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Author Topic: Tradewinds (Original Fiction)  (Read 25283 times)

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November 02, 2017, 01:20:48 AM
Reply #450
“Good morning!” Moira Stilton, the innkeeper, hailed. Middle aged, world weary, and seemingly always wiping something down at her counter.

“What’s so good about it?” Roger Wilco, pilot of one currently grounded Albatross, muttered as he stumbled down the stairs and into the lobby of Pines Lodge, which also doubled as bar and dining lounge. Along with a mild hangover, his injured leg was still giving him grief, even a week after their crash landing at Camp Stilton. Though a tad stout and barrel-chested, his companions noted that he looked to have lost a little weight of late, and figured that days of staring out at those creepy Woods (and the Woods glaring back) would be enough to kill anyone’s appetite. His khaki shirt fitting loose and rumpled, his pilot cap stuffed down over his bed hair, and he still hadn’t gotten around to shaving.

“Well, you could start with the fact that you’re still alive to enjoy it,” Max pointed out from a nearby table, where the young adventurer and his friend, Justin Black, were finishing their breakfast. “And Shelby did tow your plane all the way back here.”

Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair, the pilot considered him a classic duo contrast to Justin, who as short and wiry, with a mop of black hair.

“And I’m grateful for that,” Roger sighed, “don’t get me wrong. It’s just that now we have to get ’er up the coast to find anyone who can possibly fix my poor bird…”

“Who’s this we?” Justin intoned. “You landed us safe and sound, and we came back for you. I’m pretty sure that makes us even.”

“I’m sorely tempted to say you just came back for your damn cat…” he retorted.

“I think you just did,” the put-upon publican chided him as she scrubbed the bar counter. The big cat was still sleeping up in Max’s room, from both his crash injuries, and six restless nights at Camp Stilton, with the Woods looming over them. “And I think that little nightcap has got you up on the wrong side of the bed.”

Even making it back to Pickford by nightfall left Roger’s nerves jangled, after those harrowing days and nights out there. A couple on the house, out of sympathy for anyone having to stare down the Woods for nearly a week, but even he had to admit he may have overdone it.

“Shelby’s willing to tow you upshore for only the cost of fuel. You’re lucky he’s willing to do that, after springing that tow job on him out there, of all places…”

In the meantime, Sheriff Duhan assured him that his plane would be left alone for the time being. Though that still didn’t stop random townsfolk from passing through the docks just to gawk at the poor bird. Apparently even shooed some kids away earlier this morning, telling them to go play somewhere else for now.

“Still no sign of Roxy or Erix?” the pilot groaned as he took a seat at the table.

“Nothin’,” Justin told him.

“Roxy would probably present herself, if she saw no harm in it,” Max extrapolated the bounty hunter’s most likely choices, based on their short, but rather eventful, acquaintance. “She’d probably ask around about us, too. Erix…”

Would most likely be a thief in the night, leaving as little trace as possible, especially if Roxy still hunted him. All the same, they had warned Sheriff Duhan to keep an eye out for any missing stuff. As well as any breaks in the palisade walls around the edge of town, given the infamous outlaw’s energy blades, and general aversion to knocking, unless it happened to suit him.

Much as Max was inclined to regard either of them as too stubborn to die, they did both chase each other in the direction of the doomed town of Rannigan’s Wharf, from which no one ever returned. Though they did find evidence of someone using energy blades around that abandoned logging mill up the river on their way…

“I hope the damn trees ate him!” Roger grumbled. Then, recalling what they told him about a certain missing girl whose remains they recovered, whose grieving father still came to their aid, he mumbled, “Would serve him right, unlike that poor little girl… So, uh, where’s Shades at this hour of the day?”

“Went for a walk,” Justin replied. What the third member of their crew had called a vigorous constitutional. What to him, at least, sounded like a euphemism for taking a really big crap. “We trudge for days through those goddamn Woods, and the first thing he wants to do after making it back to civilization? Go take a walk…”

“It’s safe enough, here in town,” Moira reminded them. “Sister Clarice still maintains the old wardings around the outskirts.”

“So, who is this Clarice?” Max asked her. He had heard the name dropped a few times since they first arrived in Pickford, but nothing much by way of explanation. She had yet to make an appearance, though they were told she wasn’t feeling well at this time.

“Oh, I forget, you wouldn’t know…” Moira looked around, noting their conversation wasn’t being too closely scrutinized by any of the few patrons taking breakfast at the Pines this morning, though she doubted anyone would make any real objections by this point. “It’s a little awkward to explain to those who didn’t go through all the things we did, but things kept getting worse that first year after the Woods went bad. Until the Wall was finished, people kept goin’ missing. People, animals, things… The outskirts of town were already abandoned by that point, folks what hadn’t vanished movin’ up the coast, as many as could get away with it…”

After all they’d seen in the past week, Max could picture it more easily than he cared to. A looming, lurking menace, and a frustrating limit to any search party’s range before having to cut their losses and write folks off. The more he pondered it, the more amazed he was there was even still a town left to speak of anymore.

“It was about then that the Sisters first arrived,” Moira continued. “The Order of St Lucy, come down the coast from where they were staying when they heard about what happened here.”

Max perked up at the mention of that name, and Justin raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve heard of them?”

“Sort of,” Max replied. “Just the name, though. Of an island, actually.”

“Odd. I may have to ask her about that some time… Oh, where was I? Ah yes, the Order. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised you’ve heard of them, they rarely put down roots, though they tried to here. Pity it ended the way it did.

“At first, they were a glimmer of hope in troubled times. Their wardings helped hold back the Evil, even before the Wall was fully completed. Things were going better than they had in a long time, but then they had to go and challenge the Castle.”

“The Castle?” Roger piped up. “Shelby mentioned something like that.”

“Vineholdt.” Moira nodded. “The Rigby mansion. No one knows what went on that awful night. Anyone who was in there at the time was never heard from again. Even when the police searched the place, they found nothing. Even lost the sheriff in there, never seen again. Old Willard Duhan’s done the best he can ever since.”

“And I’m guessing there was no search for him, either?” Justin intoned.

“No, and I can’t say I blame them. Not even Tully, who lost his wife. The ones who came back from that house all had the same haunted looks on their faces, as if they’d each seen things they’d rather not talk about. And they don’t, even to this day. The neighborhood around there started emptying out almost as fast the outskirts. Talk of bad dreams, queer lights, and nobody wanting their children anywhere near that place.”

“Can’t say I blame them, either,” Roger commented.

“That’s for sure,” Moira remarked. “That was also about when the Sisters decided to push back against it, seeing the place, and whatever happened in there, as the root of the problem. After all, they already made a name for themselves holding back the Woods.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t end well?” Justin leaned back in his seat.

“Elder Sister Leta believed, as many of us still do, that the spirit of Veronica Rigby still haunts that place. Even Clarice believes that the house wants something, and after what happened to them, she thinks it’s safer not to give it anything more. They tried to banish the evil power from the Castle, but it was too much for them. For all their spells and prayers, it still killed Sister Leta.”

And so Pickford’s faith in the Mother Goddess would indeed be short-lived, as Moira related:

“The others buried her in a local graveyard, took the next train up the coast. We never heard from any of them again. Only Sister Clarice stayed behind, and she does what she can. Wardings and talismans and such, but one lone Sister, against the Woods, I fear she overworks herself, even with Jarvis helping out. No wonder she took ill lately…”

“And no one’s been in there since?” Max asked.

“Not many,” Moira warned them. “Because of that, the place was never cleared out. Even though the Commonwealth at large was having a bad time— lumber was down, the shipyards in Hawthorne were out of clients, even the project to expand the railroad between Mountain and Mesa Districts fell apart. Talk of some stupid border dispute out in the desert, been years since the last time we had any word from the other side of the mountains…

“Anywise, what was I saying? Oh, right, the economy was in a rut, but even so, while some of the other Founders were losin’ money left an’ right, ol’ Rigby seemed to hold on. No shortage of luxury in that house, at least according to Ethan…” She sighed, then resumed: “Oh sure, a few people tried, ramblin’ about treasures still hidden away inside that most won’t dare go after, just drunken bets and would-be treasure hunters. Occasionally, some bold soul might try— mostly outlanders, or rubes from upshore— but most are never seen again. The few what escape hightailed it up the coast, saying no treasure was worth the horrors they faced in there. After what happened to the Sisters, the whole estate was condemned, no one in their right mind will go anywhere near it.”

“So I guess you do have an idea just how maddening it is,” Roger sighed. “To have the solution to your problems dangling just out of reach…”

“We barely survived the Woods,” Max cautioned him. “I know you want your plane to fly again, but please don’t try anything crazy. There has to be a better way to get the money…”

“Hold up lads, your friend’s got the right of it.”

Even Moira jumped in spite of herself as Jarvis Tully materialized behind their table.

“Whatever’s in that house keeps to itself,” the grim groundskeeper continued, “but woe be to anyone who goes muckin’ about in there.”

“Even you’ve never cased the joint?” Roger gave him a wry smile. “As the caretaker, you must know your way around. Maybe you’d have a better chance than the others.”

“And where would you get a damn fool idea like that?”

“Well,” Justin piped up, “we heard they were rich, and nobody claimed any of their stuff…”

“Now don’t be gettin’ any bright ideas.” From the look in his eye, one would almost think Justin spoke of looting his own home. “You’d have to be totally daft to risk it.”

