Multiple Settings Small Town Horror (MA-Rated / Horror/ Closed)

[ShiFty KrYpty]

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Small Town Horror is a multi-part story of Sallow, Illinois; a small hamlet whose biggest fear until recently was their own town dying out. Now, an unspeakable evil has come to the sleepy community, intent on bringing a fate worse than death to the remaining residents. As the body count and missing people rises, it falls on the shoulders of an unlikely group to solve the mystery of what is happening in Sallow, and stop the evil before it can spread.

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ShiFty KrYpty shymorgan The Cat Man Chana themagnoliaofutah Fluffykitty9000​

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[ShiFty KrYpty]

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It was as quiet of a night as any had seen in Sallow, Illinois; once a robust town with the potential for growth was now little more than a painful memory of what had been. One by one, families had begun to leave the small community since 2018, seeing the many signs of a dying town and choosing opportunities elsewhere over prior loyalty. Their homes now sat empty and unsold in entire neighborhoods, some parts being reclaimed by nature with their grass and shrubs growing far beyond their borders. Covid-19 only exacerbated matters, killing not only a number of residents, but also any and all chance of tourism for nearly two years straight, funding that the economy around the hamlet had relied on since the day it was established. The many cars that once carried visitors looking for a respite from an increasingly crowded world now mostly kept driving on, unwilling to even stop and see what could be offered.


It was a sad truth, but a truth all the same that Sallow had become the kind of place that you could feel lost in, even if you knew exactly where you were. There was a loneliness in it that had become innate for those few that chose to stay. It was just a strange feeling to be in the footsteps of where so many lives and sounds once were. Among the only comforts that remained was the sight of the night sky and its full, glossy moon, the kind of majestic view you couldn’t see in the areas close to a thriving, big city. It was exclusive to the rural country areas.

One such moon was there now, hung in glowing silence among the black overcast of gleaming stars, guiding faint light to the remote woods that sat a few miles outside the town. The wind howled with a meager strength, jutting the limbs of the towering trees as a current coursed the ground, picking up dried leaves and tossing their numbers across the hillsides. The temperature bit with a chill for the first time of the year, reminding others that colder weather was coming with the fall, and with it, something unexpected…something that wasn’t supposed to exist. A rev of noise slit the evening bliss, as the brightened beams of headlights erupted under the roar of a powerful diesel engine.

Aldon Briar, a local hunter, stomped at the flatness of his truck's gas pedal with a heavy boot, jamming it back into the base of the floor space. His eyes stung wild with fear as the adrenaline surging his system brought his pupils to full dilation. Back and forth his gaze darted to the rear-view mirror and the empty span of darkened road in it, paying more thought there than what was ahead of him. A laceration, fresh and deep, bled down from his forehead to wet his temple a murky red. Aldon reached up once out of reflex to check the wound before returning his hand to grip the steering wheel harder, trying desperately to delay the thickening veil of delirium slipping over his mind.

He had to get back to the cabin, he told himself. He had to warn someone about what he saw. The truck cut hard into a sharp turn, kicking up motes of dust and gravel rocks with a sliding skid of the tires. There, just beyond the shrouds of shade and trees was his log cabin. Aldon throttled ahead up the path, slamming on the brakes almost too late. The truck stiffened, jostling rapidly while the wheels ripped the ground asunder with their momentum, until finally halting just before hitting the home’s lumber wall. The vehicle door swung open with a rusty moan, unable to help catch Aldon as he slumped through it and struck the outside.

A guttural hack escaped his lungs, laced with traces of blood and saliva that soiled the ground with a red blotch. Five separate gashes showed behind the tattered remains of his flannel shirt, long and deep by design, and bleeding a profuse smear down the length of his blue jeans. Placing his palm upon the rough mixture beneath him, Aldon balled a fist and pushed off, rolling to his stomach where his pain only served to intensify. A hard breeze now flew from the wayside hills, shuffling bush and branch, and sending the hairs of Aldon's neck daggering. With a weary jolt, he returned his head to the forest road, eyes locked wide, breath heaving into hyperventilation. Swirls of gathered leaves now caught in the breeze as it built in ferocity. The towering, wooden giants joined them, lumbering back and forth as the air then took on a stale odor that was now all too familiar to Aldon. It was coming...

Aldon grunted, his wounds burning, but somehow he forced himself to stand. Wobbly legs carried him onto the old porch, where his body collapsed into the door from fatigue. He reached for the knob without hesitation, fighting off his fingers' sudden urge to shudder, and turned it open. Inside, the cabin was for all intents and purposes, a portrait of pioneer life. Simple in its decoration of plain rugs, a few hanging deer heads along with other stuffed animals, but that was where the simplicity stopped. A dozen melted candles lit the room with a soft orange shine, most of which were stationed at a coffee table overtaken by various books and texts. Maps of the local area hung tacked to the walls, specific locations of interest circled or marked out.

Aldon hurried inside, one hand cradling his bleeding stomach, and the other wrestling against the strong wind to lock the door. The glass in the windows now took to vibration, as the hanging ceramic mugs and plates rattled from within the kitchen. Soon, the entire confines of the cabin seemed to quake. Burying a crimson-stained hand into his coat pocket, Aldon recovered his cell phone and anxiously headed for the coffee table. He searched the list of numerous contacts, pressing the directional key further down as fast as his thumb could muster, until pausing on a name he hadn't seen or spoken in some time.

