itcowcer - Tumblr blog

itcowcer · 6 years

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Elagabalus

The following was sent to me anonymously after my original posting about PP on r/NoSleep. Strangely enough that original post was taken down shortly thereafter. For those of you that missed that posting I will include a link at the end of this story. I do not believe it is necessary to read this to understand the horror of this content. However, for those interested it may provide some context.

What I have here appears to be an excerpt from a yet unfinished, yet unpublished book by an independent author named Paul Holland. Holland went quiet some time ago and many believed this was because of some kind of self-imposed seclusion done in order to finish his latest work. This speculation was not voiced by the author’s small –time publisher Mark Gergich, who was very vocal in his belief that Holland had been abducted and was in mortal danger. Gergich was not able to tell officials the last known location of Holland, however he did direct detectives to the website of The Pumpkin Patch. The Pumpkin Patch is a cultish arts movement allegedly responsible for the ritual murders Holland was investigating. The detectives hit a wall when they found that the site was no longer available (Apparently previous actions had been made to take down the site when a buyer discovered that the artwork he purchased was painted using human blood and refuse.) As of now there are no leads on Paul Holland, although I have heard rumors that the PP website still exists on the Dark Web. If this is the case, anyone with the capabilities to reach this site will likely find more answers than I am capable. Good luck.

Elagabalus

Paul Holland

Chapter VI

I had managed to find the dark place described in the journals. It was apparent that I was not looking hard enough during my first few perusals of Kathryn’s entries, because all of the clues were there. My greatest mistake was in assuming that the only important sections were those pertaining to her diabolical club. I made a point to shy away from entries that were too personal in some kind of late respect for the deceased girl. In doing so, I missed some of the more important details leading to her death; in particular the location of “The Studio.”

On August 14th, Kathryn described a penultimate meeting with her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend Brian. It was a pleasant day by the James River, but despite this, Kathryn had felt a great amount of discomfort with the meeting. It had been a few months since the two had been separated by a summer intersession. Kathryn had returned to her family home in southern Virginia, whereas Brian remained on campus. Though Kathryn tried to continue communication with the man that she loved, she found it more and more difficult to keep his attention as the weeks wore on. Eventually the two drifted apart. Even when she returned, she felt immense difficulty when re-establishing communication with the boy she had once felt so free and open with.

As Kathryn waited on a park bench overlooking the rambling rapids of the James, she could feel a heavy, sinking discomfort in her stomach. She did not know what would become of this meeting. She did not know whether the boy felt the same way about her, as he did before, or even if she still felt that way. As the minutes wore on, and he finally appeared, she could tell that everything had changed. He was not the same Brian. Although he spoke warmly to her she could tell his mind was adrift somewhere else. Even so, she decided to stick with him through the rest of the evening, under the presumption that trying was the least she could do considering all they had been through together.

The night wore on and though the evening was pleasant, the spark had been gone between the two. Both were very aware of this as they walked back to the place where her bike was chained, near the old civil war exhibit by the river. She fumbled the lock of her bike, her mind reeling over the thought that their once electric relationship would end without a word, aside from the possible wave good bye as she rode her bicycle out into the night. She thought that Brian felt this as well, which is how she rationalized his next, eccentric actions. He begged her to spend some more time with him, coaxed her to follow him to some dark place by the riverside, and convinced her that he had something to show her.

Though Brian had been acting strangely the entire day, Kathryn still hoped that there was some way they could remedy the situation and go back to the brilliant winter and spring they had shared together. She followed him to a dark place beneath a foot bridge. She had been here numerous times with her friends when they adventured to the small island situated in the middle of the James. Although she had been here often, she was surprised when Brian pushed aside some corrugated metal revealing a dark, yawning tunnel leading downward.

Brian looked at her desperately and petitioned that they both explore the creepy forgotten place together, implying that it was something they would have done before. Kathryn took one look at the tunnel and, seeing only darkness, decided she would have none of it. She left him there then, riding up to the city above while he descended alone into the tunnel. The two would officially break-up a few days later through a slew of vicious text messages, and Kathryn would push the memory of the evening off as much as she could.

That would be until a few weeks later, when Kathryn and her friends were spending a day by the river in a bid to make the most of the now dwindling summer heat. This day had been going much smoother for the girl, but she had been trying desperately to close the wounds she had felt from her breakup. She had been trying her best to show her friends she was happy. She laughed at all of their jokes, and even tried flirting with some of the boys, at the suggestion of Trisha. This seemed to work as she was beginning to convince herself that she was getting over it all. These attempts were all but ruined when she noticed a figure moving just in the distance. She could tell that the figure, even if it were just a silhouette, had been Brian. Her stomach lurched. He did not seem to notice her, which only proved to sharpen the blow, but continued his path to the place where they had departed some time before, disappearing behind a sheet of corrugated metal.