“I’m with him,” Max added. “Let’s go hit the marketplace, see what we can find. Shades said he’d catch up with us there.”

With that, they thanked Moira for a hearty breakfast as Roger ordered his, and headed out.
-Standing backwards, Scoot.

November 08, 2017, 03:22:48 PM
Reply #451
Shades strolled along, of a mind to take a load off his own.

From losing the Maximum, to the Excelsior hijacking. Their whirlwind stay in Anchor Point, crash-landing and nightmare trek through the Woods, to their harrowing voyage around the peninsula and back. It all happened so fast of late, with scarcely a moment to catch their breaths in between.

Now here he was, ambling down one of many dirt roads through a dwindling town that still stood vigil against the Woods. In his short time here, he had learned of other towns farther up the coast, and figured he and his friends would soon be taking the train out there, likely only a matter of days. Of course, Moira had advised them not to mention Camp Stilton or the Woods out that way, as the folks in those parts apparently held to a very stubborn denial about the peninsula.

Though that still left Roger, trying to figure out what to do about his grounded Albatross. When it comes to what you care about, he said, you save what you can and figure it out as you go along. It sounded like words that tided him over through other crises, but lacked much conviction in his current near-despondent state. Even if they could cough up the credits to get someone to tow the plane upshore, that still left the question of whether anyone out there could even fix the old bird up, let alone what it might cost. Ironic, given that they just left a realm with such a robust salvage industry.

Only time would tell, he concluded, deciding to dig up as much as he could about this Commonwealth of Sinovia in the meantime, before venturing out into it. Mountains, visible from the other side of town, and apparently an entire desert farther inland. Though Lorna Edwards did an impressive job mending his denim jacket and compound cargo pants when she washed them, his boots, which seemed nearly indestructible when he first bought them, were clearly showing their mileage, high on his list of priorities before setting out on another journey.

Mostly just relieved that neither of his friends seemed interested in trekking out their, either. Sinovia… He turned that name over in his head, figuring that surely it couldn’t mean the same thing it did in his world. Wondered what Amy or John would make of it.

Of course, Pickford was a small enough town that he had already confirmed neither of his friends had passed through here, so he did his best to quash the cynical prediction that he would have no better luck upshore. Along those lines, it occurred to him that he had said he would meet Max and Justin in the marketplace soon. Figured he should probably turn back soon, yet his feet led him on.

For lack of a better explanation, Shades felt drawn in this direction. It wasn’t so much like gravity pulling him on a downhill path— the path of least resistance— it was more like something called out to him, and his feet obeyed. Of course, his feet always had a mind of their own, a tendency to wander at will, yet most of his travels of late had offered them little opportunity to roam.

All the same, this time it really bothered him, now that he finally took notice. He somehow sensed that whatever was calling to him, it possessed an evil aura, a low buzzing in the back of his mind that was slowly getting a little more distinct with every step he took in this direction. At first, he felt safe enough walking around this side of town, mostly because the Woods were in the opposite direction, and so his own unfamiliarity with the local geography only served to pull the rug out from under him at this point.

While he was lost in thought, he failed to notice still-occupied houses giving way to boarded-up doors and shuttered windows, overgrown lawns and sagging fences, and the mood all changed. Even his ever widening proximity to the Woods failed to be very reassuring in this setting. Still, he continued to walk this way in spite of his growing dread.

This looming certainty that he was drawing closer to something everything in his rational mind told him he should be walking away from. And it was taking way too long for his taste. Found he could remember all too well how time seemed to slow down that time he approached the pedestal of the Book of Fate, deep within the twisted depths of the Harken Building, or a childhood dream he recalled out of the blue a moment ago.

Of walking into an abandoned schoolhouse, striding up to a podium at the front of the classroom, that looked to have been converted into some kind of occult altar, with shifting, shimmering symbols all over the chalkboard behind it…

It was only when several arguing voices cut through his reverie that he thought to look up from the road to his surroundings. For a moment, he was heartened by the sight of other people, at least until he saw where they were, for even at a glance he knew of no place else in Pickford this could possibly be. Looking upon the place his feet had led him, he looked back down at his shoes in consternation.

Seriously, you lead me to a haunted house?

That was also about when he noticed that those gathered in front of the place were a bunch of kids, and he found that sinking feeling in his gut could apparently sink a little deeper as he tuned in to their ongoing dispute.

“…I can’t believe you let her go!” one boy shouted at another boy, who appeared noticeably older than the others, at least junior high to their grade school.

“She was the one who was crazy enough to go in there,” the older kid shot back, sounding defensive enough that Shades already suspected this was going to be trouble.

“You coulda stopped her!” a little girl protested, stepping back when he wheeled on her.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well…” the girl stammered.

Shades cleared his throat with a loud cough, then interjected: “I was under the impression this place wasn’t really a tourist attraction. What’s going on here?”

“None of your business.” The older boy turned to face him with a stern glare Shades struggled to keep a straight face at. “And just who the hell are you anyway?”

“If you want to know someone else’s name, it’s common courtesy to give your own first,” Shades admonished him, taking a good look at his face. Same sallow countenance, dark hair, stocky build, his features slightly softened by both youth, and whatever his mother contributed to the boy’s makeup. “Tully, right?”

“That’s right, Travis Tully,” Travis retorted, “and I’m here to tell you you’re not supposed to be.”

“Yet here we are anyway,” Shades replied, “so perhaps someone would care to tell me what all the fuss is about.”

“Trespassing,” Travis snapped, cutting off the other kids even as they opened their mouths. “I was just sending these brats home.”

“Not without Melissa!” one girl blurted, stamping her foot. “That jerk threw our ball in there, and she went in to get it…”

“Shut up!” Travis snarled, though he came off sounding more frantic than authoritative. “That’s none of his business!”

“It is now,” Shades declared, now that he understood what was at stake. “I’m making it my business.”

“And just who the hell do you think you are?” Travis challenged as he strode up to him.

“Shades MacLean,” he answered, now that he knew who he was dealing with. He turned to the children and added: “At your service.”

“Be careful! That guy’s bad!” one boy warned him. “He beat up my big brother!”

“Don’t worry,” Shades assured him. Don’t know if I’m bad enough to rescue the President from ninjas, but it’ll be a cold day in hell when I back down from a creep who bullies children… “I’ve dealt with his type before.”

And Travis took a swing at him.

Just about when Shades figured he would. Too predictable, so Shades was way ahead of him, sidestepping and catching Travis’ arm, twisting it and throwing him down hard. Wrenching most of the joints and ligaments on his right side, the impact jarring his entire left as he hit the ground.

A hearty helping of what he was in for if he decided to go another round.

“Anymore, I’m not used to fighting weaklings,” Shades told him. Though that last exchange confirmed what he suspected, the kid was definitely farm strong. Travis could certainly do some damage if he got an opening, so he decided to borrow a page from Roxy’s playbook, and keep up the intimidation offensive. Though they had the respect of the Edwards and Stilton families, the rest of the locals mostly regarded them with a mixture of awe and wariness, seeing them as being almost as uncanny as the Woods they passed through to get here, and he decided to play that to his advantage. “We fought things in those Woods that would turn your hair white.”

“You son of a bitch…” Travis muttered.

It took him three attempts to get back up, and he still wasn’t quite on his feet yet, staggering back from Shades in understandable alarm at the single step he took in Travis’ direction.

“And now you’re talkin’ trash about my mom…” Shades shifted into a casual fighting stance. Though he left his thigh holster back at his room at the inn, he decided that with something like the Woods looming over this town, concealed carry was a practical compromise in order to look less threatening. Right now, he tried not to think about his shoulder holster. Unless something else came along to menace them, he had no intention of drawing in the presence of children. “Should I take that as a challenge? If you keep this up, you’re going to make a hypocrite out of me.”

“My old man would skin your ass…”

“He’s welcome to try.” Figured the kid was probably talking from experience, he decided that Jarvis wasn’t half as scary as Erix or Roxy, nor anything else he met in those Woods. Grateful to him for letting them in, but still didn’t like the smell of him. Felt bad for the kid, though now seemed a bad time to show it. “But I imagine he might take a chunk outta yours, first.”

“Careful!” one of the girls warned him. “His dad’s the caretaker!”

“I know who he is,” Shades reminded them, turning back to Travis. “So if he’s the caretaker, why doesn’t he take care of this?”

“The house takes care of itself,” Travis told him. “My old man gets paid to deal with outsiders like you.”

“And I would only point out that he’s not here to take care of that right now,” Shades quipped, “so might I ask what he would do about a little girl wandering off in that twisted place?”

“Do?” Travis snorted, “You don’t do anything. I told you, the house takes care of itself.”

“And when her parents learn of this?”

“Hey! It’s my word against yours!”

An assertion answered by a jury of Melissa’s peers, all quite vocal about their verdict.

“Shut up!” Travis roared, turning on them. “Or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Shades demanded, drawing his attention back. “If you make any more trouble for these kids, I’ll give you the ass-whoopin’ your mama never gave you.”

“Mama never gave me nothin’!” Travis nearly choked on the words. “She died in there!”

“My condolences,” Shades offered. And meant it. In spite of all his sneering and posturing, there was no hiding how terrified Travis was of that house. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I don’t need your pity!” Travis felt the sweat dripping down his neck as he tried to stare down those impassive mirror lenses.