Aldon hit SEND.

The ringing seemed to tread infinitely until a voicemail of a man clicked on, asking the caller to leave a message. Immediately, the turbulent surroundings of the cabin blustered through the speaker, so much that Aldon's voice could just barely be heard on the other end. "It’s me, it’s Aldon!” The man’s terrified voice reeked of panic, stalling what he knew would be crucial words. "It's found us! I don’t know how, but it has, it’s coming for me now! It won’t stop with us, you know that, it’ll take the whole town before it’s done! You have to finish what we started, dammit! Promise me. Promise me you'll end it!"

The cabin now convulsed without restraint. The deer heads shed from their perched positions, as the cabinet doors swung clear and rattled loose their contents onto the wooden floors. Though, through all the clamoring of wind and shattering items, one sound, and one unique sound alone stood out over the rest. It wasn't boisterous, it was subdued. It wasn't powerful, it was strangely gentle. A humming. No, a fluttering.

Aldon froze, his heart pumping with the rhythm of pounding drums. His ears no longer acknowledged the other chaos as his head drew slowly to the closest window, and there his stare gaped. Blackened butterflies, a swarm of immensity gathered and blotted out the glass from the outside, their thousands of tiny bodies climbing over and around each other. What little time he had left had expired. It had arrived.

A thud struck the door, hard and heavy enough to let more wind billow in from the top of the frame. Aldon couldn’t even address the first one before another struck, and another, continuously drawing back and striking until the door began to crack inward. Aldon looked on in awed silence as more and more of the cabin was destroyed around him, and a new sense of hopelessness settled in. He looked to the phone in his hand, acknowledging that the message was still being recorded. His instincts blared for him to run, to try and find a way out, but he somehow knew escape was never an option after what he witnessed, only this last gifted warning. This evil would have him, there was no point in denying it further.

Bringing the phone back to his ear, Aldon eased his nerves the best he could and spoke softly for the final time. "Goodbye, my friend..." His fingers then loosened, allowing the phone to drift from his grasp and plunge to the carpet below.

The cabin door exploded with a booming peal, expelling shredded wooden shards that sent Aldon stumbling down into the grate of the unused fireplace. The swarm of black butterflies swooped inside in a dark, living wave of motion that extinguished the candle flames. They sought upon the human man like flies to a corpse, covering his every inch in an insect coat. Aldon took to screaming and clawing to remove the creatures, but his effort was wasted. Blood seeped from his brown skin from thousands of little bites that were chewed away from him, devoured along with his hair and clothing, until he was mostly bone and tissue.

His right eye wrenched in its socket, yanked by the bugs until it was ripped from it with a geyser of blood, leaving only the left capable of seeing the silhouetted figure that stood in the doorway, eyes burning bright like fire and feeling nothing but the pull of its own needs. Its outline was large, but gaunt, near anorexic. Patiently, as though savoring the moment, it took two heavy steps forward and lowered its crooked posture to open a malformed hand of hooking nails. The palm of the hand then creased and split aside independently, giving way for a barbed tendril of unearthly horror to slither from its home of flesh. Aldon’s screams now overwhelmed all sound, the last thing heard on the other end of the phone line before the message finally cut off.

 

[shymorgan]

Aidan Hartley​

The house on Salmon Road.

There wasn’t anything particularly extraordinary about it, at least not anymore. It was the only house still up on Salmon Road; the road itself was nothing more than a dirt path into a “glorified” forest, a whopping three trees. Nature had taken its course with the structure and Sallow had all but forgotten about the Salmon house. Dried paint peeled from rotting wood, the color faded in most places a bone-white shade. According to records, the owners had painted it salmon pink in honor of the road. Some color could still be seen, if the lighting was right.

Or, maybe it was due to a rash decision, something they had control over when life didn’t give them control…like dying your hair.

Gentle humming could be heard from the house, carried on by the breeze. Trees rustled their branches together, as if to join in the song. Yet, it would be too quiet for even those close by to hear. Not that anyone came around; the owners have since left the house to the elements and moved to Oregon.

“Nice this time of year.”

A redhead sat cross-legged in the decrypted living room, files of the house spread out in front of her. Mr. and Mrs. Swan moved to Oregon nearly five years ago…leaving their little rash decision behind for Sallow to swallow. Aidan Hartley hadn’t cared much for the Salmon House; it was a nice quiet place that smelled of dead birds and mold. No tragedies happened here, according to the city records and the brief phone conversation they had with Mrs. Swan.

Nope. Not a single strange feeling in this house…yet Aidan was always drawn back. This was the ideal place to test her equipment. She wasn’t a Ghost Adventures type investigator. She wanted to make sure she knew exactly what bugs, dust, and other strange lightning looked like on her cameras. Because while Aidan was a firm believer, good evidence was hard to come by and she wasn’t about to scream ghost if there was none to be seen.

They continued to hum, lifting their camera to snap a few test pictures around the living space.

Click.

The old blue chair in the corner of the room, home to the moths now.

Click.

The strange, intricate archway to the kitchen…someone had loved their kitchen once upon a time.