This vision haunted her, and she would spend the rest of the outing, and the hours that followed, replaying the image in her head. She could not stop herself from thinking about it. The sight of Brian descending down that dark tunnel had struck something in her. It was like some long grey finger had reached out from the blackest part of her subconscious and scratched that part of her mind that craved the mysterious. It would scratch until she had found answers to some of her most pertinent questions. What had really happened to Brian, and by extension the Pumpkin Patch, while she was gone? Why had Brian insisted they meet by the river for their last meeting? What was Brian dying to show her that night? And why was he going into that dark place again? Why was it important to him? Ultimately this line of thought would poke and prod Kathryn Mason down the path that led to her death.

The day I decided to investigate the area by the river, the weather had been quite unpleasant. The sky was grey from clouds and, although a greater storm had been threatening, there was little but the occasional drizzle. To the south and below me roared the white capped rapids of the James, now reeling from the encroaching storm. Just beyond their cacophony stretched the lonesome island the locals called Belle Ilse, a name that I couldn’t help but notice shared some similarities to the diabolical Belial. I trained my gaze along the foot bridge where it stretched from the lonely island to my side of the water. Above it, the noisy overpass of US 301 loomed. At the end of the foot bridge was a stair way leading down to my level of the street.

Behind me Trisha was leaning on the side of her red Honda accord lighting a cigarette. She had driven me here, and was now determined to wait it out until I returned from my mission. I told her there was nothing to worry about. It was broad daylight and I felt like there was no chance of danger. Even if this place had once been the location of the Pumpkin Patch’s base of operations, “The Studio”, it would be unlikely that they remained here after the murders. Regardless, Trisha remained stubborn. According to her, any friends she knew that entered that place either died or disappeared. She did not want to lose the only other person who was still looking into the murder of her friend Kathryn. Eventually I caved, but I reiterated to her that if I did not return in an hour or two, she should go directly to the police, and not come in after me. She begrudgingly agreed.

The entrance was actually a lot trickier to find than we had assumed. It took a good fifteen minutes to find, although it would have been longer if it weren’t for the help of the lovely Trisha. Once we discovered the place, Trisha and I exchanged one last, apprehensive look. There was no telling what I would find down there, and although I was sure the place would be abandoned there was still a sense of dangerous foreboding in the air. After a brief pause to prepare myself, I fired up my flashlight and began my descent down the long dark corridor before me.

During my time at college, I studied all sorts of literature. Most of my favorite stories were myths and folklore that families historically recited to each other by dancing fire-light. These stories were often similar to each other in many areas. The tales would include some great hero, a monster, and some impossible journey to vanquish evil and return to normal life. One of my favorite stories spoke of a goddess who descended into the underworld to meet with her once forgotten sister, the keeper of the underworld. Often this story was stated to have metaphorical meaning. It was said that the underworld was truly an analogy for the goddesses’ own subconscious, and that she had to travel into this underworld to discover some kind of long forgotten, long suppressed part of herself. Her hero’s journey was only accomplished once she had communed with this part of herself and brought it to the light. She had to journey into the realm of death and return changed.

I thought of this story as I began to maneuver through the expansive tunnel system of the city. I wondered how many other cities had tunnels like these. Long forgotten passages that stretched miles beneath their respective city-scapes, containing crimes and secrets long since shunned by the people who lived above. Like some deep, primal sub-consciousness lurking at the heart of every metropolis, rarely seen or spoken of but always present and felt. It seemed to me, as I waded through the dark passage way about me, ankle deep in sludge, that there was something fermenting in this place. Something was festering down here in the darkness beneath the city, amassing itself and gaining strength before its inevitable return. Perhaps the murder of Kathryn Mason had ignited that return.

In the dead girl’s journal, she had referenced a series of glow in the dark markers which traced her way through the tunnels. At my first large intersection, I followed the dead girl’s path and trained my flashlight to the top right corner of the passageways. I only had to hold my light on the spot for a few short minutes before turning my flashlight completely off. I was both relieved and anxious when, after doing so, a symbol appeared ghostly green over the left most passage. According to my later research, this symbol was the alchemical rune for phosphorus. I continued this process at a couple of other intersections. At one place was the zodiac symbol for the Scorpio, while another was decorated unceremoniously with an upside down pentagram. My favorite had to be the enigmatic “666” scrawled out in wispy green script over a particularly fungus covered passageway.

There was only one time that I felt particularly scared within that system of tunnels. I will not lie, the whole situation was suitably creepy. I found myself fighting to press onward into the unknown place. Often I could hear the scratching of insects around me and the rhythmic drips of water from above. At one intersection, with my flashlight off, I could hear the distinct sound of something large crashing into the water just ahead of me. I quickly jumped to shine my flashlight in the direction of the sound. I probably scared the thing in the process, as all that could be seen was some furry, distinctly four legged creature retreating into the darkness away from me.