“Maybe you just need a hug?” He shrugged.

The others started laughing right on cue.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Travis shed any pretense of dignity, slinking away in shame, most likely seeking someplace to lay low until this whole mess blew over.

“You’ve done enough harm for one year,” Shades declared. This fool had already wasted a dangerous amount of time, of that much he was sure. “If you’re no use here, then get lost.”

The kids’ cheers, though, were short-lived, as they turned back to the real problem at hand.

“What do we do now?” one boy moaned.

“I don’t know.” Thus far, that whole confrontation had left a rather sour taste in his mouth. Though he also had to admit a certain satisfaction, as well, at providing the sort of intervention that was sorely lacking in his own childhood experiences with playground bullies. Now that he thought about it, one of the things that got him into martial arts in the first place. Yet Travis was just the tip of the iceberg here, and he wasn’t sure what to tell them now, so he asked, “How long ago did she go in?”

“I’m not sure…” one boy admitted.

“We started arguing with him…” one girl explained, trailing off at how that explained both too much and too little.

“I see.” Shades nodded. Since it seemed the one promise he could make with any confidence, he told them, “I’ll do whatever I can for Melissa, though I don’t know what I’m up against. I’ll try to find her, but if we’re not back within the hour, go tell somebody. There’s no way you’ll be in half as much trouble as your friend is right now.

“While we’re on the subject of friends, please leave a message with Moira at the Pines. Max and Justin’ll want to know what’s happening. And don’t let that creep off the hook, anyone who knows about this place should know better than that.”

The kids nodded in anxious acknowledgement.

As he gazed out at that haunted mansion, Shades began to realize that even standing beyond its gates and staring at it wasn’t all that safe. Somehow, he understood that if you stood their long enough, the place would start to waft into your head, and it would eventually begin to seep into your dreams. That if you stood there long enough, you might just feel compelled to do something foolish, like taunting a dangerous dog on a worn-out chain.

Wondering if even the edge of the Woods would have made for a less dangerous place for them to choose to play. Imparting a newfound respect for Jarvis, even if it wasn’t for his parenting skills. Facing the house directly, he could feel all those bold words he drove that bully off with trying to cram themselves back down his throat, but he pressed on anyway.

Up close, he had no trouble seeing why folks took to calling it the Castle. The stonework, the parapet towers, so many narrow windows, as if it was built as a bulwark against the outside world. However much reputed trouble they may have had cultivating those vines back then, now they dominated most of the walls. Vineholdt, indeed. Even if he hadn’t seen the Woods for himself, he could tell at a glance that their parents warned them away from this place with dire cause.

Even from here, he could feel an unseen presence glaring out at him from every window. Reminded him a little of crotchety old folks back in Lakeside, with their Beware of Dog signs, who’d rant and rave and threaten to call the cops just for setting foot near the edge of their property, sometimes even if it was on a public sidewalk. Only here, he already understood that the consequences for trespass could get a whole lot worse.

Even though it was broad daylight, he couldn’t help picturing the opening scenes of most Castlevania games as he stood before the gate. For the first time in many moons, wondering whatever became of that whip he picked up on his last day on Earth. And to think, most of the time, all that came to mind about that thing were Indiana Jones references

Found he kept expecting something cheesy to happen, like a bank of dark clouds blowing in front of the sun out of nowhere, or a bunch of crows or ravens to perch along the wrought-iron fence and start cawing at him, though he wasn’t so sure just how cheesy he’d find it if anything like that actually happened to him now.

Who ya gonna call? And from somewhere in the back of his mind, Bruce Campbell answered: Just me, baby. Just me

All this internal wisecracking mostly just served to drive home how much he was creeping himself out, so he did the one thing he could think of to focus his mind.

Put one foot in front of the other.

As he stepped across the gate, Shades felt something change, something in the air, something fundamental. The only thing he could compare it to was the captain on an airline flight he was on years ago, having to take a detour over part of Canada, announcing that they just left American airspace. Over the years, he’d been across a couple borders (mostly state lines), been past a few of those Beware of Dog signs, hell, even walked into another dimension one dark and stormy night. Never, since the night of the Flathead Experiment, had a few steps’ distance seemed so far.

He turned around and glanced back at the kids. There was hope, and even a certain awe at his boldness, but also a quiet panic lurking around the edges of their gaze. As if they believed they were seeing him for the last time.

Perhaps they are

Shades shunned that thought as best he could. That kind of thinking would benefit no one. Still, he pondered the wisdom of going and fetching his friends. No matter what his pride told him, he understood those children wouldn’t shame him for turning back now; he had already done more than they apparently had the courage to do. And he was also sure part of what confidence they did hold out for him drew from them surviving the Woods, so it took an effort not to remind them that their expedition was a team effort.

Surely his friends were already on their way to the market by now, no telling how long it might take to track them down, especially if they split up. Was becoming increasingly certain that time was of the essence, that all the backup in the world would do no good if something wasn’t done soon. Recalling those bleached bones from his first day in the Woods, of Shelby and Lorna’s final heartbreak at learning their daughter’s fate, he found he didn’t want another Kelly Edwards for this generation.

By now, he stood before the broken bay window, so he took the next logical step. Careful of the shattered glass, he pulled himself up to the window ledge and peered inside. In the gloom, he could see the ball still lying on the floor, a rather less than reassuring sign. Honestly wished he could be a little more surprised.

He looked back at the kids, half surprised they were still there, tried to summon some moisture back into his mouth, then called out, “Which way did she go?”

They pointed off to the left-hand side of the mansion, faces blank with fear.

Shades quietly hoped she hadn’t found any way in as he headed around to the far side of the building, yet he doubted the house was going to make anything that easy.
-Standing backwards, Scoot.

November 15, 2017, 10:48:19 PM
Reply #452
Max and Justin had little trouble curbing their enthusiasm as they walked the streets. Over the years, what was left of Pickford’s marketplace had migrated away from the Woods, gravitating around the harbor, between the docks and the train station upshore, the better to seize any business opportunities with passing outlanders. Even so, only about half of the storefronts were even open, and most of those looked to be just barely still in business.

No sign of Shades so far, but they figured they would recognize each other easily enough after all, so they turned their attention to shopping around for supplies. Though it did dawn on Max that Shades still had the notepad and pencil Roger lent them for this project, so for now they would have to commit the basic info to memory. They were nearly out of power clips, and after their misadventures in Alta, Anchor Point, and the Woods of late, what little money they had left would require some careful budgeting from here on out.

Pickford was a small enough town, Max figured John or Amy would have been remembered, so he doubted Shades would be long searching. They all figured it would only be a matter of days before they took a ride up the coast to see what opportunities presented themselves to a crew of young adventurers upshore. Max, at least, had no travel plans until Bandit was up and moving; for now the big cat rested in their room at Pines Lodge under Moira’s meticulous, if untrained, care.

They both tried hard to shrug off the subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) looks they tended to attract from the townsfolk. After seeing the Woods for themselves, they had no trouble understanding why anyone from around these parts would be a little spooked by anyone who survived that. Mostly, they just hoped no one would close up shop just because they were in the neighborhood.

Justin also suspected that part of the looks they were getting was also because he was wearing both holsters openly. With the Woods so close at hand, he refused to go anywhere unarmed, regardless of how effective anyone thought this Sister Clarice’s wardings were. Though he left his crossbow back at the Pines, he insisted on keeping his gunbelts strapped, and as far as he was concerned, the locals could glare at his double-barrel disrupter pistols all they wanted.

Justin finally suggested, “Do you think we should try the general store first?”

“Hey,” Max recommended, “what about that place?”

Justin blinked in disbelief as his friend pointed out a basement entrance beneath some shuttered shop at the street level. Somehow that dark wood pattern managed to blend in with the local architecture, and look just like a certain basement storefront Justin entered once upon a time in Centralict, both at the same time. Even the wooden sign hanging from the wall above the door looked just as he remembered it:

Obscura Antiques & Curios.

And beneath that, the only thing different: “…For All That Glitters is Not Gold.

“No way…” Justin breathed.

“What?” Max tilted his head at the place. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” he answered after a moment of consideration. Now he had to know. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Deciding that this time he might finally get some answers, he noticed another familiar sign as they strode down the steps: New location! Check us out!

As Justin opened the door, they were greeted by the same melange of incense and candle smoke and other smells he couldn’t place to this day, which he recalled from his first visit. Much like his first time, it took both of them a moment for their eyes to adjust to the gloom of a mostly candlelit interior after the late morning sunlight outside, but already Justin saw about what he expected to see. Wooden shelves lined with books and an assortment of other objects he was sure there would be a story behind each of.

Most of those tales he wasn’t so sure he cared to hear, but figured they’d be right up Shades’ alley, and Max’s curiosity was not so easily sated, either, as he could already see his friend gazing about in open wonderment.

Among other things, what stood out to Max most included the gruesome sight of a shrunken head hung by its hair; a jar of cloudy fluid, a greyish hand floating in, a ring adorning one finger; a rusty old ship’s lantern.

A crystal phial of what looked like clear water. A tiny silver skeleton key. A dark, smoky mirror.

A pile of yellowed scrolls. A deck of what looked like playing cards. A marching drum and two mallets hung from a sling on the wall.