Click.

Thump.

Aidan frowned, tilting her head up towards the ceiling. There was a second story, however, the stairs were rotted almost completely away. A piece of tattered yellow tape had been placed in front of the staircase to discourage anyone, namely herself, from venturing up. Sheriff Rolfe had mentioned the second floor had been on the verge of collapse for some time now.

No one should be able to walk up there without taking the whole house with them. With a lifted shoulder, Aidan pushed herself to her feet. Her pace was slow, nonchalant. There were no bad energies here. This place was…safe. Ghost or animal, Aidan felt no fear. In fact, no adrenaline either which was slightly disappointing. She stopped behind the yellow tape, rocking on the balls of her feet. Dad used to tease her about how she walked. It was always on the balls of her feet, as if she was a ballerina tip toeing everywhere. It would be one of many reasons she had physically stumbled her way through life.

“Hello?”

Their voice was soft, echoing off the walls and back at them. Aidan lifted their camera.

Click.

Aidan slipped under the tape, climbing up the steps. They groaned and creaked with each footfall but she kept her pace steady. Flinching or jumping back may cause it to crumble. And then there will really be a ghost here at Salmon Rd.

At least she would be able to give Maggie some good evidence if she was on the other side. It was a drunken promise they had made; they would give the clearest evidence possible if one of them kicked the bucket before the other.

The stairs led up to a generic hallway, the ground littered with leaves and trash. One room to her left was practically bulging with trash and other junk, making it impossible to get into it without backup. She walked over to a rusted door, trying the knob. Nothing. One shove with her shoulder. It creaked in response but held fast, refusing to give up.

“Alright, Sal…keep your secrets,” Aidan muttered, heading for the farthest room.

Click.

Click.

Sheriff Rolfe would want to know about the state of this if she ever got caught for trespassing…again. Maybe he had already forgotten about it. It would just be her and Sal’s secret then. The thought almost made her smile. Something sticky brushed across her face and she huffed, waving away the spiderwebs. She couldn’t see them, but she definitely could feel them.

This door was more inviting; it was already opened. Aidan stepped inside the room, glancing around. The floor was clear of any debris, minus a few leaves that had been blown in from the shattered window. A single desk stood in the room. Nothing else. No chair, no bookshelf. Just an oak-brown desk with a single slender drawer in the middle.

Aidan took a step towards it and there was a snapping sound, wood shattering under her foot. She jumped back towards the door frame, hissing as chunks of wood scraped her ankle.

“For the love of the gods,” she muttered, clutching her camera. Her eyes narrowed at the desk. Was she really going to tempt death to look at an old desk?

Yes. Yes she was.

Aidan removed the camera from around their neck, gently setting it down by the door. That was far too expensive to get damaged. With a deep breath, the redhead moved forward. Each step was tested with a tap of their foot and a careful pause. Just like a ballerina, Freckles…dance across the room.

No wood gave away and she stopped by the desk, grinning from ear to ear.

“Now…that wasn’t too hard!” There was only a silent response to her breathless triumph. Not that she wanted one; it either meant she was going to get arrested or murdered. Neither was exactly ideal. Carefully, Aidan tugged at the drawer. It slid out easy and her smile faded.

It was empty.

“That was anticlimactic.”

Click.

Aidan turned her head towards the door and down at her camera. A single black butterfly was crawling over it, its wings flapping gently. There was not a stitch of coloring on it’s battered wings, which was odd. She didn’t recognize the species…maybe Maggie would know?

“Did you take a picture of me?” They asked, carefully making their way towards the door. It had taken them less time and by the time they had managed to get back, the butterfly was fluttering around the room. Aidan gingerly picked up their camera, checking the setting. No timer had been set; not even by mistake. How strange. When the redhead looked up, the strange butterfly was gone. And so was the breeze.

A buzz in her back pocket snapped her out of her thoughts and she sighed. There would be no signal here to look at the message; she would need to walk back into town.

“Real life calls,” Aidan groused before climbing back down the stairs, leaving Sal and their secrets for another time.

 

[The Cat Man]

Ian Woodland​

The rickety highway road that passes in good ol' Sallow was always a long one for those that remained within the confines of that withering corpse of a town, it was always a long carpet of concrete that stretched towards the endless horizon, the unknown world beyond it ignorant to the many dreams and nightmares of this town. Many have left and many have remained, though perhaps there is no many to speak of anymore nowadays, either slowly turning back into ash inside a coffin beneath the earth or finally facing that glowing sun in the distance head-on, perhaps burning in the scorching blaze or finding peace within the shades.
One particular resident of Sallow has once crawled across this paved road, like a cockroach that willfully separated from it's nest, young and confused as it met with the harshest reality of consequence from a choice. It somehow managed to survive the speeding car as it hitched a ride by barely grabbing onto it, embracing the incoming life with nothing but it's body and it's measly little antennas that captured the vaguest of pipe dreams after scurrying around town incapable of proper thought, a pathetic and disgusting view to those who witnessed it.