Eventually I had reached my destination just beyond an intersection marked by a glowing devil emoticon. While most of the tunnels had been cement constructs the last bit, just past this intersection, had been carefully fashioned from stone bricks. The passage continued around a bend before it opened up to a raised area just past an arched portal way of masonry. At the top right corner of this arch was a sneering glow-in-the-dark jack-o-lantern. The room itself was fairly large and musty smelling. There was still a rather waterlogged, roach infested couch sitting on the left most wall of the room. This was described in the journals. A generator was also there in the right most corner, just by the entrance. I checked to see if the thing had any gas but, unfortunately, it was empty. All in all the place looked abandoned. Although that was what I expected, I still felt the slight jab of disappointment.

There were a couple of easels propped up in random positions around the room, with one laying awkwardly on the ground, looking like some kind of dead thing. The walls were painted very darkly with splotches and patches left bare here and there. For a second I thought that the walls were just lazily covered, like the painting was done by some three year old with a crayon who was used to scribbling in a coloring book. As I got closer I realized that this effect existed because the walls were covered by a script of close together, overlapping words and sentences. This was also described in the girl’s journal, but she never properly described their effect. Perhaps she was un-phased by the design choice because she had a friend with her, or else because she was once a member of the group herself and did not fear them. As I was alone during my visit, I couldn’t help but feel the wicked lunacy evoked from painting a wall in this manner.

Out of the whole, incomprehensible mass, there was only one spot of wall that was left completely bare. It was on the wall straight back from the entranceway, just past the four stone columns in the center of the hold. Here, all of the wall scribbles stopped to form a single rectangle of empty space. I cannot explain why this spot unsettled me so, but to me it was the most unsightly aspect of all I had seen in the “Studio”. Perhaps it was the strangeness of it. In a room where every wall was covered by the noisy scrawl of threatening and damning messages, there was only one part left completely bare, pristine, and blank. The rectangle was about twenty six by twenty eight inches, the correct size for a large painting. Just beneath it was situated a small golden plaque, about four inches long, that was screwed into the wall. The plaque had only one letter engraved on it, and the letter was “E”.

When I emerged from the bowels of the city, I had found that the weather had cleared up considerably. It was about noon and, to my luck, Trisha was still waiting there by her car. Together we drove back toward the college campus, and found a small coffee shop where I explained to her what I had found. She did not seem all that surprised that the place was empty. She assumed that place might have been abandoned when the group went, way underground a few months prior. She also had some insight into the identity of the enigmatic “E” painting.

“It’s Elagabalus!” she said, her green eyes flashing excitedly. I had shown her the journals before, when we first met and this whole journey started. Even then this word “Elagabalus” had been of great interest to her. For a while she seemed obsessed by it. It was only mentioned once in the journals, however, and until now I wasn’t so sure of its importance.

“You think that the painting is called Elagabalus?” I asked her quizzically

“Well why not?” She challenged with a confident smirk. It took me a moment to take in her response. In the entry where Elagabalus was mentioned, it seemed to me that the name referred to a person. As we looked at the journal again in the coffee shop, I was not so sure. This assertion, that Elagabalus was in fact a painting, raised more questions for me. Where did it come from? Why did the group hold it in such high regard?

We decided to journey to the public library in order to research the location of a new Pumpkin Patch den and learn more about the Elagabalus painting. I got busy trying to find whatever I could on the name in question. Trish, the local, set off in search for the next likely place for a murderous art-cult to be hiding. While I spent most of my time on the public computer’s search engine, Trisha spent her hours in the archives reviewing old city surveys and maps. When we reconvened in a few hours, Trisha had amassed an impressive list of possible “Studio” locations that put my few articles of Elagabalus to shame.

“Okay so where should we start?!” She asked enthusiastically with an arm full of books and notes.

“You’re really enjoying this aren’t you,” I teased. To this she only shook her head.

We decided that I would go first. I had the least information to present, and we were afraid that the discussion of Trisha’s findings would get lengthy and get us side tracked. There were only a few hits on the subject of Elagabalus. The first referred to a roman emperor, also known as Heliogabalus. Apparently he had been a rather controversial figure during his reign from 218 to 222. His reign began when he was declared an illegitimate heir to the empire, and fought a rebellion for the throne. He had also overthrown the religious order in Rome, installing his own deity in place of the customary Jupiter. This deity had the extravagant name of Deus Sol Invictus, or “God, the Undefeated Sun”.

A second controversy was started when the Emperor was found to have been sleeping with his chariot driver. The reign ended with an assassination, and much of Elagabalus’ rule was apparently stricken from the public record. Perhaps the painting was of this controversial figure? If the painting was of a person, then it would makes sense why I would confuse the painting for a “who” instead of a “what”. The only issue is that the figure in question seemed quite random. The only thing that had stood out to me was Deus Sol Invictus, but I had yet to see any reference to this in Pumpkin Patch’s archived works, and I had not seen any other themes of the emperor’s life aside from the use of his name. It was a mystery to determine why this particular figure was so important to the group.