Something Shades showed him once at that twilighty mall back in the day, which he had called a Magic Eight Ball.

To say nothing of numerous books, their spines forming rows of symbols and characters neither of them could begin to decipher. What titles Max could read included one about unspeakable cults, and something about a king in yellow.

About the only thing Justin recognized from his first visit was a small, ornate wooden box, strapped with several strips of paper scrawled over with unknown characters.

“Welcome back, young mariner,” a raspy voice greeted them. “Returned, you have.”

So lost he was in his own puzzlement, as well as his amusement at Max’s gawking, that he was caught off-guard in spite of himself by the wizened old man standing behind his ever cluttered counter. A bare bulb buzzed over his head, framing him in a hazy cone of yellow light, illuminating a dusty glass display case full of even more peculiar and morbid curiosities, and shadowed shelves more looming behind him to both sides.

Justin also recalled the sign on the counter that read: Pretty to look at, pretty to hold, but if you break it, consider it sold. And below that: All sales final.

“Oh, hi…” Max mumbled, apparently just as startled as his friend. Especially since he was quite sure there was no one standing behind that counter a moment ago. Of course, there was a dark doorway behind him, so perhaps he wasn’t. Then, the shopkeep’s words finally caught up with him, and he turned to Justin, asking, “You’ve met this guy before?”

Noticing his friend had gone uncharacteristically quiet since they set foot in here.

“Um, yeah,” Justin admitted, “but not here. It was back in Centralict…”

“But why didn’t you tell us about it?”

“Well…” For one thing, Justin wasn’t even sure how to explain this sort of thing to someone who’d never been there before. There was just something about this shop that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “After the Harken Building, and chasing the Triad and all, I guess it just didn’t seem all that important.”

Max nodded, but still appeared a touch concerned, though it didn’t take long for this place’s odd selection to reclaim his attention once again.

“So, what convinced you to set up shop way out here?” Justin quipped, figuring he might as well make conversation with the old man while Max was browsing. There was no way around the fact that Centralict had to be a more profitable market than Pickford.

“In the business of forbidden things, I am,” the mysterious shopkeep reminded him. “Hidden and forbidden, something is in these parts, so it is said. Know anything of it, would you?”

“I don’t know about that,” Justin told him, “but something happened in that mansion out there a long time ago, that turned all the woods outside of town into a deathtrap. Of course, the folks who lived there were loaded, but the house is too dangerous to explore…”

“A place of evil, it is.” The shopkeep nodded. “Tampered with forces beyond their control. Such powerful objects are rare, indeed, but those there are who would pay handsomely for them.”

“Like you?”

“Perhaps. An intermediary, I am, after all.” The shopkeep kept his tone noncommittal, having planted the seed. “So, just browsing again, you are?”

“Maybe,” Justin replied, turning back to Max, whose eyes could still not settle on any one curio for long. “Say Max, you wanna go take a look at that Castle place?”

“Didn’t everybody warn us to stay away from there?” Max finally replied as he turned back to the conversation at hand. “And shouldn’t we wait for Shades?”

“Shades’ll be fine,” Justin assured him. “It’s not like he can’t handle a little shopping. Besides, I’m not saying we go in, I’m just saying we have a look, that’s all.”

“Just a look,” Max pressed him, turning to keep up with his friend as he made his way back outside with hardly a backwards glance. Didn’t much care for the idea of Justin going anywhere near a place like that all on his own, especially with all that talk of hidden treasure hanging on the air. As he stepped out the door, he remembered his manners, and waved goodbye to the shopkeep.

Quietly hoping he’d have the chance to come back for another look as he climbed up the stairs into the daylight once again.

Even as he strode down the street, Justin spared a glance over his shoulder, to see that the strange little shop was still there this time, and wondered what that could mean.
-Standing backwards, Scoot.

November 23, 2017, 01:45:33 AM
Reply #453
At first, Shades told himself that going around the side of the mansion wouldn’t be so bad. He quietly hoped that this Melissa would be unable to find a way in, but between the vibes he was getting from this place, combined with how long she had already been gone thus far, he was already sure that was just wishful thinking on his part. Sure enough, he found a wrought-iron gate set in a second, inner fence hanging open on one rusty hinge, leading into the rear grounds behind that wing.

At first he thought it wouldn’t be so bad, after making it past the outer gate, but he was wrong. Even just peering in the front window a couple minutes ago made him feel like a child himself. How an actual child could hold up in the face of this place’s atmosphere left him wondering if it wasn’t an unhealthy side-effect of growing up next-door to an eldritch location like the Woods.

The vines along the walls back here were even more rife, as if the growth out front was just a preview. Vineholdt… Found himself pondering why rich people so often felt the need to name their houses. As if they were a separate country or something.

This was worse than being in another country. This was like being on another planet. The knowledge that the outside world was so close at hand only made it worse; at least when he wandered off into the Sixth Dimension one dark and stormy night, he had no idea how far away from his own world he really was.

The fact that he even thought of this estate as being somehow apart from the surrounding world only served to remind him of what this place was. Though the idea existed in his mind, he had no name for it, no proper words to describe it. In his travels, he had encountered a couple places that were sort of like this, but not exactly; whatever all haunted those Woods outside of town was largely overshadowed by whatever evil resided in here.

Along the way, he encountered a fountain built into a niche in the mansion wall, of an ornate floral motif. Its waist-high basin full almost to the brim with blackish, brackish water he could fairly smell even several yards away. A horrifying thought crossed his mind, and he took a couple steps forward before he caught himself, breathing a sigh of relief as he observed that the foul water and the basin ledge were completely undisturbed.

Wondering why such a grim thought even came to mind, it finally dawned on him just what it was he so instinctively disliked about it. The water itself. Not merely its toxic appearance, but the realization that it hadn’t rained around Pickford in at least two or three days. Even in the shade, the water shouldn’t be nearly as full after that much evaporation.

Though there was still something else about the fountain he didn’t trust, could’ve sworn he heard something plink and splash, but when he looked back, that black water stood perfectly still.

Moving on, around the corner, he found a little-used side door. Gaping wide open, yawning into darkness. Shades couldn’t help but groan as he looked upon it.

“She didn’t…”

Or course, he already knew she went inside. After all, that was exactly what the House wanted. Wasn’t sure just how he knew, but he was more certain of that than he was about much of anything else going on around here.

The dusty footprints just inside the threshold, too small to belong to an adult, merely confirmed his suspicions.

“These people have suffered more than enough because of you…” Shades glared back at all those unwelcoming windows with more conviction than he actually thought he could muster. “You won’t have her, too.”

Still, he hesitated in the doorway, reaching into one of his many pockets and producing a compact flashlight. Switching it on, he tested it, finding the beam strong, if narrow. Moira had warned them of rare, but potentially dangerous, blackouts that happened around town once in a blue moon, and even though he was only out by day, their past misadventures had taught him how many different situations a flashlight made for an adventurer’s best friend.

Ordinarily, he took comfort in how the power cells and bulbs designed in this world tended to last a lot longer than batteries, especially, from his own, but now he found shame in wishing they’d failed. And after making such bold declarations. Yet he found he was less ashamed of showing fear in front of those kids than he was at the thought of coming back without so much as a clue about what happened to their friend, so he put one cold foot forward.

The house seemed to push back with waves of stuffy air, but it mostly just invoked his own stubborn streak as he strode forward. Pressing on, he swept his light around to reveal a small foyer full of shelves of garden supplies, as well as the long-withered remains of what was once fresh produce, the shriveled husks of herbs and vegetables, surely the source of most of what he was smelling. Through the next door was a large kitchen, equipped with a mix of old-fashioned-looking equipment, and electric appliances of outland make that would look right at home in Moira’s kitchen back at the Pines, or even his own mom’s, if not for the mix of peculiar brand names.

Off to his left was another door, to a flight of stairs leading down. He looked down those steps into some sort of cellar. His flashlight illuminated part of an old furnace, with a row of circular ducts branching out from it like tentacles, and a faint updraft fed him a whiff of coal and soot.

Shook his head, just couldn’t imagine her going down there for anything. And could all too easily imagine those rickety steps collapsing under him right on cue. Didn’t care to get caught down there with anything that made itself at home in a place like this, his inner Admiral Ackbar being particularly vocal about that view.

Reminded himself that abandoned buildings could host their own share of mundane hazards an unwary explorer might fall prey to. Resigned himself to the possibility that he just might have to search every room of this warped place. Deciding that he would only risk coming back here if his search of less obviously dangerous, and far more likely, places proved fruitless.

As he turned for the only other door, he found himself wondering why he hadn’t tried calling out to her. After all, he was all but certain whatever haunted these halls was already well aware of his presence anyway. That rescuing her from this place wasn’t really going to be a stealth operation anyhow.

Starting with the cellar door, he called out: “Hello! Melissa! I’m here to help you!…”

And the house answered him with ominous silence. Not even the building settling, nor any other sound. Just the creepy sense of anticipation, as if the entire house was waiting for something.

Concluding that she must not be in this area anymore, he moved on to the next door, which led into a dining room. As he skirted around the long table that occupied most of the room, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the child’s boldness— or at least sufficient preoccupation to not notice those cellar stairs— as he was fairly sure she actually went this way. To the side were a couple smaller doors that looked like closets to him, and another door at the far end of the room.

