.  

“God, how are you?” She pulled away, “That’s a stupid question… I mean, as well as you can be, I hope.”

Before Beca could answer she lifted her hand in the air and signaled the bartender, the woman busied herself with preparing Stacie’s usual and pouring another sour edge of bourbon into Beca’s glass. She wasn’t sure if she would drink it or not, but she appreciated the sentiment behind it. Stacie settled into the seat next to her.

“I’m doing fine,” She finally managed, earning a detrimental look. “As well as I can be.”

The bartender set two glasses in front of them and Beca wrinkled her nose at it before focusing her attention on Stacie, the way her own drink looked like radioactive fluid. It was always the fruity things that packed the most punch. Not the gritty glass that she would be nursing for the rest of their conversation.

“I’m sorry to hear about him, you know.” Stacie finally said after a beat of silence.

Beca simply nodded. She was numb to the situation at this point. Her whole body felt like a lead pipe. She and Jason didn’t get along too well. He traveled the world and she resented him for that. But they played nice during the holidays and smiled for family pictures. He got divorced young, married even younger. It still ached her whole entire being.

“You and most of the town,” Beca chuckled dryly, begging for a change of subject. “I haven’t seen you in what? Eleven years?”

“Twelve. God, we’re old.”

She was thankful that her high school friend could take a keenly dropped hint. The two of them encircled the same click during those years. It was better than giving in to the southern tenacity of it all. They would smoke behind the bleachers and drink if they were feeling lucky. They usually were.

Beca caught a glimpse at the wedding band that took over Stacie’s finger. It was simple, not overstated with large diamonds. A simple one that was surrounded by two smaller stones. She smiled “You’re married now?”

She took another gulp of her fruity drink and hummed in response, instinctively twirling it around her ring finger. She got a goofy grin on her face and twirled slightly to make eye contact with Beca. Sure, she had seen the social media posts. The cute announcements and the picturesque scenes.

“Happily, at that, we invited you to the wedding, you know?”

“I know, I know. And I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”

“S’alright,” Stacie said with a beaming smile “Rose loves the panini press.”

Beca scoffed and picked up her glass, chancing a sip of the molten liquid. It hissed as she swallowed, and she blinked away the residual prick of pain that collected behind her eyes. Stacie glanced behind her at the group of girls that she had come in with- doctors like her, she supposed. They all had that tired professional look that the woman beside her carried.

“Listen, uh, how long are you in town? I’d love a chance to catch up in a setting with better lighting.”

“A couple of weeks, at most. We have to settle his estate.” She grimaced at the technical term. “I’ll be around.”

“We’ll catch up, promise?”

She gave Beca a squeeze on her shoulder and a sympathetic smile, but she didn’t say it again and Beca was thankful for that. She watched as Stacie went to the four other colleges that were in her inner circle. They all asked questions and cast wary looks her way- she lifted the glass and gave a smile before turning back to the bartender. She was cleaning out a glass and eyeing her.

“Promise,” Beca mumbled, tipping her head back the rest of the way, finishing the glass of bourbon she hadn’t even ordered.  

[unholyhelbiglinked]

Camp Beaverbrook | 016

CHECK OUT THE STORY FROM THE START HERE | AO3 LINK

Chloe understood that old buildings creaked. Her father used to be an architect, a traveling one that would appreciate the crown moldings of a ranch-style house. They lived in many southern towns before he decided to retire and settle down, but she remembered the nights when the walls groaned, and the floorboards hummed like a heart was hammered beneath them.

That’s why she didn’t’ worry when she heard the creaking. A creaking she was so familiar with. The floors hissed when Beca would shift out of her bed and try to sneak out. She used to be so careful at first- so diligent that she would stop each time it made a noise. Cautiously peaking over her shoulder at Chloe and biting her lip.

Chloe pretended to be asleep but would silently stare at the ceiling and fight with herself on if she should follow the counselor or not. After a few weeks, she gave up completely and ended up sleeping through the noises the cabin made, because it was impossible. Beca would tell her when she wanted to, and she did.

She shifted against the mirror that was hung close to the back of the closet. It was dark, but she could see enough to run the brush through her damp hair. The knots ripped, but it wasn’t enough to cause any pain. The floor creaked again. The wind. The structure settling.

“Beca?” She glanced around. Nothing.

Chloe used to pull her blankets up to her chin, swearing to heaven and back that the noises in the attic were in fact footfalls of a ghost wracked with chains and vendetta. Her dad, he sat at the end of the bed and would explain away every single noise. And that’s what she could do now, ignore it. Focus on getting ready for bed.

Turning around, she knelt, searching through the mostly unpacked duffel bag for the hairdryer. Aubrey hated when she used it, too loud for the solace of the woods. She kept her wits about her and pushed the blonde as much as she could- but where was it? Maybe she had finally snapped and threw it in the closet that only she had the key to.

The cord wrapped close to her neck in a quick second. More creaking, a sharp heat close to her back as Chloe let out a surprised yelp and let her fingers move quickly to the length. It dug into her skin, stinging like a bee after getting too close to a pollen-filled flower. She was pulled back onto her back, the cold wood aching against her spine.