The only other article was a strange one regarding an occultist named Eliphas Levi. According to Levi, in his book Dogma et Rituel de la Haute Magie (What a mouthful), Elagabalus refers to a stone which was worshipped for it properties. Apparently the stone could prolong life and served as the font of all wisdoms. This metaphysical “stone” also served as the basis from which all magic could be built upon and was at the cornerstone of human subconscious and conscious of being. Elagabalus, for Levi, was nothing less than the famed philosopher stone, and its power could be found within the human mind. While it seemed to me a stretch, this definition of Elagabalus seemed to be the closest fit to explaining the painting. The group certainly held it in high standing, as though it were the mythical philosopher’s stone. Trisha agreed that this explanation, though imperfect, seemed like the best fit.

Next we turned over to the locations for the Pumpkin Patch’s new studio. The locations in question all catered to the eerier side of the city’s history. Among the locations were an old civil war prison on Belle Isle, the magnificent Hollywood Cemetery, and several locations close to the Poe museum, a place where the Pumpkin Patch was once show cased in their earlier, non-murderous days. I asked about Lumpkin’s Slave Jail and Trisha pointed out to me that it was under a parking lot, and there was no physical place for a killer cult to hide.

Eventually we decided that the old train tunnel, beneath Church Hill, was the likeliest place for the group to be hiding. The Tunnel was subject to a catastrophic collapse in the 1920’s, resulting in the death of four people, and it has been the subject of urban legend ever since. According to one story, a first responder to the disaster arrived at the seen only to discover a strange, deformed, humanoid being crouched over a victim of the crash. This creature reportedly fled the scene and set up shop in Hollywood cemetery, which is one explanation for the Richmond Vampire. Anyways, we decided to leave immediately to investigate the place.

By the time we arrived at the place it was dusk. Not wanting to attract attention, Trisha suggested we park the car and walk to the tunnel entrance. I asked her how we would enter the place, and she said she used to do it all the time; there was a hole in the fence and the lock on the gate was often replaced because of trespassers. She was right, of course. The chain-link fence, which warded the area, was compromised. It was fixed half-hazardly with zip ties and blue wire. The gate itself was held shut by a simple combination lock. Trisha informed me that this entrance was supposed to be for service and maintenance. The actual tunnel opening was apparently sealed sometime after the collapse by cement. We were able to break open the lock and enter the maintenance tunnel with our flashlights at the ready.

“It’s funny,” I said “I thought the gates of hell were supposed to say something like ‘abandon hope all ye who enter here’?”

Trisha did not think my joke was funny and chose to ignore it.

What followed seemed to occur in a dreamlike trance. We passed through the gate and were soon descending down a winding passage way into the dark tunnel. Aside from our echoing footsteps, we could hear the unnerving chatter of rats, which scurried away from us somewhere just outside the reach of our flash lights. As I moved through the tunnel, I became painfully aware of this feeling that I was being watched. I tried to push this anxiety aside and was assured by the sound of Trisha’s footsteps behind me. That was until I turned around and discovered she was not there.

I must have been halfway down the access tunnel by that time. I tried calling her name but got no response. Actually I was quite sure, at one point, that I heard a muffled giggle in response, but perhaps that’s just a detail I added after the fact. Looking back now, I do not know what overtook me as I decided to move further into the tunnel proper. The place was not as large as I thought it would be. I followed the ruined trackway down to the center of the tunnel, altogether too aware that someone, or something was watching me. Eventually I could make out the flicker of candle light in the distance and, I suppose, I was drawn to the light like a moth to a flame.

What was once a small flicker soon became a roaring flame as I trudged down the cramped stone tunnel. There, at the end of my journey, was a circle of red, glowing candles with a lone easel at their center. Upon this easel sat a covered painting. I was so transfixed by the scene that it took me a few minutes to process that there were others in the chamber with me. Just at the outer edge of the glowing candle light, there moved figures and shapes of masked individuals, who seemed to be assessing my every move. Among the masked faces I could see a rabbit, a clown, a skull, an assortment of hand carved tribal-looking masks, and the shriveled husk of a face which I knew belonged to someone called Hungry Preta.

I was eventually approached by one of the figures, undoubtedly female, who wore a handmade crow mask. She seemed to be far too familiar with me, as she stoked my arm indulgently, leading me closer to the painting at the center of the space before stopping to press herself close behind me. She nestled her chin upon my shoulder and stretched her arms, caressingly, across my chest in a gentle but inescapable embrace from behind. I was not altogether unnerved by this experience, I had gone numb to the fact that any of it was really occurring. Had I really wandered into this dark and diabolical den? Had I really lost Trisha in the passageway? Had I so foolishly wandered into my own death, as Kathryn had? Was this the end? I would soon discover that it was not the end but rather some type of beginning, as the other figures slowly removed the covering of the painting, and my captor began to lovingly stroke my hair. There before me was the face of the thing I recently learned had been called Elagabalus. And as I stood there dumbstruck, taking in the thing, I thought it was magnificent.

http://itcowcer.tumblr.com/post/156423063519/subject-pumpkin-patch

#writing #horror #I.T. Cowcer #Pumpkin Patch

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itcowcer · 7 years

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Eyes of the Riptide

There I stood on lonely strand

Looking ‘pon an ocean blue.