Today, that same cockroach is now completely ran over, it's little guts lying in the road, the brutality of this crime forever imperceptible to all as the culprit behind blasted away carelessly in his automobile... It's still there though, just barely hanging on as it endured the rotating mechanism of the wheel with the floor...
Riding in a fairly high speed in his silver open convertible, the only thing that's more expensive than his current black suit and his classic shades, is Ian Woodland, who was loudly singing outloud to the chorus of the music within the installed player. Boys Don't Cry by The Cure, a song that not only is loud enough for him to immerse himself to, but also relates to his rampant anxiety of returning to a part of his life that Ian thought he had completely killed, venting his emotions by singing and speeding hard, though going slower than he usually can in a chidish perspective to appreciate every second he has left before he returns back into that town.

Ian was returning for a completely selfish motive, as per usual, he didn't need to return to town just because he happened to hear his mother died a few months ago from now. He chose to leave his home behind on his own terms, going back would only be making things worse for his father's mourning, and his dad doesn't need more whispers about his fucked up son.
But alas, Ian's impulsivity gets the best of him yet again, he wished he wasn't born under such loving parents so he wouldn't feel this damned regret... However, what could he have done?
Ian simply told the truth, sure he got a bit too far sometimes, but it was all he ever did and he was shamed for it.
He was shamed for calling them what they are.
A bunch of fucking cowards.

...
A tattered away sign that barely told anything anymore foretold a bad future ahead, Ian's car ride was about to end, and it's back to that hellhole it would be. If only a miracle happened while he was out and made the town JUST a little more bearable to handle... Ian sighed, abruptly pressing the stop button and ending his little concert, focusing on the road ahead...
How funny is it? Ian had to keep laughing to himself to not lose it in a petty frustration.
He fought so hard to leave, and now, it's almost like he's strolling back.
How did he even get here?

Ian is essentially a higher-up at a media distribution firm across the Midwest and the Northeast, the official term is an Administrative Manager, though he describes his job more as a "give some jackass a fat scolding and lounge around". It's not unusual for him to have some road trips across the states to solve some management shit, so his apartment in Michigan tends to be vacant for a few weeks before he returns.
Just a dumb tabloid magazine copy Ian's eyes glazed over while solving some archiving issues because a dumbass couldn't read, a side topic made by an even dumber reporter who saw a breadcrumb and thought it was enough for a story.
"Priest's wife mysteriously dies! A cursed town?"
Ian was probably one insult away from getting a HR complaint that day.

And so, he's here, taking a convinient vacation as Ian drove into Illinois for the first time in a long while and finally started to breath in that classic air that feels like it grazed over a damn skeleton, complete with the totally normal black butterfly fluttering about and landing on the hood of his car for a brief moment, taking off into the distance into the treeline.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
"...He-fucking-llo, Sallow."
His car stiffened as Ian pulled over the convertible and closed the top as he sarcastically muttered to himself, readjusting his glasses, the faster he can get this over with the better, and there's more people here that he hates than he loves, he'd rather be overlooked than looked over.
And in we go.

...

Many places he recognized, not like he gave a shit.
Many faces he knew, not like he could care.
However, there's just one place in Sallow where Ian feels more at home than anywhere else in the whole world...
But not just yet, probably too many people there in this point in time and he doesn't want to be a bother more than he already must be, at least that's what he assumed, perhaps it's just another excuse because he's scared.
So Ian just... gingerly drove around town within the places he used to know, uncertain of what to do now that he's actually here after all... Just getting into the spirit of things again perhaps.
Besides, Ian needs to know what's new in Sallow, it's been a while, things must have changed.
Perhaps even since the moment he got here.

 

[ShiFty KrYpty]

RILE MARSH
WARNING: GRAPHIC LANGUAGE​

Halogen blades pierced the early morning I-57 highway, a barren stretch of road as long and deep as a good drag should be. Noise followed with the light, a throaty roar of a throttle hitting 90 on the speedometer, joined by notes of bursting exhaust. It was sex appeal turned metal, a Harley Davidson Sportster 1200 with legacy tank for the long hauls. The rider was a young man, well-built, and painted with various tattoos on his powerful arms, most of which concealed scars from everything like bullets and knives to hot sex. Each one of them had a story, but all of which were written in the same chapter, a chapter that had closed in his life.

Rile Marsh leaned into the throttle and surged ahead, as though he had some place to be, some place he belonged. He didn’t. Not anymore. He veered from lane to lane with indifference, the idea of an oncoming collision looking like the answer he’d been searching for. There was a time where that wasn’t the case though, where Rile thought he had all the answers, on top of everything he could want. Those were the days of the Savages MC; a brotherhood that made the Hell’s Angels look like SJW’s.

Rile knew their image before he signed up, knew that to many people they were the same as their namesake. A lot of that was true, but when you deal with monsters, do you really have a choice in becoming one? He didn’t think so. However, those same people might be surprised to know that the ties that held the club together were based on ethics. Loyalty, care, sacrifice, all the things that signified family. All things he would never know again. It was the second time that happened to him…

Letting up on the throttle, Rile watched the needle drop as he crossed back into the correct lane. The bright electronic sign of a gas station was about half a mile ahead, and at the current hour of 6 am, it was a good bet the law might be found there. The last thing he needed was getting pulled over by a Statie and having his record run. To Rile’s knowledge he didn’t have any open warrants, but records of past infractions always seemed to ensure a special kind of abuse from cops. The area of the country didn’t fucking matter. A pig’s always a pig, and they love giving shit.

