#cesar lived au? hello?

[seraph-of-sizes]

Broken homes of different sizes

Borrower Lyney and Lynette, Human Freminet (Slight au with borrowers existing, everything else is the same as canon)

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It was late. It was always late when the teenager that lived in the house got home. Oftentimes he was soaked. Sometimes in water, other times in blood.

Lyney winced as he heard the plopping droplets that hit the wooden planks over his head. They were heavier, and the metallic smell made his stomach churn. What caused this softspoken boy to perform so much violence? He shook his head, such thoughts should be entertained when he was back in the tiny home he and Lynette had built in the walls behind a grand bookshelf. It would be impossible for most people to move on their own, let alone a tiny human like the one in this house.

Then again, looks can be deceiving. 

Lyney slowly peered out from one of the small openings in the walls, blinking a few times to adjust to the lamplight that illuminated the human’s space. 

For a moment fear gripped his heart as he noticed the human was staring straight at him. Like a spider that had been faced with a lit match, Lyney couldn’t move, locked in place out of sheer terror. It was only after a moment of their stare-off that Lyney noticed the boy’s eyes were glassy, glazed over and unfocused. If he couldn’t see the rise and fall of the human’s chest, Lyney would have thought he was dead.

“Father said I mustn't cry…” A soft whisper left the boy. Lyney’s brows furrowed in confusion.

He and Lynette had been here for a while, they knew from some of the human’s nightmares that he had no family. His father had never been in his life, leaving the boy and his mother alone with a pile of debt. His mother had worked herself to death to give her son a better life, leaving her son orphaned and alone.

Lynette would reprimand him and his bleeding heart, sympathizing with a human. After all, they were orphans too.

A soft ticking sound caught both Lyney’s and the human’s attention, leaning against the wall was the weapon the twins had watched the boy make from clockwork cogs and an old Claymore Billet. It also functioned as a normal clock, and from the soft chime it was nearing midnight. The human sighed, getting up slowly.

It wasn’t until Lyney heard a soft gasp come from him that he realized Lynette was likely making her way back from her borrowing trip. And the entrance to the walls were…

“H-hello?” Lyney felt his heart stop as the human moved, revealing Lynette standing frozen on a countertop.

He was too far away… but…

His bow was in his hands immediately, his vision warm against his back. He notched an arrow, letting Pyro infuse the tip and fired. His aim was poor considering he had a tiny window, and the human was a ways away. Instead of hitting the shoulder he had aimed for, Lyney heard the human gasp as it struck his leg.

Thankfully it was enough of a distraction for Lynette to activate her skill and sprint away. Heart pounding in his chest, Lyney panted as he too took off towards their home, uncaring for the soft noise that came from the human.

Throwing himself through the doorway, Lyney raced towards his sister.

“What in the world were you doing!” Lyney gasped as he pulled Lynette into a tight hug. “Oh by the Archons, I’m glad you’re alright.” He knew she was still shaken up because her ears were flat, and she didn’t say a word, just burrowing herself into the hug. “L-let’s go to bed, we’ll… we’ll have to start packing to move as soon as possible.”

It was almost painful to think of abandoning this place. They had lived here for 8 years already, after leaving Cesar’s home. Living with a human that was kind and knew of your existence had been nice, but to live with someone who was covered in blood several times a week, that had likely killed other humans? What could a monster like that do to them?

It wasn’t a risk Lyney was willing to make. Not after nearly losing Lynette to a human that decided to keep her as a pet.

He flinched as he heard the human pacing the floors, likely checking and finding their exits. He felt the blood drain from his face as he realized how methodical the human was being. He heard him pace the room three times, floor, walls, ceilings, like clockwork. A moment of silence and Lyney began to relax, thinking the human had finished their observations.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

He felt Lynette bury herself deeper in his arms and he could barely continue standing at the loud thuds. The human was listening to the walls.

“Fuck.” He whispered softly, dragging Lynette into the far corners of their home, towards the outside wall of the house. The knocking continued to reverberate through the walls, slowly and just as methodical as before. Closer. Farther. Above. Below.

He froze as he realized what was happening. He was homing in on them. He was listening for changes, like a bat. Terror hit him as he realized, there wasn’t a way to escape this time.

A soft knock hit the wall in front of their home. Lyney stared in horror. 

The human had moved the bookshelf.

The human had found them.

#genshin g/t #g/t #g/t writing #genshin impact g/t #broken home au

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Home Sweet Home AU: Radio Silence

Thatcher becomes obsessed with a case he was assigned, one relating to the disappearances of two local teens. He has no other choice but to dig deeper.

TWs: Body horror, character death implied, blood/gore/injury

Notes: around 14'500 words long! The third volume for Home Sweet Home is here!!! The horrors!!! Anyway hope you enjoy :)

September 21st, 1992. 12:25 PM

“Hello. No one is available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.”

BEEP.

“Hello, uh…this is Arthur Heathcliff, and I’m calling to…report a missing person.” A man’s voice spoke through the speaker; a somewhat gravely yet not too deep voice. “My son, uh, Mark. He hasn’t shown up in a week, and…I would like an investigation to be done to…try and…find him. Please answer as soon as possible…me and my wife are just...worried. We just want him to come home. Thank you.”

BEEP.

Thatcher knocked on the front door of the two story home, waiting a second before he spoke loudly, “Mandela County Police Department.” Thatcher was a thin, and tall man, wearing a dark blue police uniform over his body. He had a scruffy, unkempt beard and tired eyes, the dark circles around them contrasting with his pale beige skin. He looked at the door in front of him before he placed his hands on his hips, waiting for an answer at the door as he looked around the yard. The house he looked up at was a pale grey color, with two windows on the top story and a garage to his left. He sighed, brushing away his bleached blond hair before he heard the sound of the door opening in front of him. He let out a forced, soft smile before speaking. “You must be Leah Heathcliff?”

“That’s correct.” In front of Thatcher was a shorter woman with curly brown hair draped over her shoulders. She wore a beige and white striped sweater over a white shirt, along with a long, black skirt. Her green eyes looked up at Thatcher, her brows furrowed and her expression giving away her concern. She rubbed her necklace, which had a blue sapphire hanging from a silver chain. The silence continued before she swallowed hard. “You’re here…to search, aren’t you?”

“We’re just trying to help find your son, ma’am.” Thatcher stated. “A friend of mine is on her way; she’ll help find anything that can clue us in on where he went. Once we’re done we’ll get out of your hair. May I come in?”

“…I’ll go get my husband.” Leah stated. “You can wait in the living room.”

Leah led Thatcher into the home, closing the door behind them before walking into the living room. “Arthur?” She called. “…The police are here.”

Thatcher walked around, sighing deeply as he looked down, thinking to himself before he heard another person enter the room. “About time.” Thatcher heard Arthur speak quietly to Leah. “They were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

Thatcher looked up to see Arthur himself, seeing that he was wearing a black dress shirt with a gold cross necklace resting on his chest. His short, dark brown hair swept to the side, and his brows seemed lower, making his resting expression seem more upset than he actually was, though Thatcher couldn’t tell if it was natural considering the circumstances. He held out his hand towards Thatcher for him to shake. “Arthur. I’m the one who called.”

“Lieutenant Thatcher Davis.” Thatcher shook Arthurs hand before quickly letting go. “Okay, I’m…gonna have to ask some questions about Mark, if you don’t mind.”

Arthur sighed before gesturing towards the couch. “Go ahead.” Thatcher sat down on the couch, watching as Arthur sat on an arm chair to the side of it and Leah sitting next to Thatcher.

“Has Mark ever…snuck out of the house at any point?” Thatcher asked.

“Maybe once or twice…” Arthur recalled. “But he always came back a day or so later. Often went to his friend’s house.”

“And who was his friend?”

“Cesar.” Leah answered as she fidgeted with her hands. “Cesar Torres.”

“He…also went missing recently.” Arthur stated.

Thatcher let out a soft sigh as he scratched his head. “Alright, any…other friends he could have gone to?”

“No.” Leah stated. “…Cesar was…his only friend.”

“I see.” Thatcher stated.

“He’s been…acting strange for over a month.” Arthur stated. “I think the kid got into drugs or something—”

“Arthur!” Leah stated with a tone of surprise, sadness, and horror. “Mark wasn’t an addict, and you know it.”

“Leah…we don’t know; I’m just saying it’s possible.” Arthur responded.

“Don’t listen to him, please,” Leah’s voice almost sounded like she was begging as she turned towards Thatcher. “He was a good young man…he wouldn’t get into that.”

“We won’t blame his behavior on anything unless we get proof for it.” Thatcher assured. “Have you been in contact with Cesar’s parents?”

“I’ve…tried calling Maria, his mother, but…no answer.” Leah stated.

“Mhm.” Thatcher let out a deep sigh as he tried to think. “We’ll have to try and get in contact with the Torres family in that case,” He whispered. “When was the last time you saw your son?”

“At home. He fell asleep on the couch, and…I didn’t want to wake him up.” Leah stated. “He’s…been unable to sleep for so long so…I figured…he needed it.” Leah hunched over, sniffling slightly. “I-I should’ve asked him what was wrong.” She squeaked as her eyes began to water. “Maybe this wouldn’t have happened if I just…listened.”

“Leah, we couldn’t have predicted this.” Arthur attempted to assure her as he sat up in his chair. “We don’t know what was going through his head…”

“But we could have.” Leah responded. “But we never asked.”

Thatcher looked at the ground, bouncing its leg softly as it attempted to gather its thoughts, all before it heard a knock at the door behind it. Arthur glanced at the door then back at his wife, brows furrowed further before he stood up to greet the person at the door.

“Y-You’ll…find him…won’t you?”

Thatcher looked back towards Leah, seeing the look of desperation in her watering eyes, the stare making a pit form in its gut. It wished it could guarantee that Mark would return safe and sound, though the thought of lying to a woman who’s gone through enough pain to last a life time wasn’t something it wanted to do. “We’ll…try our best, Mrs. Heathcliff.” It stated softly. “Trust me.”

“Thatcher, I brought everything we need.”

Thatcher turned around after hearing a familiar voice, standing up from his seat. “Alright…then I guess we’ll start the search, Weaver.” Thatcher sighed as he looked at Ruth from across the room.

Ruth was a muscular, tall woman wearing the same uniform her coworker wore, without the black tie around her neck and with her sleeves rolled up. She had almond colored skin, and her dark brown, curly hair was pulled back in a ponytail aside from the bangs covering the right side of her forehead. She had facial hair on her chin, and her arms also had hair on their forearms. She looked at Thatcher, her round eyes still showing energy despite the matter at hand, even as she approached Thatcher holding a few plastic, sealable bags labeled “EVIDENCE” along with plastic gloves. She also had a camera in her hands, which she handed to Thatcher as soon as he was in front of her.

“How much are you going to take?” Arthur questioned as he stared at Thatcher.

“Only what can potentially link to the case.” Thatcher stated. “We won’t take anything we don’t need to. Was there a particular room Mark stayed in most of the time?”

“…His bedroom; upstairs, last door in the hallway.” Leah stated softly.

Leah stood beside Arthur before he hugged her, staring at Thatcher as it turned back towards Ruth. “Could you stay with them as I search the room?” Thatcher asked Ruth quietly.

“Of course.” She responded. “I’ll…try and help them through this the best I can.”

“Thank you.”

Thatcher turned towards the stairway, walking up them as Ruth approached the Heathcliffs, standing up straight as she tried her best to conceal her uncertainty. “Could you two take a seat?” She asked.

“We don’t have much else to say.” Arthur stated.

“I’m not going to ask about the case,” Ruth responded. “We can get to that later on.”

Ruth gestured towards the seats before they all sat down on the couch, Ruth sitting to the side with Leah in between her and Arthur. Leah glanced down at Ruth’s leg noticing something; it was a prosthetic. Below her right knee was a blade prosthetic, with her dress pants leg rolled up above it. Ruth caught her gaze, looking down at her leg before a soft smile appeared on her face. “Oh…Don’t worry about it,” Ruth let out a soft, lighthearted chuckle. “Just…accidents happen, y’know?”

“Yeah.” Leah said quietly. “…I guess they do.”

Ruth’s smile faded when she saw that Leah’s worried expression didn’t disappear, all while Arthur wrapped his arm around her in an attempt to comfort her. Ruth looked at them with a somber look in her eyes as she considered her next words, all while Thatcher made it to the upstairs hallway. He looked down the corridor, walking down it, his shoes clacking against the floorboards until he stopped outside of Mark’s room, taking in a breath before opening the door.

“Can…you tell me about yourselves?” Ruth asked. “What do you do for work?”

“I work at the library downtown…” Leah answered. “…Arthur’s a priest.”

“Really? Where, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“St. Gabriel’s Church.” Arthur stated.

“I see.” Ruth said, trying not to remember what she heard on the broadcasts regarding religious practices. “I’ve worked at the Police department for…years now. Me and Thatcher recently got promoted, actually.”

“Oh…congrats!” A soft smile formed on Leah’s face. “I’m…happy for you.”

“Thank you.” Ruth returned the smile. “Now…how is your job at the library?”

The first thing Thatcher noticed when he looked into the room was the state of disarray it was in. Snack wrappers and dirty clothes littered the floor, and the bed was unmade and messy. A few drawers in the dresser resting next to the wall were cracked open, jammed by lazily shoved in socks and clothes. Thatcher stepped over the garbage the best he could as his eyes grazed around the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary aside from the mess.

He looked towards the dresser, seeing something resting on top of it that grabbed his attention; an analog television. He stared at it as he approached it, looking down to see its cord dangling off of the side of the dresser, unplugged. Two objects rested on top of the television, being a camcorder and tape recorder, both of which he gently picked up and placed in two separate evidence bags. He turned around, looking towards the bed until he noticed something wrong with the posters on the wall behind it. One of them seemed crooked and lazily put on, and Thatcher squinted when he saw black markings just barely peeking out from behind it.

“I just…wish I had more time to…you know…spend time with my own children.” Leah continued as Ruth listened carefully. “It’s hard to make money nowadays and…I guess I was too focused on that rather than focusing on the things that matter…”

“We’re…better than we were a few years ago,” Arthur said. “Luckily we were able to avoid selling our belongings just to put food on the table.”

Ruth looked at the ground with a worried look on her face. “I get it, trust me.” She said quietly. “With multiple businesses closing down, it seems like getting a job is becoming harder to do.”

“Definitely.” Arthur sighed. “All I can do is thank God himself for the place we’re in. A safe home, food on the table, two healthy kids; I mean…it’s a miracle.”

Ruth nodded as Leah began to speak. “They’re…so important to me.” She stated, seemingly trying her best not to cry. “I just wish I realized it sooner.”

Thatcher carefully removed the poster from the wall, lowering it before staring at what was behind it with furrowed brows and a look of confusion. It was scribbled drawings on the wall itself, seemingly drawn with a black marker of some kind. It seemed to depict what looked like nerves and veins; organs and eyes. In the middle of the drawing was what seemed like a clock with scribbled wings protruding from it. Thatcher backed away from the drawing, all before he grabbed his camera and pointed it towards the wall, taking a picture with a white flash and a click. He looked at the picture as it developed before he looked back at the drawing, confused as to what it meant or why it was there. As he stared at the strange, organic drawing, something from the hallway stared, watching him as he moved around the bedroom and continued his search, unnoticed by the lieutenant.

“You moved here…how long ago?” Ruth asked.

“Oh…around…16 years ago, if I remember correctly.” Arthur sighed. “Mark was just a year old at that point…moved down here from Yonder.”

“Mandela seemed like a more…quaint place to live at the time.” Leah stated. “Smaller, more…homey, I guess.”

“Yonder’s just…a buncha people who have a lot of money.” Arthur said. “Big houses…but not a lot of character.”

“I get it.” Ruth responded. “I used to live in Werksha myself…” She paused as she considered her next words. “I’ve been considering moving back because…I just…don’t know if this is the right place to raise my daughter.”

“You’re a mother?” Leah asked.

“Yeah; I have a little girl at home.” Ruth smiled. “She started kindergarten earlier this month actually.”

“What’s her name?”

“Amelia.”

Thatcher pushed open the slotted closet doors, looking into the messy storage space to see if anything out of the ordinary was there. He saw more of the same; trash and unfolded clothes on shelves. He sighed, preparing to close the doors before his eyes spotted something underneath a shirt. The corner of what appeared to be a yellow notebook was peeking out from underneath the article of clothing, and when Thatcher pulled it out, he saw “REASSURANCES” written on the cover. He looked at it before opening it, flipping through the pages quickly. It seemed to be a personal journal of some sort, with diary entries taking up most of the pages, with small doodles on each one. He closed it, deciding to look through it later as he grabbed another evidence bag.

Ruth continued to listen to the Heathcliffs until she heard footsteps coming down the stairs, turning to see Thatcher entering the room with a few bags in hand. “I found a notebook, Camcorder, and tape recorder so far,” Thatcher said as Ruth approached it. “I’m going back to search for anything else.”

“Alright.” Ruth stated as she was handed the bags.

Thatcher sighed as he looked over to the Heathcliff’s sitting on the couch in anticipation. “Are you aware of the analog TV in Mark’s bedroom?” Thatcher asked.

“Yes, we are.” Leah answered. “It’s unplugged though.”

“No, no, no you…you need to throw it out, unplugging isn’t enough.” Thatcher stated. “You know how many kids have been going missing lately?”

“…Yes.” Leah said softly.

“Yeah…I’d get rid of it as soon as possible, alright?” Thatcher said before turning back towards the stairway to continue his search. He walked up the stairs, passing by a cracked open door to his left, unknowing of the eye peeking at him from behind it. He walked into Mark’s room once again, sighing deeply before he began to rummage through the dresser’s drawers.

Ruth sighed, gently placing the bags on a table before she turned towards the Heathcliffs, who were still sitting on the couch. The look of pure worry and sadness in Leah’s eyes especially made her gut churn, though she wasn’t sure of how to lighten the mood without it feeling mean-spirited. She leaned against a chair, holding herself up with her arms as she thought to herself, hearing the sound of Thatcher’s footsteps overhead.

After finding nothing but more clothes, Thatcher shut the last dresser drawer, moving back towards the bed before lowering himself to his knees, leaning over to look underneath it; nothing, once again. Thatcher thought to himself as he stood up, walking over to the nightstand as he hoped that the little things he found in there would help find the missing teen. He pulled open the drawer, seeing loose papers covering the junk in there, also seeing a sketchbook resting on top. He pulled it out, looking at it for a moment before placing it on the bed next to him. He went back to rustling through the drawer before he paused. He saw something angular and made of metal, with it being a dark grey color. It seemed purposefully buried underneath everything else, and when Thatcher moved everything out of the way he froze, his eyes widening slightly when he saw the object in full.

“Ruth?” Ruth’s radio went off, Thatcher’s voice surprising her slightly before she held it up to her mouth.

“Did you find anything?”

“Come upstairs.”

“…Is something wrong?” Ruth glanced over towards the Heathcliffs, seeing them staring at her with a tinge of confusion and fear in their eyes.

“No, just…I need you to come up and…see something.”

Ruth lowered her radio, pinning it to her chest before quickly walking up the stairs. She stormed down the hallway, seeing Thatcher with his back facing her, seemingly holding something. “What’s going on, you alright?”