Oh, how peaceful it seemed from my side.

How I loved the way it gleamed,

Every ebbing of the tide,

But my feet tarried not from the sand.

I had thought she called to me

As I called and pined for her,

Between waves that would lap at the land.

It is she who’ll quench my thirst,

Under seas so great and grand;

A sweet song that my heart sang to me.

“Drown, Ulysses, Drown.

Let her torrents pull ye down.

Be battered and tossed by her wake.

Crashing seas will mask the pain ,

And when ‘last ye wan and numb,

She will guerdon thine spirit to die.

Therefore Drown, Ullysses, Drown,

And be lost and never found,

As ye pulled into Charybdis deep.

In these depths so bale and black,

Breathe her in and breathe her out,

And at last find it blissful to sleep.

So Ulysses, take the plunge

And then finally expunge

Any feeling of want and despair.

Let her clean away the strife

And undo a sordid life,

And release weary spirit of care.”

But be I a broken soul

Thus unfit for her embrace,

And it seems I am fate for the shore.

As it is I will abide,

To tarry more upon this strand,

And to love from afar evermore.

For those tumults of her eyes,

Though I long to be reflected in them,

I know shall destroy me.

0 notes

itcowcer · 7 years

Text

from my other blog

Eyes of the Riptide

There I stood on lonely strand

Looking ‘pon an ocean blue.

Oh, how peaceful it seemed from my side.

How I loved the way it gleamed,

Every ebbing of the tide,

But my feet tarried not from the sand.

Keep reading

#poem #writing #manic poetry #itcowcer

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itcowcer · 7 years

Text

Greed

half a thousand times

I’ve dreamt of you being by my side

and now that I have found you near,

nestled, restful against me

I can’t help but wonder why.

#poem #writing #manic poetry #itcowcer

0 notes

itcowcer · 7 years

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There is a creeping thing

There is a creeping thing.

It sits, hunched in the darkest corner of my room.

With its wicker mask, it lurks

and waits for me to join it in death.

It waits for me to forget I ever lived,

just as it has,

or rather,

will.

#writing #ghost #death

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itcowcer · 7 years

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Subject: Pumpkin Patch

Paul Holland [email protected] 2:05 AM (6 hours ago) to Mark

Heeeeey Mark!

So I know it's been a while, and I wanted to give you a quick heads-up on what’s going on and why I haven’t sent any drafts in recent history. Let's be real, it’s been months. But I want you to know that I haven't just been laying around over here, and that I do have something planned to give to you. It's just not ready yet. Sorry :( Now I'm not trying to tease you; I've hit a wall. What I do have is a bunch of source materials which (I hope) will prove to you that I'm building something, potentially pretty big, for my next novel. That's Right!!!! I've been researching Mark!!!! Who would've thought I knew how. Anyways, I thought this might tide you over until the rough draft or, at the most, spur you to send some seed money..... ;) You will find the sources in the subsequent attachments to this email. I think they kind of speak for themselves, but if you need me to elaborate on what I'm thinking just shoot me a message and I will give you deets.

Pleasure as always [?]

Paul

Paul Holland [email protected] 2:56 AM (5 hours ago) to Mark

Whoops! I forgot to attach the sources in that last message. Oh well, I will take better care to attach them this time. I figure I should go ahead and let you know what's going through my head right now, just so we are on the same page. First off, all of this is real. All of this stuff has apparently occurred or is currently occurring, and I've been able to pick up more bits and pieces the longer I've stayed in town (hence the long turn around). Where am I? I don't particularly want to tell you. For that reason I've redacted some information which might clue you into my whereabouts. I'm sure with a certain amount of cyber- sleuthing you'd be able to pinpoint my location, as some of the major points I just cannot change. However by that point I figure it will be too much work for you anyways. DO NOT COME AFTER ME! This story is too good for me to pass up on. I'm only messaging you as a courtesy, and to let you know that I haven't forgotten the money I owe you. I will hopefully be able to pay you back with this novel's completion.

Now onto content. I found this story, of all places, in the newspaper. Yeah it was this grotesque murder which had all of the city community in a hubbub. It was strange too, like ritualistic and such. I've included the short blurb I found in the newspaper, it should be the 3rd attachment. Of course I saved it. I wasn't sure where to go next with my writing and everyone loves true crime or at least a good murder mystery. Then, in the next week, I saw a couple other odd articles (I have attached them as well). One is a letter of resignation from one of the news paper's journalists, due to some kind of journalist ethical concern. Apparently he hasn’t been heard of since. Like completely disappeared. For some reason I was sure that the initial murder, and the later disappearance were related, though I couldn't figure how.