A quick glance to his gas gauge reading just above empty brought a look of annoyance, one that said he should stop, cop or not. For a moment, Rile questioned if he could make it to the next station, but quickly realized the last one he saw was nearly 20 miles ago. Steering his bike reluctantly into the open area of gravel just before the fuel pumps, Rile found the lot mostly empty, save for a rusted truck with brass balls dangling from the trailer hitch. It was the premier identifier for redneck shit-kickers everywhere. Not that he was judging.

Inside the station, an old man could be seen behind the counter, his tired eyes lowered into a magazine. Another man, younger by a decade or so, donned with a scruffy beard and faded John Deere hat was going to town with his body language. A one-sided argument by the looks of it. Rile stepped from his bike and made his way through the glass door, igniting its ‘ding’ signal of a new customer, though neither of the station’s occupants appeared to give a damn.

“Alby, you senile motherfucker, are you listening to me?!” The angry man blared, his tone reeking of twanged frustration. “I told you I want a refund for dem nuts out there. I ordered the gold ones, not the brass! My truck does not go with brass! Now either your eyesight is as dogshit as your prices, or you purposely ordered me the wrong nuts.”

The old man, Alby Kerns, the owner and operator of the unnamed gas station, finally lifted his head from the magazine to respond. “Ray…” Alby started with a sigh, his dull expression hinting at a history of past disputes with this same man. “You pointed to the brass when I showed you the catalog. Now maybe, just maybe, you got a little excited and failed to recognize the color difference at the time.”

Ray Booker racked his jaw at the implication, his tongue traced the inside of his lower lip as a scoff fell out his mouth. “You calling me a liar, Alby? Cuz I’d like to think you know better than that, and another thing…” Ray stopped mid-sentence when he noticed Rile quietly watching the exchange from the door. “And what the fuck do you think you’re looking at, cocksucker?”

Rile took Ray’s insult undauntedly, his stare holding on the man briefly before turning his head to Alby. “Just need a fill up.” He said, reaching back for his wallet and retrieving a debit card from it.

“You see any card readers in here or on them pumps, boy?” Ray spouted, interrupting Alby before he could reply.” It’s self-serve, you dumb fuck. Alby only takes cash, anyhow. He runs his business like his brain runs his body, outdated.”

“Fuck you, Ray.” Alby fired back, his eyes looking more alive now than previously.

“Oh, well look at that!” Ray mocked with exaggerated surprise. ‘Looks like you finally found the right set of nuts after all.”

“Nah, he just lost patience.” Rile replied, returning his card to his wallet and placing it into his back jean pocket. “Can’t blame him. I’ve been in your company for 5 minutes and I already envy everyone who hasn’t met you.”

Alby and Ray both froze in place. One from astonishment laced with humor, and the other in silent vitriol.

“That a fact?” Ray muttered, his voice tensed as he closed the distance between him and the biker, grabbing the single Bud Light can from atop a nearby box display in his hand. He squared up with Rile, standing above six feet, but still short of a few inches in height. “That was a rude thing you said there. Maybe you’d like to apologize now and we can have a drink together.”

“You haven’t paid for that beer, Ray.” Alby interjected, but was silenced by a raised middle finger from Booker’s hand.

Rile kept his eyes locked in line with Ray’s, but couldn’t fight the smirk that came next. He’d met a hundred men like this one in his time with the Savages. They were always quick to anger, quick to intimidate others. They thought themselves dangerous. The difference between them and actual dangerous men was the theatrics. Dangerous men didn’t need them, didn’t need to ask for an apology, they’d already be making them wish their mother swallowed the load that produced them.

“Say I don’t. What then?” Rile asked, still smirking.

Ray nodded as though he understood and found a smirk of his own. “Well, I guess you’ll be drinking alone then.” Acting fast, Ray shook the can in his hand and drove it upwards to the biker’s features, releasing the tab and spraying a wave of bubbly alcohol into Rile’s face. Rile turned his head to the side with his eyes shut and his nose blowing out the remains of the liquid that made it inside. It was only a few seconds before his gaze found Ray again, still undaunted, but far from happy. “What, you mad?" The redneck taunted, "that was cuz of you.”

To say the punch that followed was fast would be the understatement of understatements. Rile struck with a speed unexpected of a man of his build, collapsing Ray like a folding chair and sending him head first into the mounted beer display behind him, spilling blue cans all throughout the stocked aisles of the gas station.

“No, that was because of me.” The biker retorted, reclaiming his smirk. Waiting to see if Ray was conscious enough to continue and finding him not, Rile approached Alby at the counter. “My bad for the mess. How much for the display and some gas?”

Alby, still astonished, shook his head before a smile stretched the length of his cheeks. “Son, it’s all on me. I’ve been waiting to see someone do that to him for 40 fucking years.” He said, reaching out to pat the younger man endearingly on his big shoulder.

“You sure?" Rile questioned, his voice cracking with humor at the old man’s generosity.

“Trust me. Anything you need, it’s yours.” Alby confirmed.

Thinking of his long list of needs, another thought occurred to the biker. One that might be of just as much use as the free gas. “Is there a motel near here? I’ve been driving all night and caffeine only does so much.”