“…Ruth, did either of the parents mention owning a firearm?”

“…No?”

Thatcher turned around, revealing what he was holding; a semi-automatic pistol. Ruth stared at it with confusion and concern before looking up at Thatcher’s darkened expression. “Desert Eagle. Mark one.” He stated in a low, quiet voice. “50 caliber.”

“Oh…God, how did someone Mark’s age find a firearm of that power?” Ruth questioned softly.

“I don’t know.” Thatcher responded, carefully placing the firearm in a bag. “I suppose we’ll have to ask around…see if anyone in the family owns one.”

“Does it appear used?”

“Thankfully…no.” Thatcher stated. “Safety’s on…though…it was loaded.”

“Oh God.” Ruth felt a pit form in her gut, lightly holding a hand over her mouth as she thought.

“We’ll have to find out if it’s registered or not and who it was sold by.” Thatcher said. “Maybe then we’ll get an idea of how…Mark…got it.” Thatcher’s voice lowered before he suddenly went silent, looking towards the hallway with an intense, yet troubled gaze. Ruth turned to see what he was looking at before seeing someone standing in the doorway, staring at them.

A young girl, no older than six.

She had long, brown hair, and wore an oversized, faded shirt over her body, along with pajama pants printed with characters from a cartoon. She was holding a blue stuffed bunny in her arms, holding it close to her chest. She stared up at the officers standing in her brother’s room, her expression blank as she remained still, as if not moving meant that she was invisible to them.

Thatcher looked towards Ruth, seeing that she was staring at the child with a look of somberness in her eyes. “…Why don’t I go downstairs and…talk to the parents.” Thatcher stated quietly.

“…Alright.” Ruth responded very quietly as Thatcher quietly left the room, looking down to see the girl staring at him with a distrustful look as he passed by. Ruth carefully approached the child, crouching down before clearing her throat.

“Hey!” She said in a soft voice. “My name’s Ruth, I’m here to help you out. What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t answer right away, instead looking at the ground and hugging the toy in her arms tighter. Ruth looked at the toy, seeing its button eyes and red bowtie before letting out a smile. “What’s his name?” She pointed at the bunny.

The girl looked down at the toy before looking back up at Ruth’s face. “…Mr. Bon.” The girl stated quietly.

Ruth smiled. “That’s a wonderful name.”

“…Where’s Mark?” The girl asked quietly, with her voice seeming more like a squeak.

Ruth’s smile faded as she glanced away, thinking of an answer. “…That’s what we’re trying to find out.” Ruth responded. “We’re here to help, both me and my friend you just saw. It and I are looking for him.”

“…I want my mom.”

Ruth nodded, standing up and holding out a hand towards the girl. “She’s just downstairs; I can take you to her.” She said softly.

“…Okay.” The girl lightly held Ruth’s hand as they walked down the hallway, all while Thatcher paced back and forth downstairs.

“I-I have a pistol in my office, but it’s locked away.” Arthur stated, staring at Thatcher with a dark expression.

“Does anyone in your family own a Desert Eagle?” Thatcher asked.

“No, not that I know of.” Arthur responded. “I mean…his grandfather’s a hunter but…he didn’t own any guns aside from a hunting rifle or two.”

Leah looked over towards the stairway, seeing Ruth walking down into the living room, lightly holding the girl’s hand as they entered the room.

“Sarah!” Leah said, holding out her arms as Sarah ran to her, embracing her the second she was close to her. Thatcher looked at Leah and Sarah before looking back at Arthur.

“…Throw out that TV.”

“What?”

“The TV in Mark’s room is a hazard,” Thatcher stated with a stern tone in his voice. “Especially with a small child in this house.”

“…I don’t think it’s a problem—”

“Yes it is.” Thatcher responded. “There’s a very serious threat going around; children around your daughter’s age are at risk, almost more so than adults.”

“Look, I get it…fear tactics.” Arthur stated.

“…What?”

“You want us to be scared cause of ‘alternates’.” Arthur’s voice seemed accusatory, as if he had something against Thatcher specifically. “My kid will be just fine, and once Mark comes back, I’m sure things will go back to normal around here.”

“…You don’t believe in alternates?” Thatcher questioned out of disbelief.

“Not the way you want me too.” Arthur stated. “I pray every night for protection, and it hasn’t failed yet, and if alternates are as dangerous as the government says they are, then don’t you think something would have happened by now?”

“Mark.”

“…Excuse me?”

“Mark is still missing.” Thatcher reminded, trying his hardest to keep his words professional. “I believe you can call that something happening, don’t you think?”

“His disappearance has nothing to do with alternates.” Arthur claimed. “He’s just…unwell. He needs help…not more paranoia to add to his already poor mental state.”

“Would telling you that the possession of analog technology is a crime change your mind?” Thatcher stated, barely cloaking his pure annoyance.

“…What, you’ll arrest me for having a TV?”

Thatcher’s brows furrowed, staring at Arthur’s face with an intense glare.

“God reigns, Davis.” Arthur said. “And even if alternates really did exist…they wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Thatcher paused, maintaining eye contact with the priest. “…I wish I had your ignorance.”

Arthur’s glare turned into an almost appalled expression as Ruth approached them, tapping Thatcher on the shoulder. “It’s time to head out.” Ruth said quietly as Thatcher turned around.

“…Alright.” Thatcher sighed. He glared back at Arthur, him staring back with a tinge of revulsion in his gaze. Thatcher passed by Leah and Sarah, the latter of which looking up at him as he walked by. Ruth followed, though hesitated, stopping in the middle of the room, even as Thatcher made his way to the front door. She looked back, seeing Leah and Sarah’s eyes staring at her, all before she sighed and dug out a notepad from her pocket.

“Mrs. Heathcliff?”

“Yes?” Leah watched as Ruth quickly wrote down something.

“From one mother to another.” Ruth handed her a slip of paper with a phone number on it. “If you need anything or…just want to talk…call me, alright?”

Leah stared at the phone number for a second before looking back up at Ruth’s friendly face.

“…Th…thank you, officer.”

“You can skip the formalities,” Ruth smiled. “Just call me Ruth if you want to.”

“…Thank you, Ruth.”

Ruth stood up, taking one look at Arthur’s sour expression and shooting him a glare, all before turning back and leaving, shutting the front door behind her. Silence fell, Leah holding Sarah close as Sarah hugged both her mother and her toy, staring at the door with a blank expression. Maybe Mark just went on a walk into the woods again and got lost; she remembered he liked to do that during the night. She just hoped he’d find his way back soon.

September 22nd, 3:47 PM

Thatcher sat at his desk, staring at the closed orange folder in front of him, his tired eyes grazing over it as he tried to shake off his ever present exhaustion. He glanced over to his left, seeing a couple VHS tapes stacked neatly next to a small television, which was resting on a small table to the side of the desk. There was also a notebook, along with the tape recorder he had recovered the previous day resting on his desk. He thought of how lucky he was that they were in good condition, considering the time crunch and the fact that he’d rather not bother Dave again to fix them in such a short time frame. He rubbed his eyes, planting his elbows on the desk as he sighed, opening the orange folder to see what he was dealing with.

“MARK HEATHCLIFF

AGE: 17

SEX: MALE

ETHNICITY: CAUCASIAN

EYES: GREEN

HAIR: BROWN”

Thatcher read over Mark’s file, eyes glancing over the paragraphs of information known about him. Words typed out on the page about his diagnoses, his academic history, and even previous incidents and injuries he might’ve had. It was all very detailed, yet as Thatcher grazed over the page, he saw nothing much of use that related to the case aside from what he had already heard the previous day. He sighed, shutting the file before sliding it to the side, instead choosing to focus on the tape recorder, staring at it before gently grasping one of the cassettes, one labeled “Insomnia” and placing it into the player, it clicking shut before he pressed play.

It was silence for a few moments, with only the sound of faint, shaky breathing being heard underneath the static. Thatcher waited for something to happen, wondering if it was a blank cassette before he finally heard a voice; Mark’s voice.

“…Ninety years without slumbering,” Mark tiredly sung, his voice raspy as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “Tick, tock, tick, tock. His…l…life seconds numbering, tick, tock, tick, tock. Then the clock…stopped…never to go again, when the old…man…died.”

Silence fell once again for a little while.

“Fuck…Just…let me fucking sleep.” Mark’s voice sounded muffled, as if he was holding his hand over his mouth. “I don’t know how long I can count sheep before I go insane.”

Thatcher sat back in his seat as he once again listened to the gap of silence, staring intently at the tape recorder before Mark spoke once again.

“…I don’t know what to do.” Mark stated. “…I feel…uncomfortable in my own skin. I don’t…I don…feel…safe.”

Silence once again; longer than the last gap.

“I haven’t slept in a couple days now.” Mark mumbled. “Every time I try, I…have those…fucking nightmares. I don’t…kn…know if I…really do want to sleep…all because of them.”

Another pause.

“…Then th…st…stopped…never to go again when…the old…man…God fucking help me.”

The cassette stopped, leaving Thatcher with a sense of confusion before he ejected it and placed it on the desk, all before grasping the next one, a cassette labeled nothing at all, and placing it inside of the recorder, hesitating before pressing play.

Silence, though he could hear something that sounded somewhat far away; muffled, harsh breathing. It sounded as if someone was hitting something repeatedly, or someone hitting their own head.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up,” Was heard over and over, Mark’s voice sounding distressed, like he was sobbing. Thatcher listened intently as Mark continued. “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT THE FUCK UP, JUST FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE!” Mark took in a shaky breath, sobbing more before shouting, “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEA—”

The tape stopped abruptly, with Thatcher staring at it with furrowed brows and his hands folded in front of him, his fingers clasping his own hands before he ejected the cassette. Thatcher sat still for a moment as it processed what it heard, all before its eyes fixated on the next piece of evidence; the notebook. A part of it dreaded reading through its pages for a reason it didn’t know as it picked it up, looking at its cover first and reading what was written on it.

“Reassurances

God bless all!”

Thatcher flipped open the notebook, and saw just that; reassurances. It appeared to be small prayers, with a new one on each page. However, around halfway through the notebook, he paused, seeing a drawing on one of the pages, with it being completely blank aside from it. It was a messily drawn picture of two eyes in the middle of the lined page, their gaze looking oddly crazed. Thatcher flipped the page, and found that the next entry wasn’t a prayer or reassurance of any kind, rather being a journal entry.

“9/02/1992

He’s been ignoring me again.

He’s been doing this for over a month now, acting like whatever I’m saying doesn’t matter. I’m tired of him turning a blind eye to what I’m seeing. He has to hear the breathing too, right? Why would he just brush be aside like this? I am his friend right? Sooner or later, he’s going to have to open his eyes to this. Else it’ll bite him later.”

Thatcher looked towards the bottom of the page, seeing a drawing of what appeared to be a House, with more writing below it, reading: “I keep going back and I don’t even know why. It calls me by name, Cesar.”

Thatcher stared at the picture of the House, his eyes fixated on it before he shook his head and flipped the page, seeing yet another journal entry, this time dated “9/05/1992”.

“I heard my parents talking downstairs today. Dad is suggesting that I’m not ‘faithful enough’. Says how I need to pray more and maybe I’ll feel better. My mom said I just need more time with my therapist, as if he’s helping me any. They think I’m crazy, don’t they. I was already put on multiple different anti-anxiety and depression meds, and they don’t work. They don’t know what I’m actually going through. And I don’t know if I want to tell them.

If this is how they act when they’re clueless, I dread to know what they’d say if they knew.”

The drawing on the page was of a pill bottle. The label was mostly gibberish, with the only recognizable word being “lies” written in bold letters.

Thatcher felt the pit in his gut only growing heavier with every page, flipping it before reaching a journal entry without a drawing. It appeared to be from a few days after the last, seemingly sloppily written, like Mark had just woken up when he wrote it:

“09/8/1992

I had a dream tonight.

I was at the House, yelling at Cesar for a reason I can’t remember. He was so angry at me. I felt a deep hatred towards him, more than I’ve ever felt towards anything. I don’t even remember what was being said, or what had caused us both to be so mad. I remember looking past him and seeing It looking at me.

I feel sick recalling the sound and feeling of his neck cracking under my hands. The rest is fuzzy, and all I remember was that I threw him to the ground in less than a second. His horror filled eyes still haunt me. I remember looking down at his body propped up against the clock, and then I woke up.

I don’t know what this means. I’m not a killer. I wouldn’t do that. Would I?”

A short sentence below it, written in neater handwriting read: “Thinking about it now. I don’t recall who the body actually belonged to.”

Thatcher flipped the page, looking down at the noticeably worse handwriting in the next entry before he read it.

“09/10/1992

I’ve lost another one.

I’ve never seen him that furious. He acted as if I was the worst person he ever met. The nightmares haven’t ended, the halls still calling my name. I can taste iron, though I don’t think its my own blood. My right eye feels like it had been pulled out of socket and shoved back in. Everything feels so alien now, even though nothing has changed. I hate these rooms, the scent of blood still stinging my nose. I feel homesick laying in my own bed.”

The drawings on the bottom of the page were scribbled and hastily done, depicting spirals and what appeared to be some kind of grandfather clock. Thatcher stared at the clock before focusing on the last drawing, one depicting a young man sitting up in bed, staring at something with wide eyes. A simple statement was written below it, reading: “He looked at me like I was not me.”

Thatcher paused, processing the previous entry before he reached for the next page, his hands feeling strangely cold as he flipped the page, being greeted to what was only an empty page. He turned the page, seeing yet another empty page, then another, and another. He sped through the pages, all before reaching one last entry. Thatcher flipped the page only to see black scribbled letters covering the entire page. Dried splotches of red stained the paper, seeping into the pages after it. The writing only said one thing, repeated over and over like a skipping record:

“THE BELLS TOLL FOR ME.”

The chaos of the repeated text continued with every single page until he reached the final one, being nearly completely blank aside from a drawing of a clock, and one last message: “I’m running out of time.” Thatcher shook his head, shutting the notebook shut before thinking hard. He sighed, holding his hands over his mouth with his elbows on the desk. He couldn’t help but begin to connect the dots; the date of the entry was the same date as Cesar Torres’s disappearance. Mark was clearly falling off the deep end at that point, and appeared to have been increasingly angry with Cesar, so what if…he…

 “…Jesus.” He muttered under his breath. “…N…No, that…it can’t be right, that doesn’t make any sense—”

Before Thatcher could make anything of what he just read, a knock rang on his office door, Thatcher yelling “come in” before someone walked into the room. It was Ruth, having a look of concern plastered on her face.

“What is it?” Thatcher asked as he rubbed his eyes again.

“Leah Heathcliff’s here for her questioning.” Ruth answered.

“…Ah.” Thatcher coughed, standing up, taking a glance at the VHS tapes before deciding he’d look at them later. He grabbed the notebook and the orange folder, all before approaching Ruth, looking at her face, his brow twitching slightly. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Ruth said. “Though I suppose you should get going.”

“Okay…alright.” Thatcher brushed past Ruth, leaving her in the doorway as she sighed, looking at the ground before turning towards Thatcher’s desk. It was a complete mess, with documents strewn across it and other pieces of evidence placed on it. She couldn’t help but notice that the chair Thatcher had been using was still the same worn, on the verge of breaking office chair he refused to replace. Ruth sighed, closing the door to the office as she silently reminded herself to talk to Thatcher about keeping a clean workspace.

September 24th, 1992. 7:24 AM

“It was dark out. I couldn’t really see that well in front of me as I stumbled through the woods. I could barely stand up straight, as if my legs were trying to work against me. I was breathing hard, my breath clouding the air in front of me as I continued to walk. I didn’t know my destination, or at least I don’t remember it, but I knew I needed to get there.

Then I saw a house. One that looked familiar. I stopped for a second, staring at a window on one of the outer walls before I began to approach it. I stood in front of the window, placing my hands on the window frame, but when I looked down at them, I saw they weren’t mine. They were a pale grey, with two elongated fingers with broken, long fingernails at the end of them like claws. I looked inside, through the glass before I saw something. It was a bedroom, and on the bed was a sleeping man.

It was me. Sleeping on the bed without a clue. I opened the window, slowly crawling through until I was looming over myself, staring down at my own unconscious body. I was smiling, but it almost hurt to do so. I continued to stare at myself barely moving, still asleep even as I grew closer, saliva dripping from my mouth onto the sheets.

Then I woke up.

The window was locked when I checked it. Though I saw mist on the outside of it, as if someone was breathing on it. Something tells me I was very lucky last night. I’m not telling Ruth about this one. She already worries about me enough. I know now that I’m going to be checking every window before I sleep. I don’t want to know what would’ve happened if I forgot.”

Thatcher closed the notebook before sighing, leaning over towards the nightstand beside his bed before throwing it into one of the drawers. He sighed, grasping the bed sheets under him as he stared at the beige carpet below him. He looked forward from where he sat, seeing the window leading outside, the sun beginning to rise, allowing him to see the small patch of trees outside of his house. It felt a pit forming in its gut as it looked, all before shaking its head and standing up, deciding it needed to get dressed and start its day.

Thatcher stood by his kitchen counter, leaning against it with a cup of coffee in one hand, with his other crossed over his chest. He wore a lazily put on, faded graphic T-shirt, which was a couple sizes too big for him. With his less than professional appearance came worn out jeans, a pair of sneakers, and an overall haggard expression on his face, only complimented by his equally unkempt hair. He stared blankly into his living room, seeing that it too was a mess, with the coffee table being covered in documents and papers, and having no room to actually use it to put coffee cups on. He sighed, placing his cup on the counter before looking towards a landline phone on the wall, walking towards it, dialing a few numbers, and holding the phone up to his head as he waited for a response.

A few moments passed as Thatcher waited, leaning against the wall as he sighed, pushing his free hand into his jean pocket before he finally heard a voice on the line.

“This is Dave from MandelaTECH, how may I help you?”

“Dave, hey, it’s…it’s me.” Thatcher sighed, his voice especially gravely from just waking up.

“Thatcher! How’s it going? We haven’t spoken in a while.”

“It’s…yeah, it’s alright, I guess.” Thatcher stated. “How are you? You feeling better?”

“Ah, I’m…managing.” Dave said with a lighthearted chuckle. “Definitely better than I was. No longer…using that rickety old wooden cane that they gave me. Got a new one; one that’s…less hard on me.”

“That’s…good.” Thatcher said. “Good to hear it.”

“…You alright?” Dave asked. “You sound like you’ve…been through it.”

“I’m fine, alright? Just…” Thatcher paused for a second. “You…hear anything last night?”

“…No?”

“Any…weird…feelings, or did you see anything odd or out of place?”

“No. Can I ask why you’re asking me this?”

“Just wondering.” Thatcher lied. “Just…things have been weird, alright? Was wanting to check in and make sure you’re doing alright anyway.”

“I appreciate that, but…you do know you have to take care of yourself too, right?”

Thatcher paused, looking at the ground for a few seconds. “…You kept your windows and doors locked, right?”

“Yes.” Dave answered. “Thatcher…you…sure you’re alright?”

No.

“Yeah.” Thatcher reassured. “Just a weird…dream I guess. Whatever, I’ll probably talk to you later. I have a couple tapes I need restored for the police department anyway.”

