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Realistic or Modern . kuebiko .

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irusu

◅ ⁱ ʷᵃˢ ˢᵉᵉᵏⁱⁿᵍ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ᶠᵒᵒˡ ʷʰᵉⁿ ⁱ ᶠᵒᵘⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ▻
kuebiko reboot
Within the forest,
dark and deep,
I offer y o u
eternal s l e e p.

↢ . . .K U E B I K O. . . ↣
. ⋉ . ⋈ . ⋊ .​
everyone disappears in caister, that's just how it is. you can hear cries when it's dark, but grandma always said it was the wind. there must be a storm blowing in every night. just yesterday maddie kershaw with that red door full of unordinary vanished and nobody batted a goddamn eye. there's a thickness in this air that makes it hard to breathe but we've got no choice but to breathe it anyway -- because where else is there to go? the word eerie is an understatement. ethereal doesn't even scratch the surface. small towns mean closeness, but everyone's miles away from each other like it's for a reason; like they're all trying to hide something. maybe that's what it is. maybe the indifference is a plea from the missing. we're only in caister, though. little old town like this, where the river that marks our borders babbles louder than our own conversations. a penny could drop and you'd hear it. but nobody hears the noose.
 
The air is admittedly stuffy within Caister’s chapel; whether it is thick due to decades-built moisture beneath the founding boards that may very well house mold, or thick from the heavy blanket cast by judgemental eyes as Father Dawson looks up from time to time during bowed prayer to check who is giving the Lord a penny for His thoughts, or it may just be the cause of the dust cascading down from the rafters, catching in the colorful morning hues of the stained glass windows. It’s musty yet stale and everything you don’t miss going back to every Sunday morning just to inhale it in uncomfortable, creaky pews.


There is an expansive shift as the rows of bodies lift their heads and themselves up from the unfolded cushions they risked their knees on after being told to rise. The prayer was supposed to be dedicated to the most recent missing girl, Maddie Kershaw. She disappeared during the night, her parents said, but the weeps of her mother were muffled by a drenched handkerchief, filled with a pain bearing a lot more than just that of a mother whose child left willingly. Mrs. Albright seemed particularly tired of the noises during their mass moment of silence given the roll of her eyes every sniffle.


That little witch is back in Hell where she belongs, cut your losses.


(She was drowned in the river, forced under over and over because for some unknown reason Father Dawson was incessant on hearing a plea for forgiveness - and the names of the other Devil worshippers she was assumed to affiliate herself with. Mrs. Kershaw, gripped under lock by the general store manager and Buck Gammon, that unit son-of-a-bitch cook at the local diner, as she was forced to watch the same way her husband was: too close yet not close enough to do anything about it. Out of all the things strange and unsettling about the situation, it was suffice to say that when Mr. Kershaw didn’t encounter the same handling as his wife, something was off.)​


He told them the little witch was readin’ books in her room. The kind that weren’ allowed ‘round here no more; that she’d go readin’ in the green and come back minutes before curfew time to kiss Mama on the cheek, where shortly after several other girls would come runnin’ to their homes, too. He couldn’ get a look ah those other girls, but that damned book still sits in his chester draws. The Time Machine by H.G. Wells.


“Please join us in our last Psalm,” Father Dawson’s molasses soaked voice echoed without warning, almost as if to cut all whispers where they lied before they could even be spoken. The organ started to play and a chime of both reluctant and all-too-eager voices began in suit to praise the good ol’ God above. May He burn this sorry town to the ground before Caister did it to itself.


“Our home is not the home for many, as we see the plagued and mindless go each night, but look into your hearts to find that this is the only home for the folk here, born and raised. There is nothin’ out there that we don’t have a’plenty here and then some. It is our wisest choice to stay. Remember that, and may peace be with you.”

(The hands that you shake as you leave through those big oak doors are the very same that will put you under without so much as hesitation. He’s looking into your eyes for the Devil, it’s best to look away before he mistakes a catched shadow for the king of them.)


(Is holy water still holy when four murderers douse their hands?)​


The crowd of churchgoers are finally dispersed from their fortress made of wood and glass while the Elders look on in their respective positions. Sheriff Perryman is already at his car, leaning back against it with a coffee in one hand and a worn Bible in the other, tucked against his side as that arm is wrapped over his chest. Those are cold, dead blue eyes he inspects with. They leave you fearing for crimes you haven’t even committed, and yet he smiles with them still when you happen to catch a glimpse. Mr. Willms is discussing a narrative with a student by one of the trees that scatter the hill the church sits atop - frankly having less of an ominous impact as always. Mrs. Albright, however, has already up and gone after the door to her white Hudson Commodore was opened to her by her chauffeur; she never was one to stay and mingle when she had about twelve Scottish Terriers to attend to. It’s always Father Dawson who stays to chat by the doors.


It is seventy-nine degrees in Caister this fine, partly cloudy morning. There’s no chance of rain and the high will be eighty-three by two o’clock in the afternoon. The sun is shining and the air is clearer and surely more brisk than that of the church.


And it is, after all, a fine day to thank the Lord and weed out the heretics.

 

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