Alby didn’t need the time to think of his answer. “Sure is. There’s a town about ten miles south of here called Sallow. It’s actually fallen on hard times with the epidemic and all, but the truth is it's been trending down for some time. Either way, it could use your business. Nothing fancy, mind you, but there’s a motel, some stores, a restaurant, and a bar or two to keep yourself interested during your stay. I’d personally like to recommend the Bottom’s Up for some more adult-oriented entertainment, if you’re interested in such a thing.” Alby leaned his head in and tried to wink inconspicuously, but failed miserably.

“Sounds like trouble. I’ll definitely check it out.” Rile winked back in gratitude, then turned to leave, veering just slightly in order to dig a booted heel into Ray’s fingers and produce a loud crunch.

The sun was just beginning to edge out of the horizon when Rile finished filling his tank. It was in the same direction as the town the old man mentioned. Sallow…for a reason he wasn’t sure of, the biker had a strange feeling about the destination, but then again, there wasn’t much a man like him could be sure of these days. Revving his engine and hearing his bike roar, Rile burned his tires out in place before launching down the road again.

 

[c h a n a]

Summer Divan
╔══════════════╗
Summer's fingers tapped inattentively on the keys of her laptop. It was past noon, and the light streaming through the hospital cafeteria's windows and onto her computer screen made writing her notes a frustrating task. She'd wanted to spend her break eating, at least, but her father had been hovering all day, and when lunchtime came she felt it wouldn't be right to delay a much-needed study session when he expected so much of her. She'd spent three weeks on a geriatric rotation so far, and needless to say it was misarable. While it meant she could hang around in Sallow more often than usual-- avoiding her commute to the med school an hour away-- it also meant, well, being is Sallow. Her university in particular preferred to put students on long rotations to hospitals in the area, and usually Summer was placed right at home for convenience. She soon realized her mind wandering, and resigned to the fact that not only had she wasted 30 minutes on futile note-taking, but that she was hungry, and her break was up. She heaved a sigh and snapped her laptop shut with an ounce of aggression. Hopefully the last half of her shift would be easier.

The hospitalized elderly population of Sallow was usually the most demanding. Summer couldn't figure out why, but she guessed it was because they were old and sick. That was enough to piss anyone off. One patient in particular had come in just four days prior, and had been a breath of fresh air compared to the screaming, biohazard-throwing patients she'd seen during earlier shifts. Summer rounded a corner and dipped into a room, knocking lightly as she did so. "Hello Mrs Jones? You had asked one of the nurses about medication, I was just coming to discuss those with you?" The woman was frail and docile, but nevertheless incredibly kind. She'd been hospitalized for a fall that broke one of her hips, but that hadn't hindered her good attitude. Summer was finding herself visiting Mrs. Jones more and more often, and she dared to say they'd struck up a sort of friendship. "Come in dear, yes I had some pain..." She pointed to her right hip with an apologetic smile, which was currently bandaged and supported with a lifeless pillow.

Summer took the initiative and went to readjust it, making sure the cushion was properly placed before she pulled up a swivel chair and sat down. Since it was just the two of them she felt like she could relax. Usually she'd be accompanying a resident when addressing a patient, but no one had followed her in this time. Summer took in a breath, painting a ready smile on her face to ease any awkwardness in the room. Maybe that was just for her own benefit. Before she could say anything, Mrs. Jones spoke again. Summer had come to expect many interruptions, especially from her older patients.

"You look like you don't want to be here." The woman said with a hint of a laugh, seemingly unbothered now by the pain in her hip. Summer assumed it must be mild, then, or her previous dose had begun to kick in. Summer chuckled nervously, not wanting to seem rude. She had been told that her bedside manner could use some work. While in private settings she was confident and focused, her interactions with patients one-on-one could be stilted and tense. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Summer shook her head slowly and rolled her eyes for a beat. "You got me, Mrs. Jones." She paused, glancing around the room and noticing that the blinds were half shut. The room was a dreary shade of pale gray, making her all the more unwilling to engage. With a raise of her brows she gesrtured towards the window, gaining the older woman's approval before she drifted over and pulled them open. As light flooded the room Mrs. Jones gave a wave. "That's perfect. Now come sit down, I have to tell you about my grandson."

The two now immersed themselves in pleasantries. Eventually Summer would have to leave, but for the time being, it was just the two of them. In a town like Sallow, Summer was beginning to appreciate little moments such as those; no hovering dad, no catty nurses, no belligerent patients, a reprieve from the rednecks... Unbeknownst to them both, a butterfly floated into view outside the window; black wings reflectng iridescence as it danced out of view and into anonymity.​

 

[themagnoliaofutah]

Maggie hadn't left the house - which wasn't out of the ordinary. She had just gotten another book on local architecture throughout history, and was currently writing an article on how it reflected the societal views and general zeitgeist for each period, focusing specifically on the 1950s. She hadn't finished her book yet - a comprehensive history on Sallow and the closest towns in that general area - but articles for various magazines and peer journals helped pay the bills. She paused, computer cursor hovering over the text, and stood, finally eating some of the now-soggy bowl of cereal on the desk next to her. Although she had gotten just as dressed up as usual, in terms of eating or hydrating she had done absolutely nothing that day.