“Alrighty, just…remember to actually take a break.” Dave stated. “It’s your day off, isn’t it?”

“Yep. Supposed to be.”

“Well, call me if you need anything, I’ll be happy to help out.”

“Thanks. See you later. Bye.” Thatcher hung up the phone, placing it back on its hook before sighing deeply, looking up and shutting his eyes for a second. He looked up at the ceiling, hearing nothing more than the sound of cars outside, the faint ticking of the circular clock on the wall, and his own thoughts running through his head. He shook his head, walking towards the couch and grabbing a jacket that was draped across it before pulling it over his arms and walking towards the front door, deciding to go walk around town. Maybe it would get his mind off of things.

Thatcher walked down the sidewalk as the sun rose in the sky, smoke billowing out of the cigarette in his hand. He glanced towards the road, seeing some cars pass by, though not very many people were out on the streets at that point. As he walked further into town however, there were more people seen, though the groups of people he remembered seeing gathering around certain hang out spots a few years back were now more scarce, with people no longer staying in one spot for a while. Did Thatcher blame them? No. It understood why people spoke in hushed tones and stuck together, only doing what they needed to get done before going back into the safety of their home. If Thatcher could, he’d do the same. There’s a comfort in locked doors and covered windows when the outside is full of things that stalk the meek.

Downtown had a haze of uncertainty to it; emptier than usual. The recent broadcast was doing its job, Thatcher supposed, judging by the dumpsters full of old, broken TVs, closed businesses, and people refusing to make eye contact with each other. It felt odd, though Thatcher couldn’t remember the last time Mandela felt more comfortable than not. He wasn’t even sure if it ever had that feeling of hominess. Mandela’s color had been draining for a long time, and he wasn’t sure if he ever noticed it. Seeing how the town was slowly becoming less welcome to its residents made a pit form in his gut. So much for “getting his mind off things.”

Thatcher passed by a few local businesses and stores, some urban homes, and more empty parking lots as he walked, feeling his joints getting sore as he went further. His cigarette was close to snuffed out, Thatcher pausing before flicking it to the ground, stomping it with his foot and pressing it into the concrete. He sighed, looking around before his eyes spotted something on the other side of the road; the park. A large patch of grass with a few trees, gazebos, and a small playground for children to play. To his surprise, there were people there, being parents keeping a close eye on their kids as they went down the slides and sat on the swings. However, he stopped when he spotted someone sitting at one of the benches, looking over her own kid. Ruth.

Thatcher glanced down the road despite knowing no one was coming before jogging across the road, slowing down when he reached the other side before stepping onto the grass, walking through the metal archway leading into the park. It approached the playground, seeing Ruth was fiddling with her prosthetic, presumably because something was loose or out of place in it. Thatcher sighed, silently walking towards the bench and sitting next to her. She glanced up, double-taking before looking at Thatcher, letting out a breath.

“Hey, I…didn’t expect you to be here.” She said as she sat up.

“I didn’t either.” Thatcher stated. “Just figured I’d say hi.”

“Well…hi.” Ruth smiled, crossing her leg and looking at her prosthetic. “…It got loose when I was running around with Amelia. Almost fell off.”

“Hmm.” Thatcher looked around, his tired eyes observing the children playing and the parents joining in with them. It was sweet, though he still couldn’t shake the pressure he felt in his chest.

“…Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Thatcher answered as if it was second nature to him. “Just…things have been on my mind lately, that’s all.”

“Do you want…to talk about it?” Ruth asked.

“It’s nothing, just…thinking about what Leah said.”

“Thatcher…”

“It just doesn’t make any sense, why would a normal kid like Mark just…break all of a sudden?” Thatcher continued.

“Mommy!”

Ruth looked up to see one of the children on the playground approaching her, walking towards her before grasping the sleeve of Ruth’s jacket; Amelia. “What is it honey?” Ruth asked. Amelia simply pointed towards a bag that was resting next to Ruth, and despite nothing being said, Ruth understood, grabbing something from it. It was a small bag of what appeared to be some kind of snack, which Ruth gave to Amelia before she began to run back to the rest of the kids.

“Be careful, don’t go too far.” Ruth warned before softly sighing.

“Do you think what Arthur said has something to do with it?” Thatcher asked as Ruth looked back towards him. “Maybe he said something that caused Mark to run off—”

“Thatcher.” Ruth interrupted. “I’m sorry, but…you’re not really using your day off wisely.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re stressing yourself out about the case all the time.” Ruth said as she strapped her prosthetic on properly. “I understand, it’s something…I really wish didn’t happen, but you have to understand that worrying about it all day everyday isn’t going to help.”

“Ruth, I just need a lead.” Thatcher said. “What if we find something tomorrow at the Torres house? We could possibly solve what happened to Mark…and Cesar.”

“We’ll have to wait and see—” Ruth flinched when she started to hear crying, turning to see Amelia on the ground with a scraped knee. She quickly stood up, leaving Thatcher behind as she went to go tend to her. Thatcher watched with mild concern as Ruth looked at the minor scratches as he sat in silence, sighing as he tried to think. He had to stress about a case he was working on, otherwise nothing would get done. He had to be close to figuring out something, right? He was snapped out of his thoughts when Ruth approached him again, this time holding her daughters hand. “We’re going home, Thatcher. If you want to talk later, I’ll be there, just call.”

“…I see.” Thatcher watched as they walked away, once again leaving him alone as he wondered. Maybe Ruth had a point; maybe he should go home and try and relax for once.

11 PM

Thatcher had been staring at the files on his desk for the past hour without anything new coming to mind. A few cigarette butts were already in the ashtray as he extinguished the one in his hand in it, all while he stared at the papers with a blank look in his eyes. He scribbled something onto a blank piece of paper, the graphite of the pencil scratching against it until an image came together. Thatcher paused, looking at the drawing, one that depicted the face of a humanoid…thing, one with an elongated “snout” and a far too wide smile. He sighed, placing his pencil on the desk before grabbing the paper and standing up, turning towards the wall and pinning it to a corkboard, allowing it to join the countless photos, journal entries, notes, and drawings that already littered it, making the corkboard itself barely visible from under it.

Thatcher stared at the board, crossing his arms as his dull eyes grazed over everything on it, his brain working overtime to compute it all. Mark Heathcliff, Cesar Torres, Dave Lee, Ruth Weaver; all people who had experienced oddities in the past few months alone, with even Thatcher itself not being exempt. The pale, inhuman face of the alternate he drew had been one he saw not too long ago, and one that he couldn’t shake off. It looked so vaguely familiar, though morphed and deformed to the point that it was barely on the precipice of recognition. Thatcher hated that some parts of its face were features he shared, albeit heavily distorted. Animalistic, and not even trying to act human. Was it even an alternate at all?

Thatcher blinked, rubbing his eyes when the wave of exhaustion he had been pushing back finally hit him. He looked back towards his messy desk and the corkboard, all before turning back and shutting the light off, closing the door shut behind him as he headed towards his bedroom. He stepped into the room, shutting and locking his bedroom door as he stared at the window on the opposite wall. He stared at it, feeling a strange discomfort before he checked it was locked and shut the curtains. He got into bed, sighing deeply as he lazily pulled the covers over him, staring into the dark as he laid on his side, all before closing his eyes and attempting to get some sleep.

??:?? AM

Thatcher was awoken by the sound of a distant window breaking. His eyes flicked open, staring forward to see that the window in his room was still concealed by the curtain, and still intact judging by the lack of wind coming from it. Thatcher wanted to grab his gun and investigate the noise, though despite how much he tried, his arms remained still. He couldn’t even speak or move anything aside from his eyes, which darted around the small part of the room he could see from his limited view. His breathing quickened slightly, realizing he was paralyzed.

Thatcher could hear something bumping around in the hallway outside of his bedroom, pushing aside furniture and stepping towards the door. Thatcher couldn’t do anything, hearing the footsteps grow silent as he tried not to hyperventilate. He attempted to move, only being able to slightly shift in place, still unable to move anything a meaningful amount. He stared forward, blinking when he heard knocks ring out from his bedroom door behind him. He heard the knocks pause, then come back, even harder that time, all before they ceased. Thatcher heard the door creak, opening despite him locking the door before he slept. He still couldn’t move aside from shaking slightly, hearing something behind him, creeping towards his bed. He couldn’t see it, or hear anything coming from it until he felt warm air hit the nape of his neck. His chest heaved, feeling a deathly cold hand be placed on his shoulder before he could finally move.

Thatcher shot up out of bed, swinging around to see what it was, only to find nothing at all. The door was shut, and nothing else was in the room with him. His breath was heavy as he glanced towards his pillow, reaching under it to grab a pistol before he walked towards his door, throwing it open before pointing the gun into the hallway. He flicked on the light, seeing that it was completely intact, with nothing out of place. He paused, hesitating before lowering his gun, looking at the ground and placing one of his clammy hands on his head. Something about his house felt claustrophobic all of a sudden; was it always that cold?

2:27 AM

Ruth was awoken by the sound of a knock at the front door. She slowly sat up, looking around her room before she heard the knocks ring out yet again, sighing as she turned on her bedside lamp and reached towards her prosthetic. Thatcher knocked on the door for a third time, his body covered by a quickly thrown on, somewhat oversized grey trench coat. He remained silent, preparing to knock again until the door swung open to reveal a tired, somewhat annoyed Ruth Weaver, who was still in her pajamas, being a black tank top and sweatpants.

“Ruth.” Thatcher said quietly.

“…It’s two in the morning.” Ruth stated, blinking sleepily. “What are you doing here?”

“I just…I wanted to talk.”

“About what? What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.” Thatcher said. “I won’t be long.”

Ruth paused, staring at him before shaking her head slightly. “Be quiet; Amelia’s in bed and she has school tomorrow.”

Following Ruth into the house, Thatcher closed the door behind him, walking into the dimly lit living room before sitting on the couch, with Ruth sitting in a chair across from him. Thatcher remained silent for a moment, staring at nothing in particular before Ruth spoke up.

“Organizing files or something?” Ruth asked. “Or are you just staying up late worrying about the case again?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m…it’s fine.” Thatcher stated, despite not fully believing the statement. “I wasn’t wanting to talk…about just the case with you anyway.”

“Do tell.” Ruth glared at Thatcher, wishing she could go back to bed, but refusing to due to the feeling of worry for her friend.

“Everything happening lately…it feels…connected.” Thatcher said. “Ever since the report at the…Murray household, it seems like everything’s been…off.”

“Really?” Ruth asked. “How do you think it’s all connected?”

Thatcher stayed silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “That alternate. You know the one that attacked Dave a little while back?”

“Yeah, I heard about it, though…I don’t really see what you’re getting at.”

Thatcher paused before speaking again. “I think it’s the same one from the Murray house.”

“…How can you be sure?” Ruth asked.

“I can’t.” Thatcher responded. “But the way it…stared into me. The look in its eyes…it was the same.”

“I don’t know…maybe.” Ruth spoke with a tinge of uncertainty. “But didn’t you say it looked…different?”

“It did.” Thatcher stated. “But that’s what’s getting me; it’s wrong. More so than it was.”

“Thatcher, are you sure?” Ruth asked. “It could be a different one entirely. I mean…why would it do something like that to itself?”

“I don’t think it did.”

Thatcher and Ruth became silent, Thatcher hunched over with his hands clasped together and his elbows resting on his knees, all while one of his legs bounced up and down. He took in a deep breath before speaking again. “Ruth?”

“Yes?”

“I came here to apologize.” Thatcher looked up to see Ruth looking at him with a fraction of confusion. “That’s what this is really about.”

“For what?”

“For…everything.” Thatcher looked down again, his hair draping over his face. “For…what happened back at that fucking house.”

Ruth sat up from her relaxed position as her brows furrowed slightly.

“If I…if…if I kept an eye on you…if I kept you safe…” Thatcher’s voice shook slightly. “You’d still have both legs.”

Ruth felt her heart sink slightly at that statement, thinking hard as Thatcher continued.

“I didn’t…protect you, I didn’t look after you like a fucking friend should.” Thatcher said. “You got attacked cause I was a fucking idiot and didn’t pay attention—”

“Thatcher—”

“No, listen, I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you; for the one fucking person in my life that is there for me—”

“Thatcher.” Ruth said, standing up and approaching the couch before sitting next to her friend. “If you truly weren’t there for me…I’d be dead.”

Thatcher looked up at her face, seeing that she still had a friendly look in her eyes.

“You couldn’t have predicted any of that; I mean…I barely saw it coming myself.” Ruth continued. “If you didn’t come running in to scare it off, or help me get to the hospital…I would’ve lost more than a leg.”

 “…I’m sorry.” Thatcher said under his breath, his throat tight. “I’m just…sorry I can’t…be the man this town needs me to be. E-Every time I go into that fucking station, I see more and more missing persons reports, more bodies found, more altercations, more shit that is only getting worse. I don’t know what to do, and I can’t fucking show it cause if I do?” Thatcher paused, trying to hold back its tears. “…I’ll be painted as nothing but a fucking coward…and that’s not what this town needs right now. It needs someone it can count on…and…I’m not that person.”

Ruth remained silent, thinking hard before she wrapped her arm around Thatcher, lightly side-hugging him. Thatcher appeared surprised at the gesture, though after a few moments, he hunched over, covered his face with his hands, and cried.

September 25th, 1992. 5:45 PM

Thatcher had a pit in his gut the entire day.

He wasn’t sure exactly what was causing it as he gathered what he needed to bring to the Torres Residence, though it was beginning to become nauseating. The lack of sleep could’ve also had something to do with it, or maybe even the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything that morning, though he couldn’t be sure. He looked up to see Ruth gearing up, putting her belt on and pinning her radio to her chest. Thatcher sighed, standing up straight before approaching her, lightly pressing a hand on her shoulder.

“Try and stay in sight this time, alright?” Thatcher asked quietly.

“I will. Besides, we have the radio. If necessary I’ll call you from it.”

“…Yeah…yeah, alright.” Thatcher exhaled. “You ready?”

“I guess so.”

“Then we should head out.” Thatcher stated. “Doesn’t seem like anyone else is going to head over there so…suppose we’re going to be the ones to do it.”

“Figures.” Ruth said with a slight chuckle. “Last time we had to do this, the officers pussied out.”

“Let’s get going,” Thatcher grabbed a jacket. “It’s almost sundown, and I’d like to get this done before it’s late.”

It was a completely silent drive to the House, with neither Ruth nor Thatcher speaking a single word. Thatcher felt a sense of unease when he turned down Wisteria Avenue, and when he glanced over at Ruth to see her having a troubled look on her face, Thatcher figured he wasn’t the only one. It clasped the steering wheel, staring forward as he drove by the houses in the neighborhood, seeing that only a few of them had lights on, as if most of them were no longer lived in. Thatcher decided to try and ignore the eerie feeling it had, as when it parked on the side of the road in front of the Torres Home, it realized it was time to get to work.

Thatcher exited the police car, looking towards the House, noticing how dark it appeared to be inside of it. He glanced back at Ruth, checking to make sure she was standing close before he stepped onto the concrete driveway, approaching the front door before reaching towards it and knocking against the dark wood.

“Police Department, open up.” Thatcher called, hoping for an answer but not receiving anything more than silence. He slammed his fist against the door again, harder and louder before calling again; “Police, open the door!”

No response.

Thatcher sighed, preparing to kick open the door before it cracked open slightly, despite Thatcher not touching it. He glanced towards Ruth before pushing open the door further, expecting to see someone, but seeing nothing standing there. Thatcher shook off the strange wave of unease he felt when he stepped inside, convincing himself that it was just the wind that opened the door as he ushered Ruth inside.

Thatcher was greeted with the faint ticking of a clock when he entered the living room, glancing towards the opposite wall to see a tall, red-wood grandfather clock towering over everything else in the room. He looked up at its face, seeing that it was still in perfect working condition considering its hands twitched with every second, without fail. As Thatcher walked into the living room, shining his flashlight along the walls, Ruth looked to her left, seeing a small off-shoot of the living room. A piano was resting next to the wall, with note sheets placed on it. Ruth approached it, seeing the bookshelves beside it and a mirror above it. Ruth looked at her reflection before examining the frame of the mirror itself, brows furrowing when she noticed something around it; water damage.

“Ruth?” Thatcher called from the living room, turning around to look at her.

“I’m here, don’t worry.” Ruth sighed, stepping away from the piano to join the lieutenant, all while a deep red liquid leaked from behind the mirror.

“I don’t really see anything in here, at least nothing abnormal.” Thatcher stated as he looked around the living room.

As Thatcher walked around, Ruth looked towards the clock, staring up at its clock face. Thatcher walked towards a small table resting against the wall, picking up a picture frame that was resting on it before examining the photo. It appeared to be a photo of Maria Torres, along with her son, Cesar. Thatcher sighed, feeling a deep somber feeling looking at the happy faces of the two, knowing, or rather not knowing, the fate of the young man in that very photo.

“Weaver, have you found—” Thatcher paused when he noticed Ruth was still looking at the clock, he slightly shaking flashlight pointed up at its face. “…Ruth?”

“Yes?” Ruth shook her head, turning around towards Thatcher.

“You alright?”

“Yeah…I’m fine.” Ruth answered, though the strange disturbed look on her face made Thatcher believe otherwise.

The two soon passed through the archway leading into the kitchen, pointing their lights into it. There was a square dining table near the corner, with only three chairs accompanying it. The kitchen seemed tidy, with countertops looking as if they were cleaned just the night before. There were some decorations on the walls and some porcelain dishware in an antique shelving unit.

Ruth looked towards a door to the left of the entrance to the kitchen, opening it and looking inside, seeing that it lead to the cluttered garage. She turned to the left, though something felt off, despite nothing being there. She walked back into the main Home, looking into the living room and seeing the piano room. It looked as if it would’ve cut into the garage judging by its location, but when Ruth peeked into the garage again, there was nothing but a straight wall, with no room for the piano room to feasibly fit. She wasn’t sure if it was an optical illusion or simply her mind playing tricks on her, but it made her headache worse just thinking about it.

Thatcher looked to his right, seeing a door on the opposite wall of the kitchen, one that would lead into the living room judging by its placement. He walked towards it, reaching for the doorknob before gagging and backing away, covering his mouth and nose. Ruth looked back towards him, seeing that he was staring at the door with a look of disgust on his face. “Something wrong, Davis?”

“Something behind this door smells…rancid.” Thatcher explained, hesitantly removing the hand covering his face to try and open the door. The doorknob didn’t budge when he attempted to turn it. “…It’s locked.”

“You think it’s a storage closet or something?”

“It’s the only thing that would fit there…hoping it’s just…mildew or something.” Thatcher stated. “Though we’re gonna have to get this open before we leave. Maybe there’s a key around here.”

Thatcher and Ruth passed by the sliding glass doors to the side of the kitchen, staring down the back hallway, seeing that it had three doors; one on the left, one on the right, and one straight forward. The hallway itself bent oddly, with one of the walls feeling like it was placed there abruptly, with its wallpaper being a slightly different shade than the rest. Thatcher and Ruth walked down the oddly built hallway, with Thatcher opening the door straight in front of them, seeing that it led into the bathroom.