Beyond was a cavernous chamber he could barely discern through the faint gloom of cob-webbed curtains and dusty windows. Sweeping his light around, he took in an ornately furnished great hall of high ceilings, sporting a large crystal chandelier, and hardwood floors appointed with carefully arranged rugs. To his right was a pair of double doors, matching the front entrance outside, with a decorative glass fan window above, designed with a peacock motif, and on the far side was another door, leading into the other wing.

To his left was a grand staircase, forming a t-joint about halfway up, branching off into both wings. Wondering if she really would go any deeper into this spooky place, he went over and poked his light into the next room. Sure enough, there was the ball, still lying on the floor, untouched, leaving him with the dread certainty that she must have gone upstairs for some unfathomable reason.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged even deeper into the mansion, starting up the stairs. Even through the stiff carpet runner, he could hear some steps creak, but still held firm, so he continued up. At the first landing, there was a door hanging partway open, so he checked it out.

Inside was what looked to him like some sort of playroom. Scattered toys, stuffed animals, and an old-fashioned rocking horse. As well as scattered dead bugs, peeling wallpaper, and an antique-looking device that reminded Shades of an old phonograph, just sitting on the floor in the corner, looking every bit as forlorn as the rest of the room.

Shutting the door on this vista, which set a most unsettling tone, he turned back and looked out across the great hall.

“Taking a child…” he said aloud, no longer able to contain his own disgust at this place. “You really do have no shame, do you?”

Much like before, he expected no response, so it made him jump in unabashed startlement when a grandfather clock started tolling out of nowhere, reverberating off all the walls.

He nearly tripped on the stairs as he wheeled about the landing, seeking for a threat that failed to materialize. His free hand having already drawn one stun-stick, even as his mind pivoted just as much as his feet, uncertain if his weapon would avail him against anything in here. The door behind him remained closed, and nothing seemed to be approaching from any stairway, even as the deep chiming of an unknown hour died away.

It was only in the midst of regaining his wits that he noticed the spectral spectacle unfolding in the great hall below, that he was missing the show.

Around the center of the hall, six shimmering women garbed in hooded ceremonial robes surrounded a seventh. Each of them clasped their hands together in various ritual gestures, the others’ heads bowed as the one in the center spoke. Shades was eerily certain she had been chanting all along, but the fading echo of the clock chime left him feeling as if he just tuned in to a new radio station between gulfs of static.

…stand upon the unshakeable Foundations of the Earth under our feet, that we might stand unmoved in our conviction.

“In Her name, so let it be,” the others answered.

In the name of the Goddess, we call upon the Fire of Purity to burn away your corruption.

“In Her name, so let it be.”

In the name of the Goddess, we call upon the Free Air, that your ashes may be blown away upon the Winds of Time.

“In Her name, so let it be.”

In the name of the Goddess, we call upon the Waters of Life to wash away your filth that defiles this place of the living.

“In Her name, so let it be.”

In the name of the Goddess, Mother of All Things, we cast you out of the place.

“In Her name, so let it be.”

In the name of the Goddess, who gave birth to all life, we call upon all human spirits found herein, and grant license to quit this place… that you might return to the Source, the womb from whence all souls enter this world…

“In Her name, so let it be.”

In the name of the Goddess, who guards her children with righteous fury, we cast out all… foul things… without soul… to return to the Void from whence…

Though she started out strong, her voice was becoming increasingly strained with each line of the ritual, her words were coming out increasingly desperate. Her last incantation cut off by a strangled gasp as she was lifted bodily off the floor by an unseen force. Head thrown back, hands fumbling frantically at thin air in front of her neck. At this horrifying sight, the others looked up from their concentration as their sister struggled.

And their prayers were answered with silence.

In the name… of the Goddess…” she choked out, feet thrashing over a foot off the ground, head snapping from side to side in a vain effort to break that terrible grip. “The… Void… take thee!…

As if on cue, her neck gave a loud, chicken-bone crack, her whole body spasming, then going limp as the others cried out in abject horror and anguish.


Her body flung at one of the sisters as the others scattered.

Their screams faded even as their ghostly forms dissolved, leaving Shades standing alone on the stair landing, overlooking an empty hall.

Then, for good measure, that massive chandelier came crashing down, right on top of the faint outlines of an old six-point ritual circle, spraying crystal all over the floor.

Heart lodged solidly in his throat, gasping reflexively at the sensation. Certain that grim replay truly had happened. Quite certain that display was meant to scare him.

Okay, it worked… Shades admitted to himself, feeling his blood run cold. Felt an unseasonable chill in the great hall as he found his feet taking him down the steps. Energy blade fired up to slice the locks right off the front door when he got there.

It was only with great effort that he pulled the reins on them in mid step, his feet halting in indecision as he reminded himself what was at stake here. Quite sure that he was out of his depth, out of his league against whatever was at work here, yet that Missing Child picture of Kelly Edwards stared at his mind’s eye, pleading. Begging the question of whether Melissa would also become another chapter of this place’s horrific history.

Even as he tried to tell himself the kids outside wouldn’t think any less of him for being defeated by something that had beaten everything else that ever challenged it, the thought of facing Melissa’s parents without doing everything he could for her, that thought brought his retreat to a grinding halt.

Little Kelly had met her end years before any of them knew the Woods even existed, let alone ever set foot there, while this was happening right here and now.

Half expecting invisible hands to seize his own throat, or perhaps push him down the stairs, he strode back up, deciding to search the upper level of the wing he started with first. As he reached the center landing, he tripped on a slight curl in the rug, catching himself against the playroom doorframe. At first gasping and sweeping his energy blade around in an attempt to engage a nonexistent foe.

Then breathed a sigh of relief and laughed at himself as he realized what just happened, and he wondered if the sound of laughter was as foreign to this place back then as it was now as he continued on his way.
-Standing backwards, Scoot.

November 29, 2017, 03:12:27 PM
Reply #454
Of all the things Max or Justin might have expected to find in front of Pickford’s most shunned house, a bunch of kids standing around at Vineholdt’s front gate was about the last.

All of them arguing with an older boy, whom Max noted bore a strong familial resemblance to a certain caretaker they were just talking to earlier this morning. He appeared to be doing his best— or worst— to drive them away from this place, but the kids just weren’t having any of it. At first glance, that would seem a reasonable course of action, but even before they got within earshot, he found something about this just didn’t sit right with him.

“…You’ll get in trouble, too, you know. So why don’t you just run… along…” Travis Tully trailed off, faltering as he noticed their approach.

“What’s going on here?” Justin asked.

“Melissa went… mmph!” one boy began, then Travis reached out and clamped one hand over his mouth.

“Nothing!” Travis blurted, glaring at the others as if he dared them to say one word.

All six of them called his bluff at once, rambling at the same time.

“Shut up!” Travis roared, and all the children backed away from him.

“Our friend went in there,” one girl piped up, taking advantage of the moment of silence.

“And that other guy, the one with dark glasses, went in to find her,” another boy added.

“He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?” another chimed in.

“Shades went in there?” Max looked out at the mansion with a sinking feeling he just lost any chance of leaving this deathtrap unexplored. For once. And here he thought he was tagging along to keep Justin from doing anything rash.

“You mean that guy I fought?” Travis cocked his head, very visibly not liking where this line of conversation was leading.

Fought?” one boy snorted. “He whooped your ass!”

“Shut up, you little shit!”

“You?” Justin tried not to laugh as he regretted missing this. Deciding that perhaps vigorous constitutionals could be entertaining after all. “Beat up him?”

With a snarl of fury and indignation, Travis tried to take a swing at Justin.

But Max was quicker, whipping his arm out and catching him across the face, even as Justin was leaping aside.

“We weren’t talking to you,” was Max’s curt reply as Travis hit the ground. Quickly grasping the gravity of the situation, and concluding that this one was wasting dire time.

“I’m not afraid of you…” Travis muttered as he struggled to regain his feet.

“I don’t care,” Max warned him, “and it doesn’t matter. You’re no match for me anyway.”

Though it came out sounding like something Erix might say, it was about the truth of the situation, and with both his friend’s life, and this Melissa’s, in the balance, he was wasting no more time.

For his part, Travis reassessed Max, and appeared to conclude that discretion was the better part of valor.

“Seems like an asshole,” Justin mused, “no wonder Shades beat him up. I don’t like bullies, either, so if you’re too chickenshit to be any help, then stand aside.”

“I ain’t goin’ in there!” Travis stammered, finding himself on the retreat, shouting over his shoulder: “Ha! Even those Lucy-witches couldn’t do anything! That house will take you, too!…”

“Good riddance…” Justin spat.

“Now please,” said Max, turning back to the kids, “tell us what happened.”

In fits and starts, the related the basic gist of what transpired before.

Just as they got to the part about Shades going in to investigate, an odd four-wheeled vehicle rolled up, about the size of a golf cart, and bearing the seal of the Pickford Sheriff’s Office.

A deputy rolled down his glass and leaned out, calling, “Hey! You kids get outta here, before your parents hear about this!”

One of them looked like she was about to say something, when Max turned to them and said, “It’s okay, there really is nothing more you can do here. Leave this to us. Please, go tell Moira at the Pines what’s going on, and we’ll handle this.”