It had been a quiet week for her - few visitors and fewer reasons to leave the house. But as she stepped out onto her porch to get some much-needed air, she thought that she needed reasons to. It was a nice day - in her opinion, at least - and just maybe it'd be nicer to get some research done outside.

 

[seasonedcat]

Tw| Dysphoria
the water descended from his pale frame like a rainstorm, his eyes locked on a strangers face as he stood there. His towel had long been discarded at his feet as the two of them stood exposed, locked in a battles of gazes that held an undecipherable emotions. The steam in the bathroom had long grown cold, fleeing from the battle in the room from the small open window that hovered near the white ceiling.

Quintin shivered in the room too large for him, watching as the woman in the mirror also did so, her arms moving to hug herself to try and regain some warmth. He hated how she copied him with everything that he did. He hated how she was the person he always saw looking back at him in the mirror. He cupped the fat blobs on his chest and pushed them until they hurt against his ribs, the woman in the mirror giving him a pained gaze as he turned sideways to see how flat he could make it.

his hands shook as he let the fat fall, flinching at the way they bounced back into place. He let the two of them stand there in silence for a moment before he found himself leaning forward and getting closer to her, pushing up her cheeks and looking how she would look, the way her face became more angular, more masculine.

he once again let her face drop from his grasp as they gazed back and forth, this time turning into one of annoyance. Without much more thought he moved in a quick motion and grabbed the pair of scissors on the counter, he grabbed her drying hair and put the sharp end to its strands and they both stood there. Their chests heaved as he shut his eyes painfully, willing himself to just push his fingers down and cut it all off.

he let the scissors clatter into the porcelain sink as he found himself falling to the ground out of the view of the woman. Out of her gaze he found himself weeping as he curled into himself, clutching his legs to himself and shaking through the agony of still feeling her skin on his own, how it felt covered in dirt.

his quieted sobs echoed through the quiet bathroom, leaking into the empty house. His dad had been gone for a while again, having left sometime in the early morning. He doubted it was anything important as it almost never was. Nothing interesting ever happened in this dying town and nothing ever would. All he could do was ache against the frigid tiles and cry to himself as that is the only way he could.

 

[shymorgan]

Aidan Hartley ​

“Hartley!”

A rough voice echoed from her right, just under the awning of Dave’s Bar and Tavern. The redhead paused, smiling as a man pushed off one of the wooden supports. He was of average height, his build suggested that he was once a fit young man. His skin was weathered and brown from long days out in the sun, his hair a merle of gray and black hairs.

“Hello, AJ,” she greeted, beginning her walk once more as the man caught up. He held his hand out expectantly and she carefully unwrapped the camera from around her shoulders, handing it over.

“Any good pictures of the Salmon house?” He asked, holding his hand over the screen to view it against the sun’s glare.

“Camera is real nice…it was a good purchase. That house is falling apart though,” she added, glancing around the empty road. Most people would be at church this time of morning, so very little was open. It was perhaps her favorite time; the only good reason for organized religion to be around in her opinion.

“You shouldn’t have gone alone,” AJ grumbled, shooting her a withering glare.

“And you shouldn’t be drinking this early in the morning,” Aidan pointed out. The man shoved the camera back into her hands, lifting a shoulder.

“Normally, I would agree,” He admitted, falling silent. While AJ was an alcoholic, it was rather strange to smell the whisky on him so early. He had a rule: no drinking before two unless there was a death.

“AJ…are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Nah. No…nothing to concern yourself, darling. I just broke my own rule once. Might be a storm coming…just felt like…I don’t know, like a ball of nervous energy?”

“That’s usually called anxiety and yes, old men can have it too,” she teased, lifting her camera. AJ scowled at her and she snapped a picture.

The two walked down the dirt road, towards the Cup o’ Frank coffee shop. It was normally where Aidan and Maggie would meet up to look over evidence. It was fairly quiet and in her opinion, comfortable. Speaking of Maggie, she pulled out her phone.

Maggie, Valentine contacted me about a potential case. Let’s meet up; I also have pictures from the Jackson Case.

“You girls have another case?”

“I think so…actually, Valentine contacted me. Mentioned something about strange animal bodies appearing out in her stretch of woods.”

AJ wrinkled his nose, his eyebrows furrowing. He shook his head.

“That sounds like a wild dog…maybe an escaped pet tiger if we are lucky for a good enough story. Something a hunter should be more capable of handling.”

“I…actually agree with you. I don't think there is anything paranormal about it. However, you know how superstitious she is. Besides, she gives me wild game liver and hearts for free. Spirit really enjoys them. It’s the least I can do,” Aidan chuckled, pausing in front of the coffee shop.

The old man shook his head, jaw tense. AJ had always been a curious man. He was one with many thoughts and very rarely spoke his mind, potentially to avoid conflict.

“Can I buy you coffee and lunch at least? That might ease you,” she asked. He chuckled, glancing down. While Aj was a kind man…he was still a man. She knew from several of his drunken rambles that he hated being dependent on the town for a meal from time to time.

“Will you do one thing for me?”

“Name it.”