He shined his light across the bathrooms walls, soon stopping when he looked into the mirror. Water damage stained the walls around the medicine cabinet, with hundreds of small holes in the wallpaper seemingly oozing a substance Thatcher was unsure of. He stared into the mirror, looking himself in the eye before he attempted to open the medicine cabinet, being unable to for a second until he tore it open. Strands of some sort of red, vine-like substance was torn apart, finally allowing the cabinet to be opened, only to reveal nothing much of use. ADHD medication, bandages, and some miscellaneous items were all that was in there, though as Thatcher stared and pointed his light at the strange “veins” that had held the doors shut, he decided he was done looking in the bathroom.

He closed the cabinet door, turning back towards the hallway without seeing the second pair of eyes looking at him from the mirror. Ruth backed up as Thatcher exited the room, looking at him with a blank look on her face. “Find anything?”

“…I don’t…no.” Thatcher stated, closing the door and covering up the faint sound of tapping he heard from inside there. “I think we should call for reinforcements.”

“Why?”

“Something about this place, man…” Thatcher looked around with a worried look in his eyes. “…Did you find anything?”

“I looked in the bedroom,” Ruth gestured towards the bedroom to the right of the bathroom. “And there wasn’t much of anything in there. Looks like it belonged to Cesar.”

“Then the other one must belong to his mother.” Thatcher sighed. “I’ll look in there real quick, then we’ll…head out.”

“…So soon?”

“We can get a second look later.” Thatcher stated. “For now, let’s just…get this wrapped up.”

Ruth watched as Thatcher approached the other bedroom on the other end of the hallway, sighing deeply before she began to follow him, only pausing after only one step. She could hear something, coming from Cesar’s bedroom. It was faint, and muffled, but as she turned around she could hear it clearer; screams. She glanced back at Thatcher, seeing that he had already entered the other room before she grabbed her pistol and took it out of its holster, holding it by her side as she entered Cesar’s bedroom.

The screams sounded pained, and as she looked around, she saw an opening in the wall, one that she didn’t remember being there when she was last in the room. She swallowed hard, pointing her gun towards the opening, seeing that it led into a short hallway. On the other end of it was an old, wooden door, one that didn’t match the white painted doors that were in every other room in the house. A figure watched from the closet as Ruth stepped towards the door, entering the short hall as she heard the screams become louder. Her heart felt like it was beating heavier than normal, and her hands felt clammy and cold, unsure of what was causing it aside from a deep feeling of dread. “Hello?” She called. “Whoever’s there, please answer!”

No response, though the screams seemed to wane, becoming more like pained, muffled whimpers and groans. Ruth hesitantly put her flashlight onto her belt, reaching for the doorknob and turning it, seeing that it wouldn’t budge. “Damn it.” She swore under her breath before she called once again to the voice she swore she heard behind the door. “Look, we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? Just hang on—” Ruth turned to yell for Thatcher’s help, only stopping when she looked back towards the bedroom. The screams had stopped, and when she pulled out her flashlight to point it into the bedroom, she felt her heart sink. Her widened, horror-filled eyes stared forward, her face pale as if she just saw a ghost, and her body was as stiff as a statue, absentmindedly dropping her gun to the wooden floor.

There was a blank wall where the entrance to the hallway was.

Thatcher stared at the only half-made bed of Maria Torres before walking around the room. He sighed, realizing there was nothing of use in that room either, though with the lack of any useful evidence came the realization that it was time to leave. “Ruth, There’s nothing he—” He turned around, seeing that Ruth was nowhere to be seen, as if she had simply vanished. “Ruth?” Thatcher felt his heart pounding against his ribcage.

No.

No.

No.

No not again.

Please God not again.

“Ruth?” Thatcher was unsuccessful in cloaking the panic in his voice as he quickly left the room, looking around and seeing no sign of life. He searched through the other bedroom, seeing and hearing nothing more than his own footsteps and heavy heartbeat before he opened the bathroom door, looking inside to see no sign of his friend. “RUTH?” He grasped onto his radio, holding it up to his face before turning it on and speaking into it. “Ruth where the hell are you?” There was no response; complete radio silence. “Ruth, do you copy?!”

The sound of music from the living room replaced his panic with dread, with Thatcher slowly turning down the hallway towards the kitchen as he listened to the song. The light to the living room was on, with the light spilling into the kitchen from the archway connecting the two rooms. It was from the piano, being an old classical piece Thatcher felt was familiar, but not enough to name it. He swallowed hard, pulling out his gun from its holster before pointing it ahead of him.

The music became louder with each step the lieutenant took, its hands shaking slightly as it inched ever so closer to the archway, soon standing right beside it and pressing its back against the wall. It peeked around the wall, looking into the living room, just barely able to make out a figure sitting in front of the piano from where he stood. Thatcher sucked up his fear as he took a step into the living room, hearing the clock behind him as he quietly approached the piano room, soon being able to see who was playing the piano.

He saw the back of what appeared to be a young man, one wearing a stained, stitched together black suit and a white dress shirt under it. His spine stuck out from underneath the suit, as if the clothes were melded to it. His black, greasy, messy hair was swept to the side, neatly combed despite how dirty the hair itself was. Thatcher watched as he continued to play, seemingly unaware that Thatcher was even there. It stopped, its gun trained on the figure before it spoke. “Hands where I can see them.”

The figure paused, sitting completely still before looking up at the mirror above the piano itself, with Thatcher finally able to see his face through the reflection. It looked like Cesar, though it barely kept the façade together. Its left eye was replaced by dull-colored veins and arteries, coming out of the eye socket and fusing to the rest of his face and head. Its one remaining eye was wide open, along with its smile. It looked towards Thatcher from the reflection before speaking.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt a performance, Lieutenant?”

The figure turned in his seat, placing his folded hands on his lap as he stared at Thatcher with a single, unblinking eye and a soulless smile.

“…Who are you?” Thatcher couldn’t help but notice his voice shook as he spoke, despite him wanting to retain a sense of stoicism.

“…I don’t think that’s important right now.” The figure stated. “Just refer to me as your Host for the night. Besides, I don’t even know if I could tell you my name even if I wanted to.”

Thatcher remained silent as the alternate went on. “Now tell me…who are you? Why are you and your friend here at all?” When Thatcher didn’t respond to the question, the alternate laughed. “Oh who am I kidding…I know your name, Mr. Davis. You two aren’t very quiet…I can at least gather what you call each other.”

“Where’s Ruth.” Thatcher questioned, his tone dark and his expression darker.

“Fodder, dear.” The alternate responded as if it was a stupid question, standing up and causing Thatcher to follow its head with his gun. “Now…why don’t I help you get settled in? I can make dinner, if you’d like.”

“Stay right there.” Thatcher ordered. “…Don’t move.”

“Oh…I suppose I can chat for a little while longer.” The alternate sat back down, staring up at Thatcher’s face, its own expression not changing even slightly. “Though please…I’d like this to be quick.”

“Where…is…Ruth.” Thatcher repeated, his voice more intense than before.

“…You two came at such a perfect time.” The alternate ignored the question asked. “She just wanted some visitors; she’s going to need the company before she sleeps.”

“…She? Who the hell is She?”

The figure chuckled before looking around. “Look around you, Davis. She’s the walls, the floors, the ceiling…she’s made a Home for you, one that welcomes all…even you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You’re so tense…I figured the concept of a place that’ll accept all company would be…relaxing.” The alternate stated. “I imagine a place that won’t judge you based on your faults would sound inviting for a man like you.”

Thatcher remained in a confused, horrified silence before the alternate stood up. “You know…you remind me of a story I heard once…one of a man named Icarus.”

Thatcher didn’t respond, wordless as the alternate continued. "Ever hear the tale of Icarus? The one who flew too close to the sun...whose hubris became his downfall? Burned, and fell all the way down.”

The figure chuckled, though it sounded more like a wheeze, before continuing. “It's funny. You feel like you can save everyone, don't you? If you just fly a little bit farther, you can keep everyone in this town safe? You've saved Dave. Ruth that one instance. However, you failed to save some. Ones that haunt your conscious despite never meeting them. Is that not why you’re here? To try and save those you failed to protect?”

            The figure stared into Thatcher’s face, leaning in closer before he muttered, “Believing you can save everyone will cause you to fall, and I have to ask you, Mr. Davis. Is your case one of flying too close to the sun? Or not flying far enough?"

Thatcher glanced behind him, seeing the front door and living room before staring the alternate in the eye. Thatcher stared into the pure black pupil of the alternate’s bloodshot eye in silence, before slowly and shakily pointing his gun at the figures leg and pulling the trigger.

The alternate didn’t scream, but fell to the ground on its injured knee, looking down at the steadily bleeding wound as Thatcher ran into the main living room. He reached for the front door, attempting to pull it open only to see that it was jammed shut. He backed away, looking back at the alternate to see it stumbling back to its feet, its joints clicking and cracking with every movement. Thatcher turned towards the couch sitting in front of the large window, seeing a small table resting beside it. He scrambled towards it, grasping it by its legs and throwing it as hard as he could into the window.

The glass shattered as the table careened through it, with the alternate beginning to scream behind Thatcher as he began to vault over it. “NO, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE…WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?!” Thatcher placed his hand on the windowsill, hopping outside as fast as he could, trying to ignore the burning feeling he assumed was from cutting his fingers open with the shards of glass leftover. However, he found he couldn’t move his hand as soon as he was outside, letting out a pained yell as he looked back to see what it was caught on. Two of his fingers were fused with the windowsill itself.

Melted skin and veins attached the fingertips and the entirety of his ring and pinkie finger on his right hand to the House, being immobile despite how many times Thatcher attempted to separate himself from it. He turned his head around, seeing the alternate staring  back at him, for once without the smile on its face. Thatcher saw no choice; he had to force himself off of the windowsill, so he took in a deep breath, jerked his hand away once with no success. He tried to free himself by ripping his arm away from the window, feeling his shoulder tear and his fingers dislocate with every tug. He tried to pull his hand away once, then twice, then three times—

CRACK.

Thatcher screamed, not daring to look at his hand as he scrambled towards the police car on the side of the road; away from that damned house. He swung open the driver’s side door with his left hand, holding his right, rapidly bleeding hand close to his chest as he hopped into the car and started it after fumbling with the key for a second. He placed his clammy, trembling left hand onto the steering wheel, all before hesitantly holding up his right to see it.

The fingers that were stuck on the windowsill were missing.

He couldn’t calm his breathing as much as he tried, instead focusing on not vomiting as he drove away, using only his left hand to do so as he could barely feel anything in his right hand other than agonizing pain. He couldn’t even think properly, his mind going too fast to pick out anything from the mess. He muttered under his breath as he escaped, only worrying about one thing.

“I’ll come back…I’ll get help, Ruth, I will…I will…” He gasped. “I’ll get help…just…sit tight…I’ll be there.” He paused to take in another pained gasp.

“I’ll be there.”

October 6th, 1992. 12:00 PM.

Thatcher’s finger prosthetics itched.

He had been scratching the skin around it the entire day, with the skin in that area becoming red from it. He almost wished he could simply not wear them, but the new scars and the fact that he was missing fingers in general made him keep them on. As he sat, hunched over outside of the church auditorium, he stared blankly at the floor. He was wearing a black suit and tie, his hair being barely considered neat. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall made him sick, though it was better than the sound of people talking in hushed and somber tones around him. If anything, the distracting ticking helped him, if only a little, forget that he was there for a reason. A funeral.

No body was found yet the bastards decided to pronounce Ruth dead. Thatcher had told them Ruth wasn’t confirmed to have passed whatsoever, and could still be out there, yet they didn’t listen. Maybe the cost of a funeral was cheaper than the cost of sending more officers to the scene to get potentially killed. No matter the reason, Thatcher felt a deep hatred in his heart, past all the pain and sadness. How could they? They acted as if she wasn’t a person, only another fucking statistic. Though what was the worst part?

Thatcher could’ve prevented it.

How stupid was he to bring Ruth into danger again? Did he truly believe he would be as lucky as he was last time? Ruth was gone because Thatcher ran away. He was a coward; the very thing he feared becoming the most.

The bells tolled. Service was starting.

Thatcher sighed deeply, standing up before walking into the auditorium, not once looking up as he joined his fellow officers in the pews. He couldn’t bear to look at the casket in front of him, nor the photo of Ruth put up next to it as he sat on the cold wooden bench alone. He stared at his feet, absentmindedly scratching his knuckles with his dirty nails. He could barely think, his mind blank and his expression dead. He could barely even process what was being said by both the priest and whoever was giving the eulogy, simply staring forward before he finally looked at the casket. He knew it was empty, and somehow that made everything feel worse.

He looked to the right, noticing members of Ruth’s family sitting on the opposite side of the church. Parents sobbing, uncles and aunts mourning in silence, however the sight of little Amelia Weaver, sitting with her family, being embraced by her grandfather in an attempt to comfort her, made Thatcher’s heart heavier than a ton of bricks. She was so young, yet she was losing her only parent. Thatcher silently apologized to her, mentally telling her how sorry he was that he failed to protect her mother. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything out loud, with his throat tight and his chest tense. He turned back towards the casket, blankly staring at it as he wondered what would’ve been different if they never went to that House. Maybe she’d still be around. Maybe Thatcher wouldn’t have been a filthy coward.

Someone was walking down the aisle as Thatcher looked back down towards the ground, the person clad in a police uniform staring at Thatcher as he thought to himself. Thatcher listened to the words the priest was saying, though as the seconds ticked by his words became nothing but muffled speech in Thatcher’s mind. Thatcher heard the clock ticking again, this time giving him a headache that worsened with every tick. He kept scratching at his hand, not even noticing the thin, red lines his nails left behind. The figure in the aisle slowly walked towards Thatcher, soon standing directly behind him. Thatcher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, looking up at the casket before he felt a hand be placed on his shoulder.

He flinched, turning around to see no one in the pew behind him. The sound of the clock was quiet again, barely audible. He stared down at his now bleeding hand, seeing the scratches he dug in his own skin that were bleeding ever so slightly. He let out a shaky breath as he covered his face, wanting nothing more than the service to be over.

Thatcher stayed behind even when the service was over and done with, staring blankly at the casket as if he was incapable of leaving. Even Ruth’s family had left a little while before, but Thatcher simply couldn’t make himself follow them out the door. He sighed deeply, standing up and grabbing a metal folding chair he saw leaning against the wall before placing it in front of the casket, sitting down on top of it in silence before he spoke.

“…I don’t think you can hear me, but…I guess this is for more my peace of mind.” Thatcher muttered, his voice raspier than usual. “…I’m sorry. I can’t even convey how sorry I am.” He let out a brief, forced scoff. “God…I’m fucking pathetic. You’re probably looking down at me…laughing at how God damn stupid I am.”

Thatcher paused, forcing out his words after a few moments of silence. “I failed you. I failed you twice…and…now…you’re gone.” He stifled a sob. “…All because I was scared. You’re dead because I was too fucking scared to protect you. What kind of fucking cop am I? I can’t even protect the people that actually fucking matter.” Thatcher looked up at Ruth’s picture, her smile feeling sunny, though it didn’t help the cloud of guilt over Thatcher’s head.

“If you’re still out there…” Thatcher muttered under his breath. “…I’ll find you. I don’t want forgiveness, I just…I…I-I just…want you here.” He grasped his hair as he hunched over, trying to hold in sobs as tears ran down his face. “I just need you here…”

“Mr. Davis?”

The sound of a deep voice behind it caused Thatcher to turn around, its eyes red from crying. It was Dave, standing in the aisle, staring back at Thatcher with a look of worry in his eyes. He was wearing tinted glasses, along with a black suit, though it was missing a tie. He limped over to Thatcher, supporting himself with the metal cane under his right hand as he approached the lieutenant.

“What.” Thatcher growled, not in the mood to talk.

“I just…wanted to…offer my condolences.” Dave stated quietly. “…I know how close you were to her. She…she was a good woman.”

“…She was.”

Dave looked away for a second, seemingly to think. “…Y’know, I’m…always available to talk.” He said. “I mean…it’s the least I can do.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that.” Dave said. “I know you’re not…and you know what? That’s okay. You need time to…mourn. I don’t think you should be so hard on yoursel—”

“Leave me alone.”

Dave became silent, staring at Thatcher as it looked away, once again staring at the casket with a dead look in its eyes. Dave sighed quietly before speaking again.

“If you need anything…just ask.”

With that, Dave began to walk away, leaving Thatcher by himself once again. It clasped its hands together hard enough to hurt, feeling like he had run out of tears to cry. He shook his head, standing up as he stared down at the casket in front of him. He placed a hand on the wood, standing in silence before whispering, “I’ll find you, alright? I promise.”

Thatcher hesitantly left the casket behind, putting his hands in his jacket pockets before walking down the aisle, finally leaving the church through the front door. His guilt couldn’t be described in words, and the emotions he felt clouding his mind were too much to handle, but one thing rang out from his mind, more than everything else; anger, both towards himself and the police station for deeming Ruth a lost cause. He was going to find Ruth, dead or alive. He made a promise, after all.

Until we meet again, Ruth.

#the mandela catalogue #mandela catalogue #tmc #tmc home sweet home au #hsh thatcher #hsh ruth #Leah Heathcliff (tmc) #arthur heathcliff (tmc) #host (hsh) #Home (tmc) #body horror #injury tw #blood tw #gore tw #character death tw #shmorp writes sometimes #tell me if I failed to tag anything!! #Wowee. the horrors sure can horror huh. #Won't say much else. the fic speaks for itself I believe :)

[mustangs-flames]

HELLO SO I HAVENT BEEN ABLE TO GET THIS OUT OF MY HEAD-

What would have happened if the cameras werent on. Like. If Thatcher hadnt caught Cesar. Like-

WHAT THEN

Also if its not a lot what exactly do you mean with Mark half-living with Thatcher?

If Thatcher had never caught onto the consistencies of the crime scene and hadn't taken them more seriously than the rest of the MCPD (we'll be seeing how many cover-ups go on in a part about Thatcher later in the AU), he likely wouldn't have mentioned it to Mark and Mark would've still found Cesar's behaviour strange, but in no way more meaningful than "it must be the M.A.D the EMTs were talking about". However, the jig would've still been up when the deer alternate returned as it planned on pushing alt!Cesar into reaccepting what he was (which we see in ch.6 when alt!Cesar takes on a more eldritch/horrifying form and seems to forget who Mark is in favour of being so hungry). Alt!Cesar still would've come to his senses and defended Mark though and as for how Mark would've reacted? I don't know... But Mark certainly wouldn't have known who to turn to if Thatcher had never said anything because it was during that aside in his office that he gave Mark his personal phone number in case he ever needed help (because he knew the MCPD wouldn't answer an alternate attack call).

As for your other question! Post 'Its Name Was Cesar Torres' and '10:15, Saturday Night', Mark ends up crashing at Thatcher's apartment for a while. When Mark eventually moves back to his own home, Thatcher still has a spare key cut and a bedroom set up for Mark in case he ever needs it. Usually, Mark stays over when he's feeling pretty vulnerable and overwhelmed by everything that's happened to him, but he also starts staying after "jobs" out around Mandela County (you know, doing his 'saintly duties' in God's name) so he just sort of ends up half-living with Thatcher - especially during long stints where he's recovering from another injury that lands him in the hospital. And Thatcher honestly doesn't mind, because if Mark is at his apartment then it means he's safe and where Thatcher can keep an eye on him.