This forced me to dig a little further and I think what I found is captivating at least. Even if I'm grasping at straws I think it tells a compelling narrative, and might sell. I found a small interview, written by the Journalist that disappeared, in regards to a cultural movement within the city. As it turns out this place has a long history of creepy shit, like underground slave prisons, civil war ghosts, a history of catastrophic fires, train accidents, macabre poets, dilapidated asylums turned apartment complexes, and even a vampire legend. No kidding! The guy is entombed down at this old cemetery that overlooks the river. Well the interview is with a member of this group of artists, all of whom were trying to keep this inherent creepiness a part of the city's culture. Though she went by a code name, as all members of Pumpkin Patch do to remain anonymous (in this case kittykat666(=^.^=). I believed that she was the victim in the murder. Having contacted the victim’s parents, I asked if they knew anything about the group Pumpkin Patch. Only the mother would respond, with an invitation to meet with her. Though the meeting was brief, she gave me a series of her daughter's journal entries, a forwarded set of emails between her and her daughter on the topic, and permission to use these things in publishing my next book, so long as I didn't use her daughter's name.

The first attachment is the newspaper interview with kittykat666(=^.^=) It describes really well what the group is about, and how it operates, and it shows you where I'm leaning for main characters (the girl and the journalist). I think it introduces everything well. The second is the girl's journal entries (at least the ones I've deemed relevant). All of these pertain to Pumpkin Patch and they really get you to see who this poor girl was and how she got sucked into this whole mess. The next attachment is the first article blurb I found, the one that describes the murder. The fourth attachment is the letter of resignation from the journalist who interviewed “Kat”. I figure I will just forward those emails that the mother sent to me. There aren't many of them, however there is some character building stuff there. You can see the loving family “Kat” and her mother had before. They also show how the two found Pumpkin Patch. Sorry in advance, the mother has no clue of grammar. I have also included one last attachment, which is unnerving and chilling when you understand how the group finds its inspiration. It's a series of screen shots I took from the group’s auction site. Here, they post a bunch of their work for buyers. They had just posted a new auction when I checked out the site page. Pay attention to the groups shared theme in the artwork.

Whew! That was a lot for an email! Let me know what you think! Paul

Paul Holland [email protected] 2:59 AM (5 hours ago) to Mark

-_____-

Paul

Attachment 1, Attachment 2, Attachment 3, Attachment 4, Attachment 5

Paul Holland [email protected] 3:08 AM (5 hours ago) to Mark

Weird. Someone just rang the door bell to my apartment. I went to go check and no one was there. I'm a little unnerved, especially given what I've just sent you (that subject matter which is still fresh in my mind). I'm not entirely sure it's nothing, but realistically it’s probably nothing so I'm going to get these emails to you and then cool off. Here you go,

Paul

forwarded message

From: [************] To: [email protected] Cc: Sent: [, * *** **** ::**] Subject: opportunities ;)

Hey Kit Kat i hope everything is going better. i know that finding friends can be rough in college but im sure there are a ton of great clubs over there. Just get off your little butt and look!!!! :p only teasing. Also your father should be put that money back into ur college fund. Evidently he needed to buy his new gal pal a car lol. The man's no good! Either way i will make sure everything is all set, u just worry about school work and meeting people and HAVING FUN!!! Let me know if you need anything, im just a phone call away!!!

Love, Mom

. . .

Resp:opportunities ;)

Thanks Mom. Everything is fine, I was just a little worried because the tuition bill is overdue and it needs to be paid in order for me to sign up for classes next semester. He's buying her a CAR!!!!! SMH! SMDH! But my classes are going well. I actually turned in my first couple of paintings and the professor really liked them. He told me I thought out of the box, already had a unique style, and that I should keep pushing myself. He said that I might run into trouble when we start doing other forms, but that he'd help me if I need it. I thought that the class wouldn't like my work or be weirded out, but all in all I got good responses and helpful critiques. Some people in my class invited me to hangout, idk I might go.

. . .

Resp:resp:opportunities ;)

Oh kitty thats great! im glad your classes are going well. And you should SPEND TIME WITH THOSE CLASSMATES!!! Jeeesh!!! Also i am not sure what SMH stands for. i tried to think but cant. :( i did some looking because i knew u wouldnt and i found a club that you might enjoy. They are artists in the area who have auction events, have group meetings and they seem to do a lot in the area. it might be the kind of thing to set u on an art career, if thats what u want to do. i just happened to hear about them and i looked up their site. A lot of their work looks right up ur alley! There is a submission section on their page, and maybe u can send in some of you drawings? i was surprised by how much they were selling for, and i think a lot of ur work is better. I will send you the link. There called the Pumpkin Patch. Thats kinda cute!