“Don’t take Valentine's request. If it is a wild animal, and I would bet my soul that it is, you will only be chasing a scared animal around the wood and potentially getting yourself hurt,” AJ warned, his tone dropping.

“We don’t chase things. We record things. I promise that as soon as I see the glowing eyes of a rabid coyote, I’ll call Valentine and she will take care of it. And…I know your order. It was just a courtesy to ask you.”

The old man’s jaw remained tense and he muttered curses of women with minds before waving his hand.

“I suppose I ain’t stopping you,” he said in an exaggerated south draw and Aidan scrunched her nose at him.

“Fine…you keep watch for Maggie and I’ll get our order in,” she chirped. Aj stood straight, saluting her with a toothy grin.

“Yes, ma’am.” Aidan’s shoulders squared more and she saluted back at him before skipping up the steps.

AJ's smile faded as soon as the young woman disappeared into the building, turning to face the empty town. His long fingers reached for his belt, tugging free the leather flask he carried. The whiskey no longer burned yet he wished it still had. It did sting his chapped, peeling lips, acting as some sort of grounding sensation. In the distance, the rev of a truck’s engine ripped through the peaceful silence of the town and the hooting of men was no different than the cackling of coyotes. Men….they were more trouble than even a pack of coyotes.

Especially the leader of them.

 

[ShiFty KrYpty]

RILE MARSH​

Sleep was never easy for Rile Marsh. Most times, he’d just lay there and stare up at the ceiling and fight the urging to think. It didn’t help that it was the middle of the day outside, and it especially didn’t help that the only motel in town was across the road from the strip club that the old man told him about. He could hear the rhythmic bumping of the music through the walls, on top of a different sort of bumping from the couple next door. Not that Rile wanted to complain, he hoped the guy gave her hell. Still, none of it was helping him rest.

He sat up on his hard mattress and kicked his legs over the side of the frame, his thoughts trying to talk him out of the solution he always turned to. However, there was only one thing that ever made him fully pass out, but…he wasn’t proud of it. Sinking his hand into his pocket, the biker retrieved a small baggie full of something white. He couldn’t even recall what the pills were before they were powder, but that didn’t matter to him, only that it would give him what he needed. Rile opened the bag, careful not to spill its contents, and spread a small, even line across his index finger. One quick stroke of his nose and the powder was gone.

A convulsive cough blew out his throat, punctuated by a series of deep nostril breaths to fight the instant sting, as well as ensure the drugs stayed where they should. It wasn’t long before the feeling hit him, the feeling of unfeeling. It was euphoric and numbing, sweet, but with a bitter burn. Rile could feel the room start to sway, his head drifting weightless from one side to the other, as though it would float away if he didn’t hold on with both hands. His back hit the mattress again, but Rile didn’t notice, he was too immersed, like a slice of butter melting down a tall stack of pancakes.

“Riley.” He heard a voice call next to him. “Riley, look at me.”

With a slow, tremulous shift of his head, Rile followed the voice to its source, his mouth gaping as though he’d become a fish. There, a young girl of blonde hair was curled beside him, her head resting in line with his on the bed. Her looks were that of an adolescent, no older than sixteen, but there was a hidden wisdom in her face, a maturity beyond her years.

“What’re you doing?” She asked, concern weighing down her soft brown eyes.

“I’m…thinking…of you.” Rile replied, his words falling lethargic. “Always…of you.”

“You shouldn’t do this to yourself.” The girl warned. “You could die, stupid.”

“Then…I-I’ll be…with you.” Rile replied, trying to lift a hand to her face, but finding he no longer possessed the strength to, his arm veering back to flop atop his chest.

“You can’t be with me.” She said, her sadness bringing life to tears falling down her face. “Not yet.”

“Come on…being dead…doesn’t sound so…bad. You still…got your looks.” The biker joked as the girl chuckled, but it was a laugh in heartbreak. “I’m tired, brat…will you stay…until I sleep?”

“Of course.” She nodded, placing her soft fingers over his.

“Thank…you.” Were Rile’s final words before his eyelids weighed to a close, and his breath eased into slumber.

* * * * *​

It was roughly five hours later when the biker finally woke, jarred from sleep by an explosion on the television. Squeezing at the space between his eyes, Rile looked at the alarm clock next to him on the end table and waited for his vision to adjust from their current blur. It read 5:25, but his head felt as though only minutes had passed. Part of it was the drugs, they’d always had a draining effect. Another part was he hadn’t eaten yet. Biding his time until he felt awake enough, Rile slid from bed and stood, grabbing his keys as he made his way for the door.

As he opened it, the biker stopped to take one more glance at the side of the bed the girl was on. He lingered there, wishing as he always had that she was still around. In some fucked up way, she still was to him. He’d see her again tonight, tomorrow, every day as long as he had the money to make her real. The cost on his wallet and his body didn’t matter, it would never be too much to Rile. He’d rob a goddamn bank if he had to, or even the dealers themselves. Shutting the door, a black butterfly could be seen perched on the outside doorknob of the next room.

Rile stared at it, its size nearly the width of the knob itself. There were no other colors on its wings, which struck him odd, despite knowing little to nothing about the insects. Chasing the thought away, the biker straddled the seat of his ride and started it up with a rumbling bark. It was time to see what this shitburg had to offer.