The children nodded, their reluctance unmistakable as they turned and head back toward town, though both of them somehow knew they’d drift back out here when no one was watching. Eerily certain that no one else would stand and watch this place for long.

“You should know—” Max began.

“And you,” the deputy cut him off, glaring at both of them in a way that left Justin wondering just what the hell people were saying about them, “you should be ashamed of yourselves, leading children out to a dangerous place like this.”

“Um, actually,” Justin informed him, “we just got here.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” the deputy countered, turning pale as he glanced at the house with palpable anxiety. “Sheriff Duhan’s gonna hear about this, and he’ll have you run outta town. I don’t know what you’re up to, but if you go into that house, it’s your funeral, boys.”

With that, he fired up the engine, kicking up a small cloud of dust as he rolled up his window and turned to escort the kids and herd them back into Pickford proper.

If Shades was in there, they both now understood, there would be no help from town, Melissa or no Melissa, and Max for one, could not abide waiting another minute, leading the way past the front gate and straight up to the door.

Justin sighed in resignation and followed. Once upon a time, he would have scoffed at the idea of a haunted house, but even without this recent fun tour of the Woods, about half the places these two dragged him off to had weird shit going on. Figured it would be no different here as he set out to see what Shades had gotten himself into this time, any notions of treasure-hunting all but forgotten.

As they reached the front entrance, Max tried the door handle. Finding it locked, he wasted no time, whipping out his laser sword and slicing right down between the double doors. Locks severed, the two doors creaked slowly open.

Justin looked back to see the kids staring in awe. Even partway down the road, they apparently kept glancing back in spite of the deputy. Likely never seen weapons like theirs, not out here in such a remote realm.

The doors parted, a ray of sunlight illuminating a small foyer, beyond which they found a spacious, though gloomy, great hall, with a grand staircase leading to the upper levels of both wings. Faint light filtered in through a handful of dusty windows, so they were both glad they heeded Moira’s advice and kept a pocket flashlight on them, even during the day. Even to those without any latent psychic abilities, the place still seemed to loom over them as they looked around, attempting to figure out where to start their search.

Max turned right, heading for a door on that side of the chamber. Beyond was a spacious sitting room, and it only took him a moment to spot the ball, right where the kids said it would be. The only thing he could discern was that neither Melissa, nor Shades, had come in here and retrieved it, a fact that bothered him visibly.

“You don’t like this either?” Justin confirmed.

Max nodded, then turned back to the great hall to seek more clues, wondering if perhaps they should have followed the girl’s footsteps around the side of the estate instead. It was almost as if the thought of following tracks conjured dusty footprints leading up the grand staircase. Turning to Justin in mutual unease, they both shrugged and started up the steps.

At the top of the first flight, they found a door standing slightly ajar, so Max toed it open while Justin covered him.

Inside was a room full of junk. On closer inspection, though, they both noticed that it was mostly a collection of children’s toys, including a rusty old rocking horse near the middle of the room.

Max glanced down at his feet, spotting a toy sailboat. One of eerily familiar design. His jaw dropped at the sight of the name The Edge painted on the bow.

He stumbled back, barely noticing as he bumped into the newel post on his side of the landing. His mind’s eye full of tossing waves, driving rain and howling winds. Surrounded by dead-looking Cyexian pirates, all sopping wet and draped in seaweed.

Bloated, pale, waterlogged. Rheumy eyes, stringy hair and rotten teeth. All shambling toward him across the deck…

“Max!” Justin shook him. “Max! Snap out of it!”

Max blinked, looking around the stair landing as if trying to remember what he was doing here. The assault on his senses leaving him slightly shaky. On impulse, he looked down at the toy boat again, only now it bore no particular resemblance to his uncle’s lost ship, nor did it bear any name on its bow, let alone The Edge.

“What the hell was that all about?” Justin asked him.

“I… Nothing…” Max mumbled, not wanting to into the details of that fateful night now any more than before, resenting the house for even dredging up memories he didn’t care to dwell on. After a few seconds, he repeated more firmly, “Nothing. That boat just reminded me of something, that’s all. Let’s move on.”

Justin nodded, deciding not to bring up Max’s mumbling, reminding himself that his friend never talked about how he got shipwrecked on the Isle of Paradise, that he shouldn’t be surprised that Max wouldn’t talk about it here, either. Didn’t like this in the slightest, but also knew all too well that Max was never very good at quitting, and quietly hoped they weren’t about to find out what it would take to make him, as he wasn’t sure whose regrets he could bear less, his or his friend’s.

To both of their dismay, they noted more footprints, leading up and down both branching stairways. They both glanced at each other, their only relief that, clearly, neither of them had splitting up in mind, not in a place like this.

Before either them could open their mouth to discuss which way to go, they both nearly jumped out of their skins at an unearthly tolling of bells, that seemed to be emanating from all directions at once, looking around for its elusive source, to no avail.

Even as they listened to its echoes die away, Max found a grim moment to wonder why his unsettling vision of Slash’s pirates all consisted of drowned corpses.
-Standing backwards, Scoot.

December 08, 2017, 01:41:38 AM
Reply #455
Shades wandered among more of those dark corridors and rooms of spooky paintings that all seemed to stare at him no matter where he was standing.

Though some appeared to be portraits as generic as some of the landscapes, there were several recurring figures among them. There was an older, balding man, who tended to look fairly stern when depicted alone, but the aloof, patrician woman Shades presumed to be his wife always made him look the softer of the two when pictured together. The older version of her portrait almost seemed to glare daggers at anyone who dared to meet her gaze.

There was also a younger couple, consisting of what appeared to be the older couple’s daughter, and a man who was never depicted without her. She, on the other hand, seemed to have portraits ranging from childhood all the way to motherhood herself. A couple of them shown with a baby, later a girl with dark hair, who clearly took after her mother, but bore her father’s sea-grey eyes, as well.

Certainly the infamous Rigby family that once lived here, and he found himself wishing he had the opportunity to ask around about their family history.

The palatial size of this place, combined with the seeming lack of any reason or rhyme to where some of the halls even led to, left him deeply concerned about whether he could actually begin to find his way back out. Even if he found Melissa. Fearful that the great hall really might have been his last chance to leave this twisted place.

Naturally, he’d been turning that horrifying ghostly replay from down there over in his head, even as he struggled to remain focused on the task at hand.

He had given it no small amount of thought earlier, as he browsed what appeared to be a wing of servant’s quarters, poked his head in various rooms up and down the halls. After all, this thing, whatever it was, just demonstrated the power to kill at will. If so, that just left the question of why it didn’t just reach out and strike him dead where he stood, as it had done to Sister Leta years ago.

Why settle for using that macabre mirage as a warning shot?

He could think of a couple possibilities. One was simply rooted in nature, that most creatures don’t like to risk fighting unnecessarily, which left imposing questions of just how much he could get away with, this deep inside the entity’s territory, before he finally provoked it to more drastic measures. As well as whether he necessarily represented the same threat level the Sisters of St Lucy might have. The other thing he could come up with was that something that direct required some effort on its part, that the House’s energies were mostly tied-up, invested in something else, and simply didn’t have it to spare right now.

Thus the scary display downstairs.

Of course, wondering what else it could be doing wasn’t very reassuring, either. Leaving him with the ominous feeling that he was running out of time, and so was Melissa, certain he didn’t want to find out what for. Only the impression that the House was gathering its strength for something.

Earlier, he heard those chimes again, marking off the time to some unknown event, a ticking time-bomb whose timer he couldn’t see. Just when he was getting to the point where he was no longer tensing up at every creaky floorboard. The closest thing he could make up in the way of a plan was to grab Melissa, if he ever found her, and run like hell.

As he passed by a bank of rear windows, he happened to glance outside and notice a vast chessboard, formed of alternating squares of light and dark stone. Or at least something akin to chess, at any rate, as the massive pieces set out upon it stood in mid play, only some of them bore any passing resemblance to the traditional forms from his own world, some whose shapes and moves he could only speculate. Still, they were similar enough that, combined with the grid board, it was clearly a game of strategy that likely had similar rules and objectives.

Then it was back to the dark, dusty halls of old-fashioned doors and fixtures. Switching on his flashlight again, trying not to dwell on the how the functionality of these devices seemed to be directly proportionate to one’s proximity to haunted places. Mentally crossed his fingers and hoped that these later-gen lights would buck the trend and prove reliable enough to see him through this.

A little farther down the hallway, he spotted a door already hanging open. Hoping it might yield some clue to Melissa’s whereabouts, he shined his light in, revealing some sort of office den. Shelves of the sort of leather-bound volumes few owners actually read, a couple high-back chairs, and a small end table, all tied together with a woven rug, the whole room dominated by a massive, ornately-carved wooden desk.

Even as he moved to examine the scene further, an old-fashioned telephone on the desk started ringing, and he nearly fumbled his flashlight as he gasped in unabashed startlement.

He slowly approached the phone as it continued to ring, feeling as if his feet had gained even more autonomy than they had when he first made his way to Vineholdt. Feeling more than ever as if he was immersing himself in a horror movie, and that he was not the main character, but merely a bit player, doomed to die while doing one of the hundred-and-eight foolish things he always muttered at characters for doing in these sort of tales. Yet here he was, watching his own hand reach out and remove that black, polished handset from its cradle.

As he lifted it to his ear, he could hear the muffled sounds of a storm, accompanied by heavy breathing and some sort of rustling.