Love ya! Mom

. . .

Resp:resp:resp:opportunities ;)

Yeah I'll look it up and send something in. I'll also try hanging out with my class, I'm not sure what we will be doing. Thank you for everything. Love you Too! P.s. SMH is Shaking My Head.

forwarded message

From: [************] To: [email protected] Cc: Sent: [, * *** **** ::**] Subject: Pumpkin Patch

Remember that group you were talking about? Pumpkin Patch. I submitted one of my works and it got accepted. I think you'd remember the one, it had that spider made out of sewing needles and thimbles, strung up in a wire web, the one that I got an award for in school. The group admin sent me an email and wanted to know why I wanted to join the group so I kinda bullshitted an answer and I guess they liked it. I'm supposed to go to a meeting with them, however I have to wear a mask and create an artist name which is kind of weird. I guess they want all the artists to be anonymous even to each other. I told them that that made me uncomfortable, but they assured me that the meeting will be on campus. I'm going to see what it is and drop it if its too sketch. I guess most meetings are online, but bimonthly meetings are in person.

. . .

Resp:Pumpkin Patch

Kit Kat. Idk this sounds a little scary. i wish i had known all that before i sent you the link. Be careful there are a lot of weirdos out there and i dont want u to get hurt. u are a grown women and i hope you will use you best discretion. There is always your classmates, and maybe starting a group with them would be better for you. How did that go with them? I expect you to call me soon.

Be safe, Mom

. . .

Resp:resp:Pumpkin Patch

Please don't freak out but I ended up going to that meeting. It was cool though. We kind of just sat around, discussing what the next theme will be, what scary movies we like that kind of thing. We also planned a little get together at a museum. There are a couple other girls there so I think it's fine. I kind of know one of the people in the group too, although I'm not supposed to. He was actually one of the guys I hung out with last week. He's not in my art class but he is a year above us so everyone knows him. He sort of let it slip that he was in the Pumpkin Patch when we were all hanging out. He assured me that it wasn't going to be weird and that the mask thing was more like a gimmick than anything else, to make the group interesting. That night with my class was fun too, we just sat around a fire pit talking, eating hot dogs, sharing stories. Somebody had a guitar and they all started singing these old songs. They are a good group. I'm going to spend time with them again.

. . .

Resp:resp:resp:Pumpkin Patch

Well im glad that you had a good time. Just remember to be careful, and that u dont have to do anything u dont want to, and CALL YOUR MOTHER. Also im glad you met some nice people. Is there anyone I should be meeting anytime soon? ;)

Please call, I worry Mom

forwarded message

From: [************] To: [email protected] Cc: Sent: [, * *** **** ::**] Subject: What's Up!!!

Hello Kathryn? Im not sure if you remember me, however im YOUR MOTHER! What's been going on? u haven't called me in a while. I hope you've started thinking about housing for next year. Dont worry about the price its all being paid for by ur father. Also I see that you have another exhibition thingy coming up with your Pumpkin Patch. Im thinking about coming down and rooting u on, seeing as u failed to mention the last one. What do you think?

. . .

Resp:What's Up!!!

Yeah I've been looking at some places. Some friends and I are thinking about getting an apartment together a little off campus. I will let you know what we find. Also that first exhibition wasn't a big thing, and I didn't think you'd want to miss work for it. This next one's not a big deal either and I'm not even going to be there, we aren't supposed to associate with or present our work in order to retain the whole aura of mystery. We can still check it out if you want, we just can't let anyone know that I'm a collaborating artist. Also I can't tell you which work is mine, sorry. :/ We can go to this nice little french restaurant after. I just went there recently with a close friend of mine, it just might be my favorite place in town now :3. Let me know when you're in the area.

forwarded message

From: [************] To: [email protected] Cc: Sent: [, * *** **** ::**] Subject: New Exhibition

Hey Mom, I know that there is another exhibition coming up, however I'd prefer that you didn't come to this one. I had fun last time, it's just that I don't think I'd be comfortable with you being there. Also I've decide to leave the group. I just didn't like where it was going and it didn't feel the same as when we first started. That's part of the reason why this latest exhibition would be no good. Also things are falling through at the apartment so I'm trying to find another one for the rest of the semester. I'll send you the places I've found. So far the rent will only be slightly more expensive. Also my roommates already have someone lined up to sublet so we don't have to worry about paying for two places. I will call you soon, and I love you.

Kat

Mark Gergich [email protected] 7:13 AM (1 hour ago) to Paul

Paul,

I just read through everything you’ve emailed me. The forwards, the attachments... everything. Paul Pick up the phone, let me know where you are, I am concerned. I think you may have stumbled onto something that needs to be taken care of by the police. Please Paul. Do not write this book. Don't worry about debts you think you owe me, I'm not worried about that I just want you to come out of this safely without a target on your back. You need to STOP writing this book.