Chloe kicked her feet, trying to drag in the last bit of strawberry scented air that her shampoo provided. Her fingers moved from the cord around her neck to the black-gloved hands that were pulling it back- their boots thudded as her vision sparkled. They were walking towards the door, breath frantic and nearly cut off entirely.

Her lungs burned as she fought the urge to scream, a warmth moving against exposed skin. Everything smelled metallic. Blood? Her consciousness fading? Everything was growing dark- the lights that hung above them slowly growing warmer in color.

“What the hell?!”

She thought those were words, something. They were garbled, but the pressure against her neck was suddenly released. Chloe coughed, dragging in burning breathes as she flipped onto her stomach. She could feel the grooves of the wood against her forehead, eyes clenched shut as she tried to regain herself.

The sound of shaking walls hits her first, a picture frame falling and shattering into what seems like a million pieces. Her bloodshot eyes move quickly, flashing and blurry. Beca is shoved against the wall, a large figure dressed in pitch like the gloves. They struggled against one another as Beca lifted her leg and pinned her knee against the attacker’s stomach. They drew back, doubling over. She slammed down once more.

“What do you want? Huh?” Beca hissed, a string of blood moving down a sterile slice in her lower lip. “Who the hell are you?”

The figure panted, shifting their head to the side before shoving forward as Beca’s back slammed into the wall, the cabin once more shaking in something other than settlement. They shoved past her, pushing the screen door open with a clang before bolting against the dewy grass.

Chloe coughed once more, curling into herself as her fingers pressed close to the flooring. Beca was quickly on her knees- warm hands against cold skin. “Oh my god,” She turned Chloe slightly, staring into her eyes. “Can you hear me?”

She wasn’t sure if she could or not- sure, Beca’s words were registering, and she looked a bit heavenly with the fluorescent light blocked out by her damp hair. But she couldn’t’ understand anything. Chloe Beale couldn’t shake the cold feeling of death that rushed through her because of a stupid hair dryer.

Her throat burned and she struggled to swallow, turning completely on her back as the cold of the flooring seeped through her shirt. Beca was practically straddling at her at this point, moving her fingers against Chloe’s jawline with worry in her eyes.

“You probably can’t talk,” Beca realized, voice a low whisper “God, I can’t… can you nod if you can understand me?”

Chloe furrowed her brow and nodded, dragging another long breath past her lips. Her whole body ached. It felt like the first time she got blackout drunk. It was with her friend, Anna, the girl was a bad influence and she sees that now- but when she was in her 8th year and started dog sitting for her neighbor, of course, she hadn’t.

They found a bottle of Fireball in the freezer, the glass frosty. She could swear the golden retriever was judging them as they unscrewed the red cap with devious smiles on their faces. They would only drink half, Anna said, fill it up with water and maybe some food coloring if it looked too clear.

She woke up the next morning and the whole bottle was empty. She had thrown up on the floor and Anna had left the house without a word. Her body ached then, and she had apologized to Miss Montgomery and paid to get her carpet cleaned. She never dog sat again.

“You’re,” Chloe squeezed out, tears welling at the corners of her eyes “crushing my spleen.”

“Oh, oh fuck, sorry.”

Beca pulled herself off quickly and rose to her feet. Chloe got a good look at her then: Her hair was a mess, a mix between blood and muck. Clothes torn and soaked with darkness. She was clenching her rips, her knuckles equally splattered with color that was a sharp contrast to her pale skin. Still, she took the hand that was outstretched to her, letting Beca lead her to the edge of her bed.

The younger girl knelt in front of her with a look of utmost worry on her features. She kept a warm hand on her knee, staring up at cloudy blue eyes. She had black dirt under her nails, her touch was subtle, yet all the more comforting. Chloe kept her fingers against her throat, trying to ease the throbbing her throat. The hair dryer was tangled on the floor.

“Did you see who it was?” She asked, almost timidly.

Chloe shook her head as tears pressed against her eyes. “Hood.”

Beca nodded gingerly. The figure had a dark sweatshirt on and was careful enough with their movements to always shade their face. She barely got a glimpse before her vision started to fade out, and then before they slammed Beca against the wall. The younger girl had a better chance of seeing them did she did.

“Right, alright.” Beca stood, running her hands through her damp hair. “we have to leave. We have to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

That seemed like the obvious statement, but Chloe’s chest still tightened. How could this place not be safe? She had held her moms’ hand when she was herded onto the bus the first time. She met Aubrey here and learned how to swim. She had her first kiss under the docks and her first beer around the campfire. Camp Beaverbrook was always safe until it wasn’t anymore.

Beca’s hands were shaking and Chloe watched her carefully. “Jesus fuck, oh my god.”

The door pushed open and Chloe stiffened completely, Beca reaching for the hem of her pants, and the gun- the gun that she was so hasty to conceal. Chloe hadn’t noticed it at first, yet she didn’t’ feel the same amount of fear that she would expect.

Emily Junk looked like hell.

Her hair was windblown and thick blood soaked through the fabric of her pants. She was leaning heavily against the doorframe out of necessity, Chloe assumed. There were thin lines against her cheeks where tears had washed away soot.

“You uh,” Emily swallowed thickly “You have a gun?”