A voice picked up, saying, “Nine-One-One dispatch. What is the nature of your emergency?

My name’s John Doe,” the heavy-breathing voice spoke up, and Shades nearly dropped the handset in his shock at its familiarity, a voice he had not heard in many moons, “and I’m calling to report a break-in.”

Is the place you’re in being broken into?” the dispatcher asked.

No, it’s the place next door,” John told him. “I don’t know the address, but it’s in Lakeside…” He seemed to fumble for a moment, then: “Don’t call me… Dexter! Dexter MacLean is missing!

Shades would later suspect his eyes widened to the point that it could be seen from behind his opaque lenses as he listened to this surreal phone exchange unfold.

“John!” Shades finally found words. “It’s me! Shades! I’m not missing! John?”

But no one seemed to hear him, and the call continued.

Could you please calm down,” the dispatcher pleaded. “We’ve been very busy tonight…”

I’m sure you have, Shades thought, numb to his own senses, if it’s the night I’m thinking of.

What the—” John blurted.

The voices on both ends of the line wavered and distorted as an eerie sound washed over him, one he still remembered from that dark, stormy night.

Hello? Hello?” the dispatcher called out, but Shades already understood John was no longer in that room to reply. “Is anyone still there?…”

Shades dropped phone on the desktop, backing away slowly, leaving some hapless emergency dispatcher from another world, another night, babbling at no one as he stepped out into the hallway and shut the door very firmly behind him, cutting off the faint dial-tone.

He continued backing away into the dark hallway, mind reeling, struggling against a moment of lightheadedness.

Wondering if that really was what happened that night. If his old friend really had broken into his neighbors’ house to call for help. So far as he could recall, they were on vacation at the time, so it was at least possible.

Shaking his head, somehow already understanding that that phone wasn’t going to give him any straight answers, no matter who he heard on the other end of the line. Trying to pull himself together as he resumed his exploration. Already chiding himself for letting his guard down.

After standing alone and aloof from Pickford for so many years, it was hard to say what was true, and what was just hearsay about Vineholdt. Only that there was at least some truth, no matter how much embellishment it may have been seasoned with. The Woods alone were proof enough that something eldritch had been unleashed within this place, and his current experience only corroborated that much of the house’s grim reputation.

Along those lines, he found the nonsensical meanderings of this sprawling manor even less reassuring, in light of other places he’d visited that turned out to be bigger on the inside. He could see from the exterior that this mansion was big, but what he’d walked so far was simply beyond its scale, halls and corridors that kept getting him turned around.

While he was sure the Harken Building was more substantial, physically, than anything he’d encountered in here thus far, he felt as if he had only one foot firmly planted in the mundane world, the other slowly sinking into the world of nightmares. And unlike the Woods, where one could wander haphazardly in and out of the eye of the storm, he was not so sure he could pull his other foot back out so easily from here. That he might well get dragged all the way into the nightmare if he lost his footing for even a moment.

As he cast about, his light happened upon one of the fair number of family portraits dotted around the house.

A painting of the little girl, the granddaughter, with dark hair and grey eyes, wearing a very stiff-looking formal dress. But still looking very much a child in spite, or perhaps because of, this precocious presentation. Sitting in her lap on either side was a pair of fluffy black kittens, and while they both looking similar at first glance, there was just something about the one sitting on the left, though it took him a moment to figure out just what.

The kitten seemed to be smirking at him in a manner that didn’t seem quite feline, as well as the creepy intuition that it might just reach out and slash or bite his hand if he was foolish enough to put it up to the canvas.

In the corner, he also noted a signature: Nemo. No One, or Nobody, as he recalled, wondering what artist would sign himself off as such.

In the midst of his morbid musings, he started to hear what sounded like strains of piano tinkling. Wondering what spooky surprise this might herald, he turned and headed in the direction the sound was coming from. Though he doubted Pickford harbored any classically trained pianists— or many musicians of any sort anymore— he still refused to believe that any kid wandering around a place as creepy as this would just stop to play a piano simply because it was there.

As he drew nearer, he still couldn’t place the tune, though it did vaguely put him in mind of Für Elise, with its melancholy tone and similar ambiance.

At last he stood before another door, just slightly ajar, but as he reached for the knob, the notes came to a jangled halt. Holding his breath, he listed for a long moment, instead hearing what sounded like a kitten prancing around on keys, plinking random notes. Even less sure what to expect, he finally reached out and opened the door.

In the center of the room was an ebony concert piano, but the bench in front of it stood empty. He looked around the room, finding it as deserted as any others he’d explored. Just a few tables and small table off to one side.

As he crossed the room to a large bank of windows, a rare exception to the tall, narrow frames in most rooms, which appeared to overlook the back of the estate, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps the House was merely toying with him, conserving its energy with distractions, rather than fighting him upfront.

His thoughts trickled to a halt as he looked out those windows, though, spotting that same chessboard from earlier. It was not so much the gameboard itself, as it was the disconcerting impression that all the pieces were in completely different positions than the last time he looked at it.

“That can’t be right…” he mumbled, wondering if this was just some sort of hallucination. It’s just because I’m seeing it from a different angle, that’s all

Yet the stubborn intuition hung on that they were indeed in different places than before, and told his rational mind that if he believed it was just different angles, he also had a famous bridge to sell himself. Decided that unless he actually saw Melissa, or one of the other children, out there, he was staying the hell away from that thing. Trusted those game pieces about as far as he could throw them, if even that far.

Questioned if he should even trust the image of anyone out there in the first place.

There just seemed to be some sort of natural law, he reflected as he turned back to resume his search, that these sorts of crises could only happen under a blameless blue sky. Thought about how, if this were an abandoned mansion from his own world, it would be fun to go up to one of those towers and wave at everyone. Especially to piss Travis off.

Though, aside from the cellar, he quickly concluded that was about the last place he wanted to find her, could all too easily picture her being menaced by something just out of his mind’s eye’s picture, some unhallowed thing his unsettled imagination couldn’t quite settle on a definitive form for, that would push her right over the parapet, and onto the steep roofs just below…

That image only served to renew his sense of urgency as he pressed on.
-Standing backwards, Scoot.

December 17, 2017, 03:48:31 AM
Reply #456
Max and Justin strode down yet another hallway that felt every bit as familiar as it was unfamiliar at the same time.

Vineholdt was proving to have a lot more wings and corridors than even its palatial size suggested from the outside. Putting both of them in mind of places with similar properties, to both of their trepidation. Max, especially, felt as if the place was somehow rearranging itself behind their back.

Struggling to put his fun experiences in the Harken Building out of mind, he found himself recalling some old legend Shades told him about once, of a giant maze, and someone unrolling some string to show the way back. A trick that Alta’s Undercity, let alone the Lower Ruins, would have been too massive to even attempt. Here, though, he questioned whether a rope tied to anything would actually lead them back to the same place at all.

Even some of the twisted passages of the Building occasionally managed that much.

Having long since lost any trace of Shades’ trail, to say nothing of Melissa’s, they were reduced to haphazard fumbling in the dark.

Along the way, they heard that grandfather clock toll a couple more times, finding it every bit as worrying as the first. Especially since they had no clue what it was even about. For his own part, Justin tried very hard not to think of it as an alarm.

At first, he wished they had ignored everyone’s advice and brought their radios along, but based on prior experience, he doubted they would have been any help finding Shades.

They both paused and looked out a bank of windows lining one side of this hallway, overlooking the back of the estate. Providing a commanding view of a massive, checkered gameboard, with two sets of pieces arranged in apparent mid play. Recalling a game Shades once told him about, called chest, or something like that— even found a board in a compartment of odds and ends back aboard the Maximum and offered to show him how to play— and he couldn’t help but feel they were playing a similar game here. Only with no clue what the rules even were, let alone how to win.

Seeing nothing of use here, they resumed what neither of them could really quite think of as exploration anymore, lost as they felt.

A while later, they came upon another of Vineholdt’s many assorted paintings, of a little girl, with two black kittens sitting in her lap. Some of the others, like the grim old lady who glared at them from all angles, whom he wouldn’t care to meet anywhere, or the old man who would have looked right at home sitting among the Board of Directors back in the Triangle State, as well as what appeared to be their daughter and some other man, seemed to be the Rigby family everyone in town talked about. Yet this one stood out to him, because he’d seen her before somewhere.

“Eleanor…” Justin mumbled, staring at that face across a gulf of years.

“You know her?” Max tilted his head, but found no angle that lent the child any familiarity.

“Yeah…” Justin paused for a long moment, then told him, “You remember that ship I stayed on as a kid, before I ended up in the Triangle State— the Skerry?— she was a passenger… maybe more… I think she was on that ship even longer than I was. She was like the First Mate’s daughter, or something like that…”

Found he even recognized the kitten on her right. Poe, she called him. At first, he was at a bit of a loss about the second one, but then he remembered that she had mentioned another, if he could just remember her name…

Max, on some vague impulse, turned around to find a small black cat sitting down the hall, gazing at him in cryptic observation, and he couldn’t help but notice the uncanny resemblance to the kitten depicted in the portrait.

As seldom as they ever got to speak to each other, Justin was sure Eleanor had mentioned Poe having a twin sister…

“Look, there’s a cat,” Max told him, but Justin continued to stare at the painting.