Your friend and publisher, Mark

Paul Holland [email protected] 8:06 AM (3 Minutes ago) to Mark

Mark,

He says I can’t.

Paul

#pumpkinpatch #PP #itcowcer #writing

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itcowcer · 7 years

Text

Zora Ghamiel Qorrar (Part 1)

Part 1

In the village where I grew up, we had very little save the sand and our stories. As a boy, my favorite had been this legend of an ancient ruin, within which lay an ancient tomb, which housed a mythical urn. This urn, it was said, provided it’s wielder with immense powers, and had the ability to grant his every wish. Being a poor boy, with very little family to speak of, I set out into the desert with the hopes of finding this treasure. I was young then, rash and impulsive, and I had not prepared for the journey ahead of me. After the second day of travel I had lost my camel when we stopped for camp. A storm had swept through that night, destroying my tent and scattering the beast to god knows where. The third day I had run out of water. I was not prepared to make the journey on feet, and thus had but a small skin to hydrate myself. By the fifth day I had been dieing of hunger and thirst. I had been surviving on very little but the beetles and lizards that I found on my path before me, and even those had become sparse. The only hope I could see was a small mirage which played out before me. It was a mere trick of the desert, a frothy sea always several leagues ahead of me me. But as I said, it was the only hope I had. And so, tired, sunburnt, and dieing of thirst, I ran.

The first time I ran I was not fast enough. I chased it long and hard, but that brilliant oasis had always glistened just beyond the horizon. I had to stop as I could feel the rush of heat choking my breath as I went. When I tried the second time I closed my eyes. Swearing I could feel the cool wind flowing off the pool before me, I ran harder and faster until I passed out. When I awoke, I was again on the sand with the pool just beyond the horizon. And so came my final try. Even then I knew it would be my last. If I could not catch the mirage, then I would surely die in the oppressive heat. Therefore I ran as though it were the last thing I would every do. I ran long and hard and blindly. When I could feel myself tiring I forced myself to continue, and when I knew I was about to fail I flung myself, rocketing forward and expecting in that moment to crash into a wall of sand. But instead I felt the cooling crash of water. I had chased a mirage and won.

And so I had been saved. I had found myself in a beautiful oasis. A small miracle in the wastes. But this was no mere desert pool. It was the home of a water nymph. Her name was Nara. She and her father ruled this place and protected it from outsiders who would do it harm. I pleaded with her and begged her to let me stay, if only for as long as it took for me to regain my strength. She had never met an outsider before and was quite intrigued by me, so she obliged. I had stayed there for many weeks, gaining my strength from the waters and ever-basking in the presence of Nara. I shared with her the stories I had heard as a boy, and she repaid me by providing fish from the pool and fruit from the banks. These weeks soon turned to months, and eventually years passed by. I had grown fond of Nara, and so to had she of me. In time we would share these feelings with one another, and our hearts had become set on marriage. The problem came from her father, the King of the Pool. When I asked him for his daughter's hand, he gave me a remorseful look, stating that only a wealthy and noble man would have his daughter. Thus beaten, I returned to Nara to share with her the news. But she would not surrender, and so she was determined to make me a wealthy man.

This she did through an ancient secret of her kind. Her mother had learned to call gold out from the earth. And so she summoned forth these precious things to flower forth from the ground. She gave them to me, stating that I should never tell anyone where my wealth had arisen from; To say that it had come from my hands only. And so before long I had amassed a great cache of wealth and was quite certain that Nara would become my wife. It was at this time that a man had come to the oasis. He was a passing merchant prince by the name of Vishar Draxes. Occasionally Nara and her father would entertain such merchants so that the bounty of the oasis could be shared with the surrounding villages. One night, while I was feasting with the prince and his men, partaking in the pipe and other libations, I heard him mention a familiar tale. Draxes had claimed that he had stumbled upon an ancient ruin in the desert, within which was an ancient tomb, which he believed housed a mythical urn. I asked him if he knew where the place was and whether he had taken the urn with him. The noble merchant said no; He could not quite reach the urn, and he would not reveal the ruin’s location without some compensation.

That night I had spent a long time thinking about my situation. On the one hand I had become quite wealthy, and I loved my life with Nara. But with the urn I could have so much more, plus I could satisfy my precious Nara’s every wish. That morning I had gone to Draxes’ tent, offering him all I had for the location of the ruin. It was quite the risk, but I was determined to get it all back, with interest, using the power of the urn. I had ventured forth, reaching the suggested ruin just at sunrise. The urn, however, was not to be found. Feeling filched, I made my way back to the oasis to confront the thieving Vishar Draxes. Only the oasis had vanished and I could not return.

#zora #dnd #itcowcer #writing #lore #characters

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