#hail true body au #htb mark #htb thatcher #mustang answers!

[fostopia]

hi resident dave fan here. can i hear about dave and sarah 👁👁

THIS IS SO LONG IM SO SORRY

Hello there dear resident Dave fan, here’s your silly content of our favorite uncle and this time— his niece.

Starting off with them as a duo!

Dave met Sarah a few years before Mark’s death when she was two (1991). He was utterly clueless about her even existing due to having gone low contact with the Heathcliff adults [who are not great parents here] after Mark had been shipped off to another side of Mandela by them to live with extended family [due to their inability to provide him the help he needed with his PTSD] before he later emancipating himself (he was 16, going off of Google for some emancipation shtuff). He only learns about her through him and man, was he excited about another child in the family.

Dave was also not told about Sarah due to the Heathcliff wanting to avoid him ‘corrupting’ her as he ‘had with Mark’ religious transphobia yk yk

The two bonded immediately, but after Mark’s passing that relationship grows stronger. They both missed him, and having one another to share that grief helped them both. Sarah needed a parental figure to provide support to her and Dave took that role with open arms.

Sarah ends up in Dave’s care when she turns 14 due to an issue with her parents [she would’ve tried to emancipate herself, but Dave stepped forward and offered a place to call home] and he raises her from there on teaching her how to care for herself for when she moves out as well. He meets Jonah and Adam during this time too. She moves out at 18 but stays in Bythorne, and often visits him in her free time. He taught her most of what she knows and although they’ve never viewed their connection as a father/daughter one, Sarah gives Dave more credit as her father than her bio one.

NOW

On their own, Dave’s story aligns with his canon one, however instead of ending up going to see "O’Brien" for the church job offer, he ends up sticking with his own work. Much to Gabriel’s dismay but, what can ya do? He’s semi-active in Sarah’s life but tries to avoid most public interaction due to the whole deal with BPS— both to avoid her and the other two being arrested and himself due to affiliation. Dave does not have contact with his sister and her husband anymore, refusing to acknowledge them as family after all their insensitivity and Asshole behavior. He blames them for Mark’s death, they don’t seem to care that he does either.

Real quick character information as I had done in my first post.

[Dave- he/him - ASD - American ; Dave is 49 in this au but looks mid 30’s at most, takes decent care of himself.]

-

Sarah’s information is on the first post ab Tethered but for here-

Sarah’s freshly four when Mark and Cesar die, and so she doesn’t remember much of it at the time but as she grows the memories get clearer and man, does she mourn hard; Dave provides many stories about Mark that make her all but wish he were back so she could experience him as a proper older brother. She moves in with Dave at 13 and creates BPS when she’s a freshman, and it started as a school club; she meets Jonah and Adam while she’s a sophomore and the two join BPS. She graduates at 17 [early graduation due to summer courses and other things; unlike the other two who drop out] and her focus turns to primarily BPS as things get a lot more heated and— well, illegal. She doesn’t need to get a proper job as her biological parents end up paying for her house and most commodities she needs; trying to buy her love [she acts like it’s working, in reality could give a rats ass about them]

She manages to keep herself off the FBI and police radar due to not doing the physical work herself— sticking to the online work although she had been involved in the theft of the GPS and other banned items. The two boys constantly use her house as a safe haven when they get the chance, and Sarah keeps an eye on the police to give them warnings on when they need to be on the move. She views them both as [annoying] younger brothers, commonly mirroring Jonah’s energy while simultaneously being just as fiery and irritable as Adam. When she first meets Cesar and Mark against she flips her shit over two genuine ghosts before realizing who they were and promptly crying. She missed them okay?

Oh, dumb fun fact, Sarah took in Mark’s old cat, Soup, when he passed. Soup’s and old, fat orange tabby that wobbles around and likes everybody but Adam.

#the mandela catalogue #tethered au #tethered together #tmc tethered au #c doodles #dave lee #my art #tmc dave #tmc dave lee #tmc sarah heathcliff #tmc sarah #cutely gives characters religious trauma #c answers #Dave did break in #but in his defense #he’s Dave #ALSO #Dave is American and so is his sister [the Heathcliff mom] #Sarah and Mark’s dad is Filipino #which is why they are Filipino but Dave isn’t

[trashyreptilian]

Heya! Hope you’re having an Amazing day/evening/noon/night! If not; that’s okay!

I wanted to ask you; do you have any headcanons for Cesar if you don’t mind me asking of course!

Eyy hello! I'm having a good evening and I hope the same for you whether or not it's evening at your place~

To answer your question, I do indeed have some headcanons to share! ;> AGAIN, these are all written for my AU so keep that in mind while reading,,

Headcanons for Cesar Torres:

-While Mark is more of an introvert, Cesar is the complete opposite. From his fancy appearance, you wouldn't really think that he was a chaotic extrovert, now would you? While he may be a little all over the place, he makes up with his friendly attitude towards others. He prefers being around people rather than alone by himself. (I got inspired by the irl face portraying Cesar in the series, Andrew Long. From the few livestream clips I saw, he's so goofy lmao,,)

-Theater kid, no doubt about it. Don't know why but he gives off the vibes to me. Some of my fanfic readers might have noticed that Cesar goes to an after-school drama club. It's pretty much the only thing he looks forward to after classes. He likes to be expressive as possible whenever he's on stage, intentionally over-dramatic with his acting. The club loves him for that. Naturally, like probably most theater kids, he's got a singing voice and he uses that to annoy the fuck out of Mark by bursting out into song at the most random times. Hit em' when they least expect it.

-Cesar is Hispanic. His family being of Latin American descent, living in the US. He can speak fluent Spanish while American English is his second language. To add, he's bilingual. If I were to list a quick quirk, sometimes he forgets a word in English and you might hear him curse out under his breath in Spanish due to frustration. (I've seen a few people give a similar headcanon and I'm joining in,,)

-A great cook, whenever he has the time you'll find him in the kitchen whipping up some tasty meals. Has a fairly refined palette as well, he hates processed and frozen foods. However, he's a terrible baker. Cesar finds little enjoyment in the more precise measurements when it comes to baking. Don't be surprised if his pastries are messy or that his cookies are burnt.

-There's barely any info on Cesar's parents in the canon series but I'm revealing this anyway. In the AU, Cesar's parents work in the airline industry. His father is an airline pilot while his mother, a flight attendant. While they make good money, they're not as present in their son's life. Because of the round-the-clock nature of the industry, they often have to work evenings, weekends, and holidays. Cesar has grown accustomed to taking care of himself, but that doesn't necessarily mean that he likes it.

-You've seen him in his iconic black suit but that isn't the only tuxedo he's got in his wardrobe. Some of the suits in his collection are fashionable, ranging in colors from white to darker shades of brown and red, but he's also got, less than respectable, multicolored suits. Ones that hurt your eyes just by looking.

#best friend au #alternate universe #the mandela catalogue #cesar torres #asks

[yes-i-have-thoughts]

Start Digging Two Graves

Another thing for the Alt AU by @shmorp-mcdurgen ! May or may not be a semi-continuation of ‘Eye for an Eye’ It’s probably a little off-canon; but I don’t pay much attention to Gabriel’s little canon bits and bobs and it’s now coming back to bite me

(Also I did my best to accurately portray OCD here. I apologize in advance for anything I may have gotten wrong or any backhanded representation.)

SUMMARY: Gabriel semi-officially meets the rest of B.P.S. for the first time. Cesar at least tries to be affable, Sarah...Does not. Alternatively: Local Non-Binary Lieutenant gets their Pride Kicked to Shit by a Seething Young Adult with a grudge, more at 12

TW: LOSS OF A LIMB, MENTION OF BLOOD, MENTIONS OF A CORPSE BEING EATEN, MENTION OF A CAR ACCIDENT, METAPHORICAL BURN WOUND. This once again sounds worse than it actually is.

‘Huh. I didn’t know he had a cat.’ The cat loafed on the coffee table just within eyesight, seemingly unaware of the lieutenant’s pale blue eyes on it. Its tail was swishing slightly as it looked everywhere but at them.

“Not good with strangers, eh?”

That got the cat’s attention. Gabriel started to hold one of their hands out to it, only to end up looking like a fool due to their newfound lack of one. Still, the cat sat up and leaned foreword to sniff at the stump where their arm now ended.

“Now you’re friendly.” Gabriel carefully sat up and rested their chin in their hand. “Weren’t interested in me until you smelled blood? You’re a bit twisted.”

The cat blinked at them. It leaned out again to sniff the stump some more when a sound made it jerk its head back and strain its ears. Gabriel didn’t have to strain theirs to hear the same sound-someone was at the front door. How long were they out?

The cat jumped off the coffee table and made its way out in a happy bounce. Gabriel watched it go before leaning their head back and listening to the voices coming from the entrance.

“Hello, kitty!” One cooed. “I didn’t see you this morning! Are you hungry?”

“I wonder if he’ll eat the lieutenant,” another one added.

“Don’t even joke about that.”

“What? I’m just saying. Cats eat humans when they think they’re dead, don’t they?”

“They’re about as likely to as dogs are.”

The second voice feigned a gasp. “Cesar, you take that back! Puppies would never do that.”

“Neither would cats,” Cesar shot back in a playfully snide voice.

The argument was dropped with no apparent winner due to Cesar walking into the living room and almost dropping the cat now in his arms when he saw Gabriel. “OH-jeez, you scared me. Good morning, again. How do you feel?”

Gabriel shrugged, then gestured to the cat. “It’s yours?”

“Yeah, this is-this is Jonny.” Cesar crouched to put the cat down and brushed cat hair off his shirt. “He’s my...Therapy cat.”

A person with long brown hair poked her head into the room. Gabriel went a little on guard when her expression went from curious to murderous.

“So.” She leaned against the entranceway and crossed her arms. “You’re awake.”

Cesar sighed. “Don’t start...”

“What? I can’t comment on the appearance of things?”

He shot the long-haired person a glare. She stuck her tongue out in response and brushed past him to practically collapse into the ratty-looking armchair across the room. “Why’s he-”

“They.”

“Why’re they still here, anyway?” For someone who clearly didn’t like Gabriel, this person at least had the decency to switch pronouns. “I thought Seth was, you know, going to take ‘em to the bloody hospital so we don’t have to worry about the cops breaking down our fuckin’ door.”

“Maybe he’s not up yet, Sarah,” Cesar said with a shrug. “So be a little more welcoming, would you?”

Sarah make a “blah blah blah” motion with her hand. Cesar picked up a nearby pillow and threw it at her.

“I’m sorry about her.” He sat next to Gabriel and clearly made an effort to meet their eyes, though it didn’t appear to be easy. “She, ah...Doesn’t like you very well.”

“You don’t say.”

Cesar winced. Jonny meandering over made him pick him up and set him on his lap. The longer Gabriel watched the cat rub his head against Cesar and purr, the less skeptical they were of his therapy animal status.

A pillow suddenly smacked into Gabriel, startling Jonny off Cesar’s lap. Sarah looked away innocently when Cesar snapped at her. “What the fuck, Sarah?!”

“You’re the one who gave me ammunition,” she replied in a sing-song voice.

“He threw a pillow at you.” Gabriel pointedly ignored Cesar whispering for them to “not push her buttons” as they tossed the pillow aside and roughly wiped off their hand on the couch (which did nothing. They still felt the germs there. Note to self: learn to wash your hands when you’ve only got one.). “And it sounds more and more like it was deserved.”

“I’ll fucking tell you what was deserved, you self-important pompous son of a-”

“Hot chocolate!” Cesar stood up suddenly, a clearly fake smile on his face. “Who wants some hot chocolate? I could really go for some, it’s cold as Hell outside!”

“No no, let her finish.” Gabriel crossed their arm and leaned back against the couch. “What were you saying about me, little girl?”

If looks could kill, they would be dead. Sarah leaned forward in her chair and was practically baring her teeth. “I know who deserves what, pal.”

“Do you.”

“Maybe with marshmallows?” Cesar suggested weakly.

“I know that you deserve whatever’s coming for you. I know that my brother deserved more of a life to live. He would have been thirty this year if you incompetent bastards didn’t brush him under the rug like he meant nothing.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about-”

“Oh I’ll bet you don’t.” Sarah dropped her chin into her hand. “You never do, do you? No one over there has any idea what’s happening half the time, and during the other half you throw people under the bus to save your own sorry skins when you know damn well you’re supposed to protect us.”

That hit a nerve. “I don’t expect you to know that we are as lost as anyone, but that doesn’t mea-”

“Oh, sure!” Sarah waved her hand. “You have no idea what’s going on. That’s why you’re always the first at the scene, right?”

“How about extra cocoa?” Cesar tried again, now tugging on his bangs. Gabriel would be sympathetic-he was trying to establish some peace, after all-but their pride doesn’t take a beating lying down.

“I wasn’t the lieutenant of the force at the time. Stop. Blaming. Me.”

“You still could have done something.”

“I didn’t even know that he was-”

“I’ll bet you didn’t! Did you not know about Cesar? Huh? When he got into that fucking car crash that was caused by one of those damn creatures, when he tried to call for help-did you not know about that either?”

“Sarah, I get that you’re angry.” Cesar had clearly given up trying to sooth both adults’ nerves, seeing as his voice was now low and shaky. “But don’t bring me into this as ammo.”

Sarah looked ready to snap at him before she caught herself and ran her fingers through her hair, wincing at her behavior. “Shit. I’m sorry, Ces.”

A heavy yet awkward silence fell before Cesar left, presumably to actually make the hot chocolate he was promising earlier. Gabriel, for their part, felt a little like Sarah had ripped a Band-Aid off a burn wound and put a lighter to it.

Their genuine confusion had done nothing to sway her. She was going on about things they had no idea of. And Cesar physically looked pretty damn fine for someone who supposedly got into a car wreck.

But then there was the fact that he wouldn’t look Gabriel in the eye for longer than a second. The scar on the back of his hand that ended somewhere under his sleeve. Jonny the cat’s existence, the need for a therapy animal at all, Sarah bringing it up being the final nail in the coffin for his patience-what the Hell went on in this county that they didn’t know about? Were these recent events?

Jonny mrrping at Gabriel pulled them from their thoughts. The cat nosed his way under their hand and curled up in their lap. The cat hair that came off onto their hand made them want to claw their skin offl, but they didn’t have the heart to shove the cat off them.

Not when Sarah was glaring at them out of the corner of her eye again.

‘Greer had better wake up soon.’

#Lieutenant Gabriel #Cesar Torres #Sarah Heathcliff #TMC #the mandela catalogue #El writes

[treatsf]

MANDELA STARS BELOW LORE!!!

Hello! I know that none of my followers have a flying fuck what Stars Below is, other than the stuff relating to it I've reblogged, BUT!! I have an AU that's a crossover of both it and Mandela Catalogue, my main interest A lot of the terms I use here probably won't make sense to someone not aware of the series, so here are some resources! https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFiR8xHGAPZKhnb-PdD-6Gz6pc1CWg4kM&si=zsR-MuiCCJ1MCILw https://toyhou.se/21038090.wip-kraizen-vani-species https://the-forever-ocean.fandom.com/wiki/The_Forever_Ocean_Wiki Now, for the Google doc, explaining the lore of the Main Four Victims (+ other snippets)! This thing will hopefully be updated at least semi-often, but there aren't any guarantees. I'll also copy and paste the information under the cut if one doesn't want to look at the Google Doc. Thank you!

MARK. AKA: VICTIM 1. (Second event chronologically): 

(TW: Vol 1, Suicide, Genocide, Religious Themes)

Mark Christian Heathcliff was always very religious. He lived a relatively normal life, however. Until he… well, one night, while his family was away, he was called to the forest in the middle of the night, where he found… Gabriel. A 50 foot BEHEMOTH of a creature, nothing like Mark had ever seen before. So, naturally, he decided that this was god. Or the devil, he wasn’t quite sure. Though, when it introduced itself as “Gabriel”, Mark decided that it was the former. So, when “God” told him that he was going to help him “rid humans of their suffering”, he was compliant. Even when that involves killing entire cities with giant light beams. If this was what “God” wanted, Mark would comply. He ended up moving to a house near the woods, away from society so that he wasn’t arrested for his crimes.

One day, however, he received… a phone call. From his friend Cesar? Cesar had gone missing a few months prior, so Mark was rightfully confused about what was going on. Though, when the man explained that he needed Mark to come and turn in his security cameras, he was hesitant, but willing after further discussion. Nothing could go wrong, right?

As Mark drove home from the Torres residence, it was quickly apparent that he had been followed. By.. well, “Cesar”, and an entity named N. The two locked him into his room for three days, where he subsequently took his life after enough mental torment. However, he was seemingly… “resurrected” by the powers N possessed, turning into a “Shadow” (a zombie), and securing Gabriel’s spot on earth. Because, by a technicality, Mark was not dead.

TL;DR: “HOLY FUCK IS THAT GOD????!!!!!! oh wait no I’m a zombie now”

-

CESAR. AKA: VICTIM TWO. (First event chronologically):

(TW: Vol 1, Dehumanization)

Cesar Torres was, well… there’s not a lot known about the real Cesar (as well as the majority of victims of the Shadow; it seems preexisting memories of these people from the ones closest to them have all been erased.) All that we’re aware of is that, one night, Cesar went… missing. In reality, he was “kidnapped” by N, who turned him into a “Patient 0” of sorts for N’s power, which is the ability to turn people into zombie-like entities called Shadows, which basically just corrupt someone and turn them into a version of them with their worst traits. For example, someone with anger issues would become volatile after being Shadowed, anger being their main, and only, emotion. At least, if they’re alive when they’re turned, of course; those who are turned after their deaths become your textbook zombie, at least mentally. 

However, Cesar was… different. Unlike a majority of the other Shadows, he maintained some sort of control of himself, even if he was fully turned. He was tasked, at least for a while, of being the “Commander” of the Shadows, considering N’s lack of ability to do that for… a variety of reasons. So, the shadowed part of Cesar did just that; corrupted people into shadows, amassing a large army of soldiers for the Mercy Mission, despite the real Cesar’s constant fight for control. He was even responsible for his best friends death at one point, though he did also bring the man back to life in the same instant. 

Legend says that Cesar is still active today, lurking in the shadows and observing the events unfolding in 2009 with a sharp eye, reporting his findings to his new master and leader, Gabriel. 

TL;DR: Man becomes a zombie shadow thing with a conscience and does Alt!Cesar like things… wuh oh

-

ADAM. AKA: VICTIM THREE. (Third event chronologically):

(TW: Adams Childhood, Vol 2, Vol 4, Catalyst, Presto, Sadism, Genocide, Radiation Poisoning, Death, Gore)

Adam Icarus Murray has always been tied to the Vani in one way or the other. When he was about three or four, both of his parents— Lynn and Jude Murray— were killed by Gabriel in his attack, and instead of being distraught like a normal human would, Adam was fascinated. The idea that any entity had the sheer power to kill thousands of people in the blink of an eye didn’t scare him, no; he was enthralled by it. He felt an inherent connection to these beings, and from then on, he became obsessed. Though, he usually kept this obsession to himself.

That was until one Sarah Heathcliff founded the “Bythorne Vani Society”— or just the Bythorne Vani Club at the time. Adam and Sarah used to go on missions together, but after an unnamed event, Sarah stopped, forcing Adam to find someone else to go on missions with him instead. And the person he chose was his childhood “friend” Jonah Marshall. Jonah had some sort of idea of what happened with Adams parents, so they were somewhat aware of Adams interest, but they didn’t know the pure extent to which it went.

The longer Adam and Jonah stayed in BVS, the deeper Adam dug himself into his obsession. Sure, the blond always had a fascination with the Vani, but never to the extreme he was in. Jonah attempted to pull the man back from the quickly approaching insanity he was digging himself into, but all attempts failed as Adam “came closer to the truth.”

One day, Adam found… a house. A house that had been rumored to be the old residency of one of the old Tethers— Cesar, was his name? Adam wasn’t sure. All he knew is that the house was calling him, and that to not go in was to risk everything. Jonah said the house scared the shit out of them, and they refused to go in, much to the blonds chagrin. Adam stays in the house for three days, Vol 2 argument happens, yadda yadda.

Jonah’s side of the story is for another day, but as for Adam? He finds exactly what he had been looking for all this time. In the basement of that house was a Vani who called itself “Six”, and it wanted Adam to help him. The man, now completely disconnected from reality, says yes, after very minor amounts of pushback. As it turns out, the reason the Vani kill is because of something called the “Mercy Mission”— or the belief that life is suffering, and that the only release from it is death.— Adam instantly believes in this narrative, as well as also… secretly having the innate desire to kill just for the fun of it, just like his Vani.

Each Vani has an Sembla (Element), and Six’s is Radiation. He can manipulate electromagnetic waves, and, well… give people radiation. A lot of the Vani also have certain items, called Amplifiers, which are modified technology from another race called the Omni that help them… kill people. Six’s is this suit that allows its wearer to go through electromagnetic waves, which basically makes it so they can transport through screens and the like.

Adam, after a quick walk with his new Vani to find the van Jonah had crashed, makes it back to his house. Immediately, he makes a video and posts it to the BVS YouTube channel, basically explaining how he had just found a real life Vani, and how all of his research and time spent trying to prove the existence of these beasts has been proven correct. What the viewer didn’t know, however, is that this video was simply a conduit for Adam, with the Amplifier Six gave him, to go through their computer screen and drag them into it, killing them from the amount of radiation after a certain point— vaporizing them, basically.

The first victim of this was Adams own boss, Sarah. However, because of the fact this was his first time, he grabbed her by her arm instead of her shoulders, which allows Sarah to escape with-… major injury in the process. Adam quickly learns from this mistake, however, and very little to no victims have escaped him after this event.

The one set back is that doing this isn’t very healthy for humans, and Adam soon starts getting mutations. At first he gets lumps on his head, which quickly turn to things that look like cat ears. Then, his nose changes to be more animalistic, and he grows whisker-like hairs on his cheeks. Finally, he grows a tail with a hand at the end, which acts almost like another limb entirely. His insanity has also been pushed even farther by the nuclear exposure, and instead of being horrified by these new growths, he is delighted. He is becoming closer to the Vani, is he not?

However, with these “up sides” come… very obvious side effects. He becomes weaker; he feels sick a lot more, and his teeth and bones start to ache and even fall out. Despite this obvious radiation poisoning, he continues. His brain has been altered too much to fully understand what was happening to him, however, and he goes on, despite Six’s minor amounts of protest.

No human body can be subject to the amount of radiation Adam has been subject to and still live, including Adam himself. After a few months of this, his body completely gives up on him. He falls, sitting in front of his nightstand, completely unable to get up. He can feel his bones rotting away and breaking. It’s excruciating. Sores have been appearing on his body, and all he wants to do is pick them until they bleed, but he can’t even move his arms up to do so. He tries to scream for someone to help him, anyone, but the pain is so bad that even so much as opening his mouth is a challenge.

Finally, after days of this torture, Adams jaw… falls clean off his face, along with whatever parts of his throat and esophagus that are left. This, of course, kills the blond, but instead of feeling death as a good thing, he realized how painful it was, how excruciating it was— it wasn’t mercy! He believed so much in the “Mercy Mission” he was told about that, when his death felt like it did the opposite of release him from the “pains of life”, that broke him in some way. It was a lie served up to him on a silver platter that he immediately fell into, and formed part of his identity around. But it was fake. It wasn’t true. And now he was going to die a fraud.

Right before his death, he felt a presence, but he couldn’t tell who or what it was until it was the last thing he saw. But, as he soon realizes, the thing was there to… save him. He was alive again, almost a squid jog as he was killed. He didn’t know whether this was punishment for what he had done— even if he didn’t exactly regret it— or charity work. He was a shadow now, but with one key difference: he could control himself. He had already become the worst parts of himself, so mentally, there was very little change.

Soon enough, Adam is found by someone. By one… Thatcher Davis. He is referred to as “Victim Three”, which angers him: he isn’t a victim! Or, well, he was, but more so because he was victim of being shadowed, and not that he was a “victim of the Vani”, or whatever. After being taken to their base, he was put into questioning, where he was forced to explain what happened and why he did what he did. And, seeing no other option, he did exactly that.

Now, he has been put into captivity by the Main Party, having an agreement with the four that he could stay if he helped them and gave them the relevant information when asked. He doesn’t fully like this agreement, but it was better than becoming “just another Shadow”, so he complies. Even if two of the people he was now put under were his biggest enemies.

TL;DR: Who knew the orphan obsessed with Vani would go on to believe in the Vani's mission and kill people??? Also he’s really radioactive. And dead. Oh wait nvm, he isn’t anymore. And now he’s caged up.

-

JONAH. AKA: VICTIM FOUR. (Fourth event chronologically):

(TW: Vol 2, Toxic Relationships, Kidnapping, Hostage Situations, Drug Addiction, Dehumanization, Torture, Religious Themes, Genocide)

Jonah Edmund Marshall was… well, a normal guy. His mother was turned to Shadow, but other than that, he was largely unaffected by the Vani crisis. However, his best friend, Adam, was… at the complete opposite side of the spectrum, and after a while, invited Jonah to join this society called the “Bythorne Vani Society”, owned by one Sarah Heathcliff. Seeing as one of goals of BVS was to help people affected by the Vani crisis, and Jonah didnt exaclty mind helping people, he joined. Besides; It’d piss off his dad, Mervin, who wanted Jonah to stay as far away from Vani as possible (for mostly selfish reasons), so that was another plus.

The longer Adam and Jonah stayed in BVS, the longer Adam became… obsessed. Sure, Adam always had a fascination with the Vani, but never to this extreme. All of Jonah’s attempts to pull Adam away from his obsession were met with anger and rage, and the more and more Adam dug himself deeper into the hole of his past, the worse and worse Jonah began to feel, both mentally and physically, their jobs taking a hefty toll on the man.

One day, Adam found… a house. A house that had been rumored to be the old residency of one of the old Tethers— Cesar, was his name? Jonah wasn’t sure. All he knew is that the house scared the shit out of him, and he refused to go in. Adam, wanting to check the house out for a few nights, just to find evidence of Vani activity, stays in the house for three days. Queue Vol 2 argument, yadda yadda.

Adams side of the story is for another day, but as for Jonah? Well, he ended up crashing the van into a tree right outside of Mandela County after something had gotten into his radio speakers and began taunting him for “Leaving (Adam) behind.” Jonah fell into a coma, but was quickly found by… Preacher, his tether. This was all an elaborate scheme to trap the two tethers, it seemed.

After a few days, Jonah woke up in some sort of hideout. At first, he’s confused and disoriented, but he soon sees… something… in the corner of his eye. Something with the familiar Green, Blue, Violet, and Red patterning. Realizing what that is, he… freaks the fuck out. Rightfully, of course— he believed he was going to be killed by a Vani, the one thing he had ran away from!

Oh, if only.

Soon, after Jonah fully recovers and his mental state is “stabilized”, they’re forced by the Vani, which calls itself Preacher, to use a staff to go into people’s dreams and suck their life force. As it turns out, Preacher… believes herself to be a disciple of God, and Jonah as one of God's new apostles. She views these killings as “part of God’s plan”, and that Jonah has to be apart of it, whether he likes it or not. And Jonah-… well, Jonah hates it. Despises it, even. But he has no real way of escaping, so he just does as Preacher says.

The one reward Jonah gets from these killings are… Dreams. The dreams that Jonah takes from people are basically like drugs, and heavy ones too. He gets instantly hooked, now not able to leave not just because of the fact he was basically kidnapped and is now held hostage, but because he has gained a crippling addiction to a drug only Preacher can provide. Only death can provide.

However, after months of this torture, something finally… snaps, in Jonah. Maybe a stunning revelation, maybe the guilt stacking up too high, who knows. All we know is that Jonah made a plan. A plan that, in the end, worked. With the end part of Jonah’s staff, made out of a material called Vanium, which can pierce through a Vani’s brand, killing them, Jonah snuck into Preacher’s hiding spot in the middle of the night. Then, without warning, he killed her, and promptly escaped.

Jonah is now being treated for the severe addiction he gained and the countless mental issues the whole ordeal caused, and he ended up joining the “Main Party”, now trying to help them stop the Wisconsin Vani once and for all.

TL;DR: normal man turned monster hunter turned drug addicted killer turned good guy -

Sadly, most of the main cast don't have complete designs, other than Six, Adam, Preacher, and Jonah, So here they are!

#mandela stars below #mandela catalogue #the mandela catalogue #mandela catalog #tmc #jonah marshall #adam murray #mark heathcliff #cesar torres #stars below #kenopsia #vaniwo #faniwo #mandela catalogue au #tws in writing #tmc au #art #treatsf

[handbagman]

hi hello that jonah gets possessed post has taken hold of my brain and is now forcing me to make an au what have you done /j

combine that au with the idea that alternates are able to track and prey on their victims and you have a alternate cesar confused on why the guy he killed 20 years ago is back in the living world

#shibasks

[verobatto]

Destiel Chronicles

Vol. XCI

It was a love story from the very beginning.

Breaking Walls (Part. II)

(12x22)

Hello my friends! We are about to finish the metas from season 12.

This time we will talk about Leader!Sam and the Foreshadow of Healing!Dean from season 14.

Trapped

The episode opens with Sam, Dean and Toni locked inside the bunker, trying desperately to find a way out.

The curious point of it, is that they will try a spell to break free...

SAM: Seems like pretty basic ingredients. Nothing we don't already have. Oh. (...) The mechanisms “must be anointed with the blood of virgins.” (...) I mean, I've read half a dozen purification rituals in the last hour. If we used one of those on – on our blood...

DEAN: Then what? Revirginize it?

SAM: Maybe.

TONI: So we purify the blood, then do the spell.

Focusing on the symbolism here, first of all, the bunker becoming a trap, and the boys trying to scape from it, is a foreshadow of Dean trapped in his own body, possesed by AU!Michael. But then the spell they choose, need purity, virginity, clean blood.

Purity will be a relevant point in season 14 as the goal searched for AU!Michael and as a recalling to Purgatory, foreshadowing Purgatory 2.0 in season 15.

So when Toni says WE PURIFY THE BLOOD AND THEN DO THE SPELL, she's giving us the prelude for Healing!Dean in season 14. The path Dean will take to purify his soul, to really grow after being possesed, and facing himself. He will have to find his own in once to break free from Michael, and his emotional prison.

While talking about the way Dean had pictured his death, this is the face he made when they mentioned "blaze of glory"

Gif credit @jaredandjensen

Which is not the face you would do if you really wanted to die of that. Dean is, at this point, as he was in season 10, considering his options, he is growing up and the blasting idea of die as "blaze of glory" is not what he really wants for himself.

When we heard his confession in season 10 and then we saw him meeting Jesse and Cesar in Season 11, we can infer what's in his heart. What he really wants. Curiously, the topic of season 14.

The explosion Dean made on the wall to break free, is a symbolic representation of the big turning point in his life when he lost Castiel.

Breaking down the walls

The mention of Jericho at the beginning of the episode refers to "break down the walls".

Jericho's battle, described by the bible, was the first battle israelites to conquer Canaan. Jericho was powerfully guarded by wall, they were able to break down in the seventh day of the battle.

What this has to do with this episode? Well. Is an episode that shows us a lot of wall that fall and break down. First of all, the bunker becoming a prison, Dean broke the wall. Now is time to break emotional/psychological wall: when he gets inside Mary's mind, trying to reach her through a very emotional speech, he will be breaking those walls, and at the same time, he will be foreshadowing Cas and Sam getting inside his head to reach him, in his emotional prison in 14x09.

Dean reached Mary through family love, but it was necessary two kind of loves to break Dean's walls: Sam (family love) and Cas (romantic love) in season 14.

The speech Dean gave to his mom to reach her is the self knowledge about his traumas.

And because is a Berens episode, we have the parallels between scenes, to show us a message.

In one scene we have Sam trying to break down the walls of British Man of Letters to defeat them, guiding a team of hunters, foreshadowing his leadership in season 14.

And in the other scene, we have Dean trying to break down his mom's walls from her emotional prison.

Bot scenes interrelated with the profound meaning that will have Dean's possesion by AU!Michael.

The way Dean's speech to reach his mother is a reflection of his own self, is the perfect philosophical path he will take in season 14: Self discovering, self acceptance.

So, we can infer that the parallel between Sam's battle against BMoL is a reflection of Dean's battle to reach his mother, but at the same time, Dean's future inner battle to break free from his emotional prison.

Sam defeats and kills the head of BMoL, releasing the american hunter's from her. Just like Dean will release his mother from the mental control. And just like Dean will break free from his emotional prison in season 14.

Dean's self aknowledgment of his traumas

When Dean arrives to his mother's mind, he finds her younger, taking care of him and Sam before she died. Is a perfect (fake) world her own mind had created to keep her away from the reality, because the reality hurts. This is the perfect parallel to 14x09, when Sam and CAS find Dean in the Rocky's bar.

DEAN: Look, I know that they messed with your head, okay? I know it feels better in here. It feels safer. (...) Mom, look at me. (...) You're choosing this.

Dean is aware his mother is trapped in her own mind, her own emotional prison. That's not real. This way he is mourning his childhood's mother too. Because he faces her, and he tries to drag her back to what she is now.

DEAN: You promised you'd keep me safe. And then you make a deal with Azazel. Yeah, it saved Dad's life, but I'll tell you something else that happened. Because on November 2, 1983, old Yellow Eyes came waltzing in to Sammy's room, because of your deal. (Mary turns abruptly and walks past Dean to Sam’s crib in the living room) You left us. Alone. 'Cause Dad was just a shell. His perfect wife? Gone. Our perfect Mom, the perfect family... was gone.

Okay, i will make a cut here. When Dean starts the speech that will make Mary to break free, he starts saying YOU PROMISE ME YOU'D KEEP ME SAFE. He's talking about him, here, that's why I said that in this same speech Dean Winchester finds himself, his traumas, as the begining of his healing journey. Then, he narrates the big scene that changed his life forever. That day he went from a normal kid to have a hard life. YOU LEFT US is pointing at the demand to his mother, the empty space that must be filled (by Dean). Something he had in his heart, burried. Is te request of that little 4 years old kid. DAD WAS JUST A SHELL is also demanding to John Winchester for not be for them as he should. He was a shell, empty spot it must be filled. (By Dean). The perfect wife and mom doesn't exist, it was a fantasy Dean kept in his mind, it was the image he had of Mary Winchester. The image of the little boy. The perfect family, gone. Remarks the mourn Dean is doing, as an exercise while talking to his mother.

Gif set credit @littlehobbit13

Dean's aknowledgment of his role in Sam's life brings him sorrow and pain, because as he will continue saying, he feels he failed.

DEAN: And that wasn't fair. And I couldn't do it. And you wanna know what that was like?

They killed the girl that he loved. He got possessed by Lucifer. They tortured him in Hell. And he lost his soul. His soul. All because of you. All of it was because of you.

Even when Dean is taking all of the bad things that happened to Sam on his back, he shows his mother she started it all. But look how Dean carries with all these curses.

DEAN: I hate you. I hate you. And I love you. 'Cause I can't – I can't help it. You're my Mom. And I understand...'cause I have made deals to save the ones I love more than once. I forgive you. I forgive you. For all of it. Everything.

Okay, this is very deep. First of all, we have Dean starting his ILY journey right here. The firsts words are said by his innocent heart, the 4 years old kid is talking here: I HATE YOU AND I LOVE YOU, is the duality of his feelings, his deep fears, and his repressed emotions. He hates his mother Because he had to go through all of that, and because Sammy had to go through all of that because of her mistakes. So, as the child he was once, he says I HATE YOU AND I LOVE YOU, BECAUSE YOU ARE MY MOM. Then, it comes the grown up man talking, as an adult, Dean is able to understand and forgive Mary's mistakes. Now that he is a man, he can connect with his mother's errors. And he is able to forgive her, reaching that peace he needed in his heart with her and with himself.

DEAN: On the other side of this, we can start over, okay? You, me, Sam. We can get it right this time. But I need you to fight. Right now, I need you to fight. I need you – I need you to look at me, Mom. I need you to really look at me and see me. Mom, I need you to see me. Please.

This, this is huge. Why? Because is a parallel to the mixtape scene. Look how Dean mentions 'YOU, ME, SAM', there's not doubt, not head tilting, no regrets as it was in the mixtape scene, why? Because there's no doubts Dean is talking about FAMILY, and not RANTIC LOVE HERE. In the mixtape scene he puts Sam as a shield, because he needed to protect himself from his own feelings YOU, ME (CAS/DEAN) it wouldeant JUST CAS AND HIM, THE TWP OF THEM, ROMANCE. GAY. But putting Sam there, he turns that into FAMILY. Now, there's not doubts in this scene, because Dean is talking about family. There's not shield needed. Family: YOU, ME, SAM. In both scenes he is asking for a new beginning, work toge as a family. But in the mixtape scene there was this romantic tension giving it an all different meaning.

When Dean asks his mom to really look at him, is the way he will bring her back to reality. Because the grown up man in front of h is the real one, his real son. The same will happen with Dean being possesed by AU!Michael, in which Dean will be able to see himself as he really is.

To Conclude:

This episode was full of symbolism, but the main topic was how to break walls, emotional walls, as a prelude to season 14, in which we will have Healing!Dean and Leader!Sam.

Hope you like this meta, see you in the next one, will be the last from season 12!

Tagging @magnificent-winged-beast @emblue-sparks @weird-dorky-little-d @michyribeiro @whyjm @legendary-destiel @a-bit-of-influence @thatwitchydestielfan @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @lykanyouko @evvvissticante @savannadarkbaby @dea-stiel @poorreputation @bre95611 @thewolfathedoor @charlottemanchmal @neii3n @deathswaywardson @followyourenergy @dean-is-bi-till-i-die @hekatelilith-blog @avidbkwrm @anarchiana @dickpuncher365 @vampyrosa @authorsararayne @mybonsai1976 @love-neve-dies @dustythewind @wayward-winchester67 @angelwithashotgunandtrenchcoat @trashblackrainbow @deeutdutdutdoh @destiel-shipper-11 @larrem88 @charmedbycastiel @ran-savant @little-crazy-misha-minion @samoosetheshipper

@shadows-and-padlocked-hearts @mishtho @dancingtuesdaymorning @nerditoutwithbooks @mikennacac73 @justmeand-myinsight @idontwantpeopletoknowmyname @teddybeardoctor @pepevons @helevetica @isthisdestiel @dizzypinwheel @jawnlockwinchester @horsez2 @qanelyytha

@destielle @spnsmile @shippsblog @robot-feels @superlock-in-the-tardis @superduckbatrebel @2musiclover2 @madronasky @anon-non2 @cea1996 @lisafu02 @asphodelesauvage @destiels-canonahhhhhhhhhh

If you want to be added or removed from this list, just let me know.

If you wanna read the previous metas from this season, here you have the links:

Vol. LXXV, LXXVI, LXXVII, LXXVIII, LXXIX, LXXX, LXXXI, LXXXII, LXXXIII, LXXXIV, LXXXV, LXXXVI, LXXXVII, LXXXVIII, LXXXIX, XC.

Buenos Aires, December 6th 2020, 6:59 PM

#destiel #destiel chronicles #destiel meta #supernatural meta #season 12 meta #vol. XCI

[madamedupigeonsalon]

Psychologie - Est ce que l’homosexualité est un choix?

D’apres la vidéo ci dessus, on entend que les homosexuels peuvent choisir leur séxualité. Une affirmation absurde qui relève le niveau d’intelligence d’Eric Zemmour. Apres tout, est ce qu’on demande à un hétérosexuel s’il a choisit sa sexualité?  On a tous et toutes, des premieres fois et on a tous eu des rapports sexuelles (enfin pas pour les plus jeunes qui lisent ce texte) mais il faut bien séparer les choses, oui notre sexualité nous appartient mais les homosexuels ne planifient pas leur vie et encore moins la sexualité. Je pense qu’il parle en désordre sans vraiment savoir ce dont il parle. Peut être devrait il prendre les choses en mains, enfin, je veux dire il faut qu’il prenne sa vie en mains...pour avoir des propos à la television et de telles ampleurs. 

C’est deja un sujet compliqué (pas tabou) mais le sujet est toujours un problème parce qu’il y a des paradoxes dans la vie mais surtout dans le sexe. Et puis, comment peut on parler à la place des concernes? Surtout avec certitude? Il dit que c’est une partie de notre cerveau reptilien “notre cerveau animal” qui est animé par le désir. Et donc? Son argument est pauvre d’exemples et très mal expliqué. Je contredis ce qu’il dit quand je cite ma professeur de psychologie d’université qui disait que les homosexuels n’existeraient pas si le lobe frontal était retiré de leurs cerveaux. Alors, souvent on pense à soi meme, mais, il faut voir au de la de soi meme ! C’est aussi simple que bonjour ! On dot arrêter de se faire des films et rendre à Cesar ce qui est à César (cette dernière phrase n’est pas très original mais vous comprenez le propos.) 

Avec de telles propos, on peut être craintive du regard des autres dans la société. Bah oui, si lui pense comme ça , d’autres aussi alors que c’est faux ! C’est un travail a plusieurs, chacune de nos cotes mais collectivement aussi pour avancer dans la société ! C’est beaucoup de boulot...c’est sur que c’est pas mécanique mais il faut se lancer. Pour rester dans le sujet, être homosexuel n’est pas un choix mais c’est quelque chose dans nos genes. On est homosexuel et non, on le devient pas ! 

Il ya quelque chose de fort dans la sexualité, on peut avoir un désir naissant a partir d’une photo ou d’un film... l’ambiance peut être un facteur determinant aussi , un parfum ou une cigarette ...un petit moment qui peut nous transporter. On peut faire l’amour avec de la musique en fond, cela peut nous mettre dans un certain état. Notre sexualité est fluide, je connais des gens qui étaient hétérosexuels et qui aujourd'hui sont homosexuels. Je considère que les gens qui ne veulent pas s’ouvrir au monde et les gens autour d’eux, après tout ca va mais je pense qu’ils n’ont pas beaucoup d’imagination. Evidemment, il y a pas mal de personnes qui se découvrent à 15 ou 16 ans mais pour d’autres cela prend du temps. Ensuite, je pense qu’on a dépassé l’age moyenâgeux “l’homosexualité est une maladie” meme si Eric Zemmour est absolument resté à cette époque.

Enfin, pour terminer, nos vies sexuelles est privée. C’est pas un étalage publique. D’autre part, on a pas à prouver quoi que ce soit à n’importe qui ! Je trouve ça rédhibitoire. 

Pour conclure, les propos d’Eric Zemmour ne tienne pas debout , peut on considère que les bisexuelles n’ont pas de sexualité?Non , c’est une sexualité cumulative c’est a dire qu’on aime et les garçons et les fille. La sexualité est personnelle et c’est un désir qui se construit tout le long de notre vie. C’est pas parce qu’on aime le cul qu’on a un problème et vice versa ce n’est pas un problème si on n’aime pas le cul. Mais l’importance c’est de s’écouter , de prendre son temps et d’être optimiste envers l’avenir. Parler sur l’évolution de sa sexualité est important pour soi et pour les autres. 

Psychology - Is homosexuality a choice?

From the video above, it is understood that homosexuals can choose their sextuality. An absurd statement that raises the level of intelligence of Eric Zemmour. After all, is a heterosexual asked if he has chosen his sexuality? We all have, first time and we all had sex (well not for the youngest who read this text) but we must separate things, yes our sexuality is ours but homosexuals do not plan their lives and even less sexuality. I think he's talking in disorder without really knowing what he's talking about. Maybe he should take things in his hands, well, I mean he has to take his life in his own hands ... to have talk on television and such magnitudes.

It is already a complicated subject (not taboo) but the subject is always a problem because there are paradoxes in life but especially in sex. And then, how can we speak instead of the concerned? Especially with certainty? He says it's a part of our reptilian brain "our animal brain" that's driven by desire. And so? His argument is poor in examples and very poorly explained. I contradict what he says when I quote my professor of university psychology who said that homosexuals would not exist if the frontal lobe was removed from their brains. So, often you think of yourself, but, you have to see your own self! It's as easy as hello! We have to stop making films and give Cesar what is Caesar (this last sentence is not very original but you understand the point.)

With such words, one can be afraid of the eyes of others in society. Well yes, if he thinks like that, others too when it's wrong! It is a job for many, each of our ratings but also collectively to move forward in society! It's a lot of work ... it's sure it's not mechanical but you have to get started. To stay in the subject, being homosexual is not a choice but it is something in our genes. We are homosexual and no, we do not become!

There is something strong about sexuality, you can have an incipient desire from a photo or a film ... the atmosphere can be a decisive factor too, a perfume or a cigarette ... a little moment that can transport us. We can make love with music in the background, it can put us in a certain state. Our sexuality is fluid, I know people who were heterosexual and who today are homosexuals. I consider people who do not want to open up to the world and people around them, after all it goes but I think they do not have much imagination. Obviously, there are a lot of people who discover themselves at 15 or 16 years old but for others it takes time. Then, I think that we passed the middle age "homosexuality is a disease" even if Eric Zemmour remained absolutely at that time.

Finally, finally, our sex lives are private. It's not a public display. On the other hand, we do not have to prove anything to anyone! I find it crippling.

To conclude, the words of Eric Zemmour do not stand up, can we consider that bisexuals have no sexuality? No, it is a sexuality cumulative that is to say that we love and boys and girls . Sexuality is personal and it is a desire that is built throughout our life. It's not because we love the ass that we have a problem and vice versa it is not a problem if we do not like the ass. But the importance is to listen, to take your time and to be optimistic about the future. Talking about the evolution of one's sexuality is important for oneself and for others.

Kevin Ngirimcuti 

#blog #blogger #post #blogpost #psychologie #psychology #homosexuel #homosexualite #homosexuality

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Alternate au: Prologue

Cesar asks his best friend Mark for a small favor in the middle of the night, but never considered the terrible things his request would cause.

Notes: uh, hey! never posted my writing before, so. here’s something for the alternate au! It’s around 6500 words, so it’s a bit of a long read, but I hope you guys like it anyway. 

TW: possible suicide implication, death, and blood 

           Mark was awoken in the middle of the night to the rotary phone in the living room ringing. It was faint, as it was situated downstairs from his bedroom, but still loud enough to wake him from a deep sleep. He stirred awake, groaning as he regained his bearings. His chestnut-colored hair was a mess, but he wasn’t planning on fixing it; not that late at night anyway. He stood up, walking over the piles of snack wrappers and dirty clothes in his room as he made his way downstairs to the living room. He sighed, grabbing onto the phone before lifting it up to his ear. “Hello?” He asked, trying to use his best “I’ve been awake for a while” voice.

           “Hey, uh, Mark, it’s Cesar…I…I hope it’s not too late.” It was the voice of a young man, though he sounded a tad more worried than his usual upbeat tone.

           “No, it’s fine, don’t worry.” Mark assured. “What’s going on, are you alright?”

           “It’s…it’s not me, it’s my mom.” Cesar explained. “I found her on the ground; she…she was knocked out cold, and I don’t know why.” Cesar paced back in forth in the local hospital, holding the cell phone up to his ear as he rubbed his arm with his free hand. “We…w-we got home from my piano recital, and she…I found her on the ground after she went into the other room.” Cesar glanced down at his suit; a black tuxedo complimented by a white undershirt, a red bowtie, and a rose pinned to his lapel. He didn’t feel it was the most appropriate clothing to wear at the moment, but he didn’t have the time nor the energy to change.

           “Is…is there anything I can do to help?” Mark asked, unsure of how to feel due to how exhausted he felt.

           “I…I’m sorry, but could you…go over to my house?” Cesar requested. “To turn on the cameras we have set up…the ones we installed after we were robbed?”

           “Yeah, of course.” Mark said. “Can I ask…why?”

           “I…I was wondering if…she saw something.” Cesar sighed. “She screamed really loud, so…I-I don’t know.”

           “Did you have all your doors and windows locked?” Mark asked. “Like what the broadcast told us to do?”

           “Yeah, that’s the weird part.” Cesar said. “I…I just…”

           “I’ll be over in a while,” Mark said. “But I’m just going to turn them on and get out of there. You…you know how I feel about your house.”

           “Yeah, no problem.” Cesar said. “Oh, could you…make sure the back hallway cam is on? That hallway specifically…i-it’s been weird.”

           “…Okay?”

           “Thank you…it…it means more than you can think.” Cesar said. “I owe you big time.”

           “It’s no problem, really.” Mark shrugged.

           “I’m at the hospital now, so…I’ll talk to you later.” Cesar sighed. “Thank you again…see ya.”

           “See you too. Goodbye.” Mark heard the line disconnect, sighing deeply as he mentally prepared himself to leave. It had been a while since he left the house, and he wasn’t too keen on leaving while it was dark out. However, it was Cesar; Cesar had done so much for him, so doing one simple favor wouldn’t be the end of the world. Mark looked down at his clothes, which were a light grey sweatshirt over a black T-shirt along with dull pink sweatpants. He decided it wasn’t worth the effort to change out of his pajamas; it wasn’t like he had anyone he needed to impress that night.

           As he approached the front door, he paused, staring at the door knob before pulling his hand back. He jogged back to his room, looking around before his gaze landed on his nightstand. He pulled open the drawer, rummaging through the crumpled papers and junk before he grabbed something. He pulled it out, revealing a pistol in its own holster. He took it out of its leather cover, removing the clip before looking into it, seeing that it was in fact loaded. He sighed quietly before putting the clip back into the firearm, deciding that he was now ready to leave the house.

             The roads were cloaked in an inky black darkness, only broken when the headlights of Mark’s car pierced through them. His pensive stare was fixed on the road before him, wondering when he was finally going to make it to Cesar’s house. If there was one thing he hated about his friendship with Cesar, it would have been the nearly hour long drive between their houses. Living outside of town might have been a good choice for one who likes silence, but not for someone who wanted to be on time for school every morning. No wonder Cesar was almost always late for the first class of the day.

           Mark turned off of the main road, driving into a small gravel lane as his car traversed the unsteady road. Mark glanced towards the edge of the woods, the trees of which lining both sides of the street. The woods seemed somehow darker that night, with no light shining through the leaves, covering the forest floor in shadows. When Mark’s headlights caught something in the distance however, he was finally allowed to let out his breath. It didn’t prevent his dread from growing however, as he now had to face the fact that he was now at Cesar’s house.

           Mark’s lights hit the white garage door and the front door to the right of it. The red brick walls faded into the darkness outside of the range of light, as if the night was consuming the house altogether. Mark reached for his car keys, but hesitated to pull them out of the ignition. He looked at the garage door, seeing the light the headlights offered before pulling his hands away from the keys. He may have had a flashlight and a firearm with him, but that wasn’t nearly enough to ease his stress. At least knowing the car was there and working would help.

           Mark left the safety of his vehicle, approaching the wooden door and reaching for the door knob. To his surprise, it was unlocked, and despite the dread in his chest building, Mark chalked it up to Cesar trying to be nice and saving Mark the effort of remembering where they left the key. That, or Cesar was in too much of a rush to remember to lock it. Either way, Mark had a job to do; go in, turn on the cameras, and get out. It was that simple.

           Mark flicked every light in the house on as he walked through the rooms, turning on every camera he found. He was as swift and silent as a mouse, hoping that the quicker he turned everything on, the quicker he would be able to leave. He may have been rushing more than necessary, though he wasn’t wishing to stay in that creepy house any longer than he absolutely had to. Something about the dark halls and silent rooms made Mark’s skin crawl, as if he was constantly being watched by someone.

           When he reached the final camera, he flicked it on, seeing the small red light flash. “Thank God…” Mark sighed, stepping away from the camera. He turned and walked the opposite direction, leaving the bedroom where the camera was fixed and towards the front door. His joy over being able to leave was short lived however, as he remembered that there was still one more camera that was inactive; the back hallway.

           Mark looked towards the hallway from the living room, seeing the shadows concealing its walls. Something in Mark gave him the urge to just leave it behind, go home, and go back to sleep, but Cesar mentioned that camera specifically. If Cesar came home to see the camera not on, who knew what it would do to his trust in Mark? With that thought alone, Mark sucked up his fear and walked into the hallway.

He looked up at the camera in the top corner of the hall, wondering how he could turn it on if it wasn’t even within his reach. To his knowledge, Cesar and his mother didn’t have a ladder hanging around in a convenient spot, so Mark figured that stretching his arms out as far as possible would be a better option. He raised his arms, gritting his teeth as he stood on his toes, his hands just barely reaching the camera. When his hands made contact, Mark quickly flicked it on, immediately dropping back onto his feet with a slight smile on his face. “There we go…” He whispered as he turned back towards the living room, finally ready to leave that freaky house and have a nice night’s sleep.

“Mark?” Cesar’s voice was faint, but distinguishable. Despite its familiarity, it still made Mark flinch.

“Cesar?” Mark turned around, towards one of the dark guest rooms where the voice originated. “…I…I thought you were at the hospital?”

“I…I’m sorry, but could you…go over to my house?” Cesar asked.

“I…I’m already here, dude—”

“Yeah, it’s not me it’s my mom.” Cesar’s voice continued. “She’s knocked out cold and I have no idea why.”

“…Uh…Cesar…?” Mark’s weird feeling only became worse, forcing him to start backing away from the back room. “This better not be one of your fucking jokes, man—”

“Yeah of course…may I ask why?” That specific line made Mark realize something; a realization that made his blood run cold. That voice was his own, meaning whatever was in the room, and whatever he was talking to, was not Cesar.

Mark scrambled towards the front door, slamming into it and forcing it open. His shoulder stung from the impact, the pain reverberating down his arm, but he wasn’t in the position to care. The faint sound of laugher was heard from the house as Mark rushed to his car, only giving more reason to not look back. He dove into his car, feeling overwhelming gladness over the fact that he left the keys in the ignition. He backed the vehicle away from the house, swinging the car around before he sped down the gravel road.

He must have been going at least double the speed limit down the main road, but Mark’s pure fear outweighed his rational thoughts. He never even saw what was in the house, but Mark knew deep down that whatever was in the other room was a much more powerful, much more malicious being than Mark could ever be. If the broadcast on beings called “alternates” was as true as it seemed, than Mark could be sure that whatever was there was one of them. He just hoped that he left soon enough to lose it.

He slammed on the breaks as soon as he made it to his house, climbing out of the car, closing the door, and sprinting inside, his breath harsh and heavy. He threw the front door open before slamming it shut behind him, locking every single lock on it. He frantically glanced around, his eyes fixating on a table right beside the door, with nothing but a small vase on top of it. Mark grasped onto the corners of the table pulling it towards the door before shoving it in front of it, blocking it off.

He gasped, but he wasn’t able to catch his breath just yet, as he had multiple doors and windows he had to give the same treatment. He hurried from one edge of the house to the other, blocking off doors and locking every window he ran by. When he knew for certain that every single entrance was blocked off, he finished his dash by approaching his phone, picking it up before dialing 911. “Come on…please…” Mark gasped, hearing the line buzz.

“You’ve reached the Mandela County Police Department, what is your emergency?” The operator on the other end stated. It may not have been a typical 911 operator, but Mark was willing to take anything.

“H-Hello?” Mark stammered. “I-I was…I…I don’t—I need the police.”

“Please calm down, sir,” The operator said calmly. “Can you describe your emergency?”

“I-I was…I was at a friend’s house, a-and I heard something…It...It sounded…like my friend, and then it sounded like me!” Mark explained. “I drove away, but…I don’t know, what if he gets home and…it’s there?”

The operator didn’t respond to that comment, remaining strangely silent.

“P-Please…help me, I don’t know if it followed me or not.” Mark begged.

“Alright, calm down…help is on the way.” The operator hung up, and the phone let out a faint beeping noise as Mark stared at it.

“Wh-Why would—” Mark threw the phone down, grasping onto his head. Why the fuck would a 911 operator hang up?! Was that not something they were specifically told not to do?! Mark paced around his living room, forcing himself to take in deep breaths in order to calm himself down. He stared at the ceiling, freezing when something crossed his mind; where was his gun? He looked down at his body, not seeing the small holster anywhere on him. When he saw nothing, he slowly looked back at the front door, realizing he had forgotten it in the car.

Mark had two options before him; he could either hope and pray that the alternate didn’t follow him and leave the doors blocked off, or he could quickly run outside, grab the gun, and then go back inside. Without the firearm, Mark was alone and defenseless, and he wasn’t the type to take chances. He stared at the front door, breathing in deeply before he pensively approached the door, slowly shifting the table blocking it to the side. “Lord, give me strength,” Mark muttered under his breath as he unlocked the door. “…may you have mercy on me.”

He swung open the door, running towards his car as fast as he could manage. He threw open the car door before climbing in half way, rummaging through the messy car. “Where the fuck is it?” Mark questioned frantically, wondering where the hell he put it. He opened the storage compartment between the front seats, finally seeing the pistol resting inside. He grasped onto it before sliding out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

He ripped the holster off of the pistol, grasping onto the gun’s handle with an iron grip. He sighed, glancing down the road as he backed towards his house. He nearly froze when he started hearing something in the distance; indistinguishable words that Mark couldn’t make out. He stared down the road, hearing the words slowly become louder.

“God help me…” Mark said as he backed away.

Soon enough, his fears were realized, as he soon saw the figure producing the sounds. It was humanoid, with warped features that made Mark’s skin crawl. Its gangly legs were carrying it down the street, barely visible through the nightly darkness.

“God save me.” Mark whispered.

Mark scrambled towards his door, ignoring the laughing he heard outside before he threw the door behind him closed, only turning around to lock it tight. He once again grabbed onto the table, pulling it towards the door to block it off. However, a loud crash against the door made Mark stumble back, nearly falling to the ground. He swung his arm up, pointing the pistol towards the door with trembling hands, trying to conceal the sheer horror he felt growing inside of him.

“Mark…” The fake voice of Cesar called in a sing song voice, muffled by the wall separating it and Mark. “Open the door…I have a present for you…”

Mark wasn’t sure whether he should command it to leave or stay silent, hoping it would get bored and leave. However, he wasn’t sure if he could yell even if he wanted to, as any words he could say became stuck in his throat. Instead of saying anything, Mark fled from the living room, rushing up the stairway before seeking refuge in his bedroom. He shut the door behind him, locking it before backing away, still able to hear the increasingly aggressive knocking from the front door. He looked behind him, seeing the messy room and the items within, involving an unplugged television, a tape recorder, an empty notebook, and a few other random things Mark had lying around. However, the thing he took interest in wasn’t any of the objects he had; instead, it was the window on the wall adjacent to the door.

Mark rushed towards it, sliding it open before looking down. He got vertigo just by staring down at the front yard from the second story. With no roof or ledge to grab onto below, there was no way to escape that way without leaving with a broken leg. He stared forward, being able to see the lights of the town in the distance, breaking through the dark night. It was as if the thought of freedom was taunting him.

He couldn’t help but remember something about the movies he always watched. He and Cesar would often have a horror movie night, and both he and Mark noticed that the would-be victim always seemed to run up the stairs or down into the basement instead of leaving through the front door. So many exits, yet they always seemed to choose the worst one. Mark would laugh about how stupid they were when they got killed by the villain, but now he had no room to. He just fell into the same trap that oh so many horror movie characters fell into. He ran up the stairs, and he was now the victim-to-be.

He could hear the sound of one of the first floor windows smashing open, with the noise piercing his ears. He felt his heart sink as he closed the window and turned around, pressing his back against the wall before slinking to the ground. He turned to the nightstand resting to his right before rummaging through the drawer. He grabbed onto a book, the Holy Bible, before hugging it tightly, sobbing softly as he heard the thing creep up the stairs.

He muttered prayer after prayer, wondering what he had done to deserve such a fate. The false voice of his once good friend, beckoning him into a death trap, allowing something beyond his comprehension to follow him to the place he once saw as safe. He never wanted a favor; all “Cesar” wanted was to lure Mark to his death. Mark couldn’t think of any other explanation. What happened to the real Cesar he couldn’t tell, but all he knew is that something malevolent was right outside. He was all alone, and the MCPD wasn’t going to help him; he felt it in his bones. Otherwise, wouldn’t he have heard the sirens by then?

“Mark…I have a gift for you!” The voice outside Mark’s door claimed, its voice distorting like a busted VHS.

“Damn you…damn you…” Mark cried, his wide eyes staring at the floor in front of him as he huddled his knees close to his chest. “God damn you…”

He had no clue how long it was going to be before the thing left, but Mark had no choice but to wait. All he knew is that he didn’t want to see what was on the other side of that door.

Cesar; You fucking bastard.

 Cesar sat in a small, uncomfortable chair as he stared at his unconscious mother on the hospital bed. His arms were huddled close to his chest, his shaky hands gently rubbing his arms as if he was hugging himself. His lips were pursed together, and he didn’t even bother moving his wavy black hair out of his face. All he could hear was the sound of the hospitals many machines and phones, along with the heart monitor next to the bed.

He sighed quietly, leaning back in his seat before his gaze turned towards his feet. It was nearing one in the morning, judging by the ticking clock in the corner of the room. Cesar was beginning to notice how exhausted he felt as his stress and adrenaline faded away. He wondered how long it would take for the doctor to tell him what happened to her, but as the seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes turned into hours, he didn’t count on that possibility.

He shook his head slightly, standing up before hesitantly leaving the room. He stood outside of the hospital room, clutching his mobile phone, dialing a few numbers, and holding it up to his ear. He put his free hand into his pants pocket, glancing from one end of the hallway to the other, hoping he wouldn’t get in trouble for having his phone on.

The rotary phone in Mark’s living room let out a loud ring, echoing throughout the silent home. It rang and rang, yet no one came to answer it.

“You have reached the automated voice messaging system—” Cesar’s phone played the message, making him sigh in disappointment. “If you’d like to leave a message, please speak after the tone.” After a high pitched beep played, Cesar didn’t hesitate to take that offer.

“Uh, hey, it’s Cesar…I just…wanted to catch up with you and uh…” Cesar sighed. “And see if you turned all the cameras on. Mom seems to be doing well, but she’s…still asleep. Just call me when you get the message, okay? I’ll see you later. Bye.” Cesar hung up the phone, staring at nothing in particular. He stared forward, feeling a strange sensation in his gut. Mark was probably asleep at that point, so maybe it was best to call in the morning.

Cesar’s feeling of dread was becoming worse. He laid across the loveseat in his living room, his eyes staring at the Television in front of him, though he wasn’t necessarily paying attention to the channel playing. It had been three days since he last spoke with Mark, with every call he made only resulting in another voicemail. Cesar understood that Mark wasn’t the most outspoken, social type, but he never ignored calls for days at a time.

Cesar’s mother walked into the living room, noticing Cesar watching the same evening programs he had already seen a thousand times. “Do you want anything special for dinner, Niño?” His mother asked.

“I’ll…I’ll just have the leftovers in the fridge.” Cesar responded, glancing towards his mother briefly before looking back towards the TV. His mother frowned slightly before she walked back into the kitchen. Cesar held his head up with the palm of his hand, his brows furrowed and his gaze distant.

“I just…don’t…get it.” Cesar stated.

“Don’t get what?” His mother asked from the other room. “Is everything alright?”

“…I…I don’t know.” Cesar muttered, rubbing his eyes with his hands.  

His mother leaned into the doorway between rooms, seeing Cesar sit up on the couch, hunched over with his elbows pressed against his knees. It was possibly the gloomiest his mother had seen him in a long time.

“Do you need anything?” She offered, her brows tilting upwards.

           Cesar sighed slightly before crossing his arms. “…I…maybe I should go check on him.” Cesar muttered, standing up quickly before grabbing his car keys from the side table. “Something doesn’t seem right.”

           “Check on who?”

           “Mark.” Cesar responded. “He hasn’t called me in over three days. I…I’m afraid something might’ve happened.”

As Cesar stormed towards the door, his mother called from the living room. “But what about the curfew?”

           “To hell with the curfew.” Cesar responded before slamming the front door shut behind him.

His mother could hear his car’s engine rumble as he backed out of the driveway. She furrowed her brows, folding her hands in front of her stomach as she thought to herself. Half of her was happy to see that her son was as sympathetic and caring as he was, though the other half was worried of him getting into more trouble than he bargained for. However, she was snapped out of her intense thinking when she heard the glass doors leading to one of the back rooms slide open. She looked towards the back hallway, feeling a chill go up her spine. “Hello?”

           Cesar spent the long drive to Mark’s house weltering in trepidation. Something in his gut didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t place what he was feeling or why he was feeling it. The sun was setting in the horizon, with the leaves of the trees beginning to rot in preparation for autumn. It was chilly outside that specific night, with the cool air in Cesar’s car hitting his skin. In hindsight, he should have slipped on a hoodie, but he wasn’t in the mood to care about the chill weather. If Mark was in trouble, Cesar would be the first to help him.

           Cesar pulled into Mark’s driveway, seeing his car parked in front of the door. He stopped next to it before he opened his door and stepped outside, looking up at the two-story home as the chilly fall air hit his face. The light grey paint on the side panels was beginning to chip off, making it almost look unkempt. Cesar didn’t recall it looking like it hadn’t been kept in shape for a long time, though he figured it had been a while since he visited Mark’s house, and Mark’s busy parents didn’t seem like the type to care about some chipped paint until it made it look abandoned.

           He walked towards the front door, knocking on it hard with his intense gaze fixated on it. “Mark?” Cesar called. “You in there?”

           There was no response aside from the crickets chirping in the distance. Cesar slammed his fist against the door, echoing a louder series of thumps than before. “Mark, are you alright?” Cesar called louder, hoping Mark would hear. However, the only response was silence once again.

Cesar backed away from the door, staring up at the second story window, where Mark’s room was situated. It was completely dark; in fact, every window was blacked out, and no lights seemed to be on inside the home. It felt lifeless, and Cesar could feel a sense of dread swelling inside of him. Something about looking up at Mark’s bedroom window made Cesar feel as though he was being watched.

He glanced around his feet, seeing a small patch of gravel lining the edge of the driveway before he crouched down and picked up a few stones. He sprung back to his feet before chucking one of the small rocks at Mark’s window. A slight thunk was heard when the rock made impact, and despite Cesar following it up with multiple rock throws, not a single one of them seemed to get any attention from inside the house.

“Damn it.” Cesar groaned, throwing whatever rocks he had left onto the ground. He cupped his mouth with his hands before he began to shout. “MARK! IT’S ME, CESAR! YOU IN THERE?!”

Cesar didn’t know what he expected, but the response was the same either way; no one answered. He backed away, hesitantly walking back to his car. He sat inside of his vehicle, slamming his door shut as he prepared to leave. He slid his hands down his face, groaning as he shook his head slightly. However, when his mobile phone rang on his car’s dashboard, he froze. He picked it up, holding it up as he rubbed his eyes. “Hello?”

No answer came from the phone, instead being a jumbled mess of static and indistinguishable speech. Nothing was recognizable, like someone flipping through channels on the TV as fast as humanly possible.

“…Hello?” Cesar repeated, feeling his heart sink in his chest.

A loud cacophony of inhuman screams erupted from his phone, nearly startling the skin off of Cesar’s bones. It sounded as if the gates of hell were opened on the other side of the phone line. He ripped the phone away from his ear, hearing the caller disconnect. He stared at the phone in his quivering hand before he quickly tossed it to the side and started the engine. He backed out of the driveway, speeding down the road as his eyes darted around the streets before him. He had no clue what was going on, but he knew he had to be fast.

When he finally arrived home, the sun had already set below the horizon, delving everything in darkness. Cesar left his car behind, jogging towards his front door and swinging it open. “Mom!” He looked around the living room, seeing that it was completely empty. It was nearly entirely silent aside from the faint sound of a ticking clock on the wall, its hour hand nearing 8:00.  

Cesar quietly closed the door behind him, walking through the living room before entering the kitchen, noticing the light was still on. “Mom?” Cesar called. “You there?” He stepped into the hallway connecting the main bedrooms, noticing that one of the doors was open, leading into one of the guest rooms. There were two sliding glass doors leading outside, and judging by the curtains swaying in the breeze, they were wide open.

Cesar’s eyes were fixed on the open doors, with him almost afraid to look away. “M-Mom?” Cesar called again, glancing down the hall for just a second before looking back at the guest room. Cesar backed away from the open door, his back brushing against the master bedroom door. To his shock, his back simply pushed the door open. He let out a yelp as he slammed against the floor in the bedroom, noticing that the lights were on in there as well.

“Oh…shit.” Cesar groaned as he stumbled to his feet. He turned around, looking into the bedroom as he regained his bearings. He stared towards the wall adjacent to him before his entire body froze in place, paralyzed. His eyes widened in horror as he saw the scene before him.

He could barely even begin to process the amount of blood leaking onto the carpeted floor, oozing down the wall from the lifeless body pinned against it by her hands. She was posed in a cross formation, reminding Cesar of a crucifixion from the stories in the Bible. However, the fact that it was in his bedroom, and that the victim was his own mother made him realize just how barbaric those old punishments really were.

“M-MOM?!” Cesar sobbed, stumbling backwards back into the hallway. His head shook rapidly, his mind refusing to fill in the details of the grizzly scene he witnessed.

Cesar ran out of the hallway and through the kitchen, scrambling towards the front door. He fumbled with the doorknob, nearly tripping over his feet when he finally opened the door and ran out into the front yard. He grabbed onto his mobile phone, sobbing loudly as his shaking hand dialed 911.

“Please…you have to help me…” Cesar begged as soon as he heard the line connect. He covered his mouth, gasping in between his cries of anguish as he attempted to get his scrambled thoughts in order.

“Turn around.” The voice on the phone droned.

“Wh-What?” Cesar stammered.

“Turn…around.” The voice repeated.

Cesar hesitantly obliged, slowly turning around and looking back towards his house. He stared up towards the dark sky above the roof, feeling his hands drop to his sides and his hand loose its clutch on the phone. The phone landed on the grass, though Cesar didn’t even notice. His petrified stare was focused on the figure floating weightlessly above his home.

“…Mark?” Cesar choked.

“Mark” was suspended in the air, his arms hanging by his sides as his bruised hands twitched slightly. He was wearing his grey sweatshirt, though it was stained with crimson, the viscera seeping into the fabric. Cesar couldn’t see his face clearly, as if it was concealed by complete darkness from above. The most Cesar could see were the streaks of blood running down from his head and face, streaming down his neck and onto his clothes. However, Cesar could see one eye peek out of the void above his house, fixated on his cowering form. The necklace around his neck hovered in front of his chest, a small metal cross hanging from the silver chain, though Cesar knew that the thing wearing it was not a thing of God.

Cesar could barely move his legs; paralyzed by his own dread, feeling like he was in some sort of fucked up, vivid nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. It had to be a nightmare…it had to be some sort of fucking nightmare, please let me wake up. “Fuck…fuck.” Cesar forced himself to take a few steps backwards, stumbling over his feet and slamming against the dirt. He watched as Mark began to approach him, descending slowly as Cesar crawled towards his car.

Cesar was finally able to shake off his petrified feeling, sprinting to his vehicle before swinging the door open and leaping inside. He dug into his pocket, almost dropping his keys as he took them out. He started the car, speeding out of the driveway as he stared at Mark, who was now over the front yard, his legs illuminated by the car’s headlights. However, before the car sped down the gravel road, it stopped abruptly, its lights shutting off. “Wh—come on, come the fuck on!” Cesar cried, turning the keys in the ignition, starting the vehicle again. The lights turned back on, revealing Mark had grown closer, with his torso now visible. As soon as Cesar let go of the keys, they turned without even touching them, shutting the vehicle off once again.

Cesar looked through the windshield, seeing the pitch black darkness before him. Cesar started his car again, struggling against the force trying to keep his keys from turning. His car’s headlights lit up Mark’s eerily still form, and Cesar could finally see his face, or what was left of it. A black void peeking through his glass like skin, shattered like a mirror. Cesar didn’t spend much time processing the details; his mind was refusing to comprehend what he was staring at.

With his free hand, he swung the wheel around, turning the car towards the road and slamming his foot against the gas pedal, leaving Mark in the dust. Mark watched as the car sped through the lane, letting out a furious cacophony of yells. He sounded as if he released the screams of the damned, all coming out of one being. He lifted himself into the air, disappearing out of view and into the dark, cloudy sky.

Cesar didn’t give a shit about the speed limit; as soon as he made it to the main road, he pressed the gas pedal onto the floor. He felt that he was on the brink of vomiting, but he forced himself to hold it in, trying in vain to calm himself down. He couldn’t get the image of his mother’s corpse out of his head, and every time he remembered the amount of blood seeping onto the bedroom floor, he only wanted to throw up more. He was running out of tears to cry, resorting to dry sobs. He couldn’t piece together his thoughts, unable to comprehend the position he found himself in. As he stared forward, trying to think of anything he could do, he was snapped out of his thoughts when his headlights hit something in front of him. Mark was suspended in the air in front of Cesar’s vehicle, his eye fixed on the speeding car barreling towards him.

Cesar yelled, swerving the car out of the way, the wind from it blowing against Mark’s unmoving body. Mark watched as Cesar attempted to regain control with no success, instead making it lose whatever control it had. The wheels screeched as it slid across the pavement, leaving dark marks on the road. The car flew off of the road, tumbling into the ditch and towards the forest lining the side of the road, only stopping when the side of it smashed against the trunk of one of the trees. Shrapnel flew in all directions, and the windows shattered into hundreds of razor-sharp shards of glass.

Mark stared at the wreck before him, approaching it slowly before he placed his feet on the grass. The plants below him shriveled up and became a dull brown color as he walked towards Cesar’s car. He peered through the shattered remains of the driver’s side window, seeing Cesar leaned away, blood seeping from the small cuts on his face and chest. He was completely still, and from what Mark could observe, he was no longer breathing. Mark let out a small, infuriated huff as he leaned away from the vehicle, floating up into the dark sky. A pity; he wasn’t even the one to kill him. Mark vanished into the darkness, leaving Cesar behind as silence fell.

Cesar remained still, until his eyelid twitched. He slowly opened his eyes, wincing at the pain he felt coursing through his body. He couldn’t tell if he broke any bones, but he could see that his clothes were beginning to turn a shade of red. Cesar freed himself from his seatbelt, shakily reaching for the door handle and swinging it open. He fell to the ground as soon as the door opened, slamming against the now dead grass. He groaned, barely able to support himself with his arms. Nevertheless, he forced himself to stand up, clenching his jaw as he tried to suppress the sharp pain he felt from the cuts in his skin.

He stumbled back onto the road, clutching his stomach with one of his arms as he stared forward. His back was illuminated by the flickering headlights behind him, being the only source of light nearby. The road stretched on and on for what felt like forever before him, barely illuminated. Cesar took in a deep breath despite the tightness in his chest before he limped down the road as tears ran down his cheeks. His mind was blank, as if his mind was racing fast enough for nothing to be processed. 

He glanced at a sign on the side of the road, barely legible through the nightly darkness. He would have felt happy to get out of dodge, but every ounce of joy was already stripped from him. Everything he loved; everything he cared about was gone in an instant. There was nothing left for him if he stayed. As he pushed forward, he wondered if he was destined to die on the side of the road from his wounds. He wondered if that was the end of his journey and if he really should have died in the crash. However, a fate like that wasn’t something he was going to let himself to succumb to. He pressed on, not letting himself rest until he made it to the nearest form of hospitality. He stumbled past the sign, not looking back as he made his way to Bythorne County.

“Thank You for Visiting Mandela Cty, WI. Come Again!”

#mandela catalogue #tmc alternate au #mark heathcliff #alt mark #cesar torres #Cesar Torres (alt au) #tw sui implied #blood #tw death #shmorp writes sometimes #<my new writing tag if I post any more writing of mine after this #feel free to suggest any changes to either the story or give me some feedback on my writing #i'd like to know your thoughts on it #I just thought it would be cool to post my writing for once #because I never did. I only ever shared my writing with like. one person. ever #apologies for the long read I hope it’s worth it #imagine rewriting the entire ending the night before posting it. couldn’t be me