The cat, meanwhile, rose from her haunches and turned back the way she apparently came.

“Let’s see where he goes,” Max suggested, “before he gets away from us.”

Justin nodded, but said nothing, and Max turned to follow, trying not to imagine Bandit wandering around this creepy estate like that. In that moment, he couldn’t help thinking about his old friend as a cub, and quietly hoped he was still sleeping soundly at the Pines, rather than following after him, as he had a habit of doing.

“Now I remember…” Justin thought aloud. Lydia. A name Eleanor followed up with a distant, wistful look, as if she regretted even bringing it up. And a nickname to go with, giggled and spoke of her as… “Liddy-Kitty.”

As he snapped back from his reverie, he would swear to his dying day that the kitten on the left had started glowering at him while he wasn’t looking, as if she didn’t like that name. Even Eleanor’s face seemed to have changed, looking as if he’d said something particularly uncouth at the dinner table or something.

“Liddy-Kitty,” he repeated, for good measure, then turned to Max, saying, “Did you see that? Did you see her face change when I said that?”

When he received no reply, that was when he noticed that his friend was no longer there. Looking around, recalling him saying something about a cat. Wishing he had paid a bit more attention, as he couldn’t even remember which way Max took off.

The next tolling of the grandfather clock startled him into stumbling back from that painting of his childhood travel companion, alarmed and ashamed at how easily they had allowed themselves to get separated in here.
-Standing backwards, Scoot.

January 03, 2018, 04:45:37 PM
Reply #457
Shades was just starting to think he could cope with the seemingly random and arbitrary tolling of that infernal grandfather clock, when this time it heralded another spectral vision, much like the first time.

Only this time, he was standing right in the middle of it.

Shadow-shapes strode up and down the halls, sometimes forward, sometimes seemingly in reverse, with nothing to cast them. An indistinct cacophony of voices, all murmuring, whispering, muttering overtop of each other. Flickering glimpses of the doors all opening and closing at random, as he stumbled around in circles, unsure which way to look.

Half-open doors, wall sconces, and scant hall furniture, all casting two or three different shadows at once. Just as it was dying down, he spotted a ghostly, ghastly figure stumbling down the hall. The bloated, drowned-looking apparition of a police officer, aimlessly wandering the halls, casting about in his own abject horror. From somewhere, a woman’s muffled voice screamed for help, accompanied by a faint pounding and thumping.

Shades staggered back as that spectral lawman blundered right toward him, and he threw his arms up to ward off the phantom, fumbling his flashlight in his shock. An icy chill blew through him, cut-ting to the bone like the north wind in winter. Though he had read of such things— even encountered something akin to this once on a certain haunted island— it was still something else to experience it for himself as he stumbled back—

And then it was over.

The halls stood quiet and still once more, leaving him trying to collect his fumbled wits in the wake of this last ethereal episode, before moving to retrieve his fumbled flashlight, as well.

Yet as he bent down to pick it up, relieved to still see a flood of light spilling from it across the floor after that drop, it dawned on him that he was reaching for it in a hallway with all the lights on.

Dim as they were, old-fashioned bulbs in even more antique-looking sconces, and hints of dull light from behind some of the doors. As he picked up his flashlight, deciding that there was no substitute for good backup, he also noticed that the floors weren’t as dusty and gritty under his boots any-more. Aimed the light around and observed that the wallpaper was no longer peeling, either.

As if the house was slipping backward in time in a way that made his skin crawl. Especially as it occurred to him that the place had probably been doing that all along, without him even realizing it, and he shuddered. The idea of a building somehow getting younger without any renovations…

At first he was glad that he had left his radio back the inn, knowing that these sort of phenomena frequently involved eerie emanations and staticky signals on many frequencies. And he strongly doubted whatever force was in play here would allow him to call for outside help anyway. Then he remembered that it sometimes also served as a warning as well as a manifestation, and wondered if he should test that with the radio tuner of the Cam Jam player in his jacket pocket.

Never thought I’d need a radio for a simple shopping trip

Then he remembered the screaming and pounding from earlier. A woman— or possibly a little girl— and most definitely the latter still trapped somewhere in here. Steeling himself as best he could against the Unknown, he pressed on.

Recalling the tower turrets, deciding that, now that he had somehow worked his way up to the third floor, that he would try to find the tower entrance at the end of the hall.

As he approached the end, though, he found his steps slowing instinctively. Finally came to a halt at what still felt like a less than safe distance from a doorway near the end of the hall, on his right. Unlike the others, this one was pitch-dark, and he could see nothing past the threshold, as if the space beyond swallowed up light.

Sure enough, even his flashlight’s beam didn’t seem to penetrate very far, and he took a reflexive step back at the jarring vision of many pale hands reaching out, groping and dragging him off into that darkness…

Shades continued backing away from that dreadful doorway until he was almost back at the far end of the hall, still grappling with a mixture of revulsion and shame. Revulsion at the intuition that he was nearing the end of the illusions, the end of the warning shots, that whatever came beyond this point would be real. Shame at backing away from a threat that he couldn’t even ascertain, that that must surely be the direction he needed to go if it was being ‘guarded’ by something.

Feared he was about to get turned around in this maze of a mansion once again if he set out in another direction.

With no clear way to distinguish between what was real and what was illusion, there was a terrible risk of blundering into something real if he didn’t take it seriously. Already sure there was, deep enough in. Yet if he started avoiding things out of fear they might be real, the place would just push him around in circles until it was too late to help Melissa.

Reminding him that was putting his life on the line just entering this place, questioning whether there really was anything he could do for her, if he would just be getting himself killed for nothing… and concluded that he had already come too far to turn back.

He was just about to fire up his stun-stick, in spite of his doubts about its usefulness against a thing like that, when he spotted a movement to his left, out of the corner of his eye, and he pivoted that way, dreading what might come next.

As he faced the door next to him, he saw that inside on the far wall was a mirror, and he nearly laughed aloud at the thought that he was jumping at the next closest thing to his own shadow.

He turned to head back to that spooky door again, when another odd movement turned his head back to the mirror, now showing him not his own reflection, but a sight that stopped him in his tracks.
-Standing backwards, Scoot.

Yesterday at 04:09:04 AM
Reply #458
Max continued to follow the black cat back downstairs.

At the grand stairway landing, he paused again to look inside the junk room, only now it was all in order, looking more like a child’s playroom rather than the ruins of one. Now he could find no trace of the toy sailboat that spooked him earlier, most likely lurking in a toybox against the far wall. After that moment of distraction, he was relieved to see the cat still loitering near the bottom of the steps, almost as if waiting for him.

Just like each time before, as if leading him somewhere, and he turned to follow, barely noticing as he nearly tripped on the curled rug on the stair landing, absently kicking it back into place in his focus on the cat.

Whom he had started out thinking of as a he, most likely because of his long acquaintance with Bandit, but was becoming increasingly certain was a she, for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on. At first, he thought the cat might be leading him to Melissa, but now he was starting to wonder if he should have grabbed Justin before following this strange lead. Especially now that the trail was apparently leading back out of the house.

Through dimly-lit rooms and corridors, then some storage room, finally to a back door hanging wide open.

He stepped out, blinking away at the daylight and wondering for a moment if the girl hadn’t found her own way out of Vineholdt. If the cat might perhaps lead each of them back out in turn. Yet that felt too much like wishful thinking, given this place’s grim reputation, and now he suspected that he had just been led right back to the beginning of the maze.

Feeling cheated, and more than a little foolish, he was surprised to still see the cat, sitting over near that giant gameboard he saw from upstairs earlier.

Sure enough, the cat once again got up, sauntering alongside the board, and he followed. Standing this close to the whole thing, Max couldn’t help pausing to examine the nearest game piece. Stepping on a dark square to reach it, he moved in for a closer look.

Nearly as tall as he, and set on rolling casters, its squarish base topped by what appeared to be the stylized head of some sort of winged sea serpent. Carved of some dark flecked stone, looking quite solid, heavy, enough to cause serious injury if it, say, fell on someone. With that thought in mind, he was about to step back, when he noticed a name inscribed on the back of the base.

Nemo, a name that sounded simple, yet for some reason suggested to him hidden depths.

The light around him fell into shade, and he snapped his head up to find himself nearly surrounded by more pieces.

On reflex, Max stepped back, off the gameboard, realizing even as he did so that that was the only direction he wasn’t hemmed-in from. He stumbled back a couple more steps, whipping out his laser sword in case they continued to press the attack. Already concerned about whether he could actually evade several falling hunks of stone at once.

Yet when he looked back up to face that very task, he found all the pieces lined back up at opposite sides, as if starting a new game, looking for all the world as if they had been arranged that way all along. He stared for a long moment at the lineup of potential opponents. A open but faceless helmet, a pyramid, something vaguely canine, with a long snout and tall, pointy ears…

After taking a moment to pull himself back together, he remembered the cat. Who was now nowhere to be found, and he couldn’t help but feel that she had led him into some sort of trap. Found a moment to wonder how he let himself get separated so easily, no matter how much the cat gave all the air of leading him somewhere. Especially now that he had seen for himself where that led.

So focused was he on trying to pick up the trail, he hardly noticed the dark clouds creeping in as he skirted the edge of the board, giving the darker pieces on this side a wide berth.

As he rounded the corner of mansion, wondering if he should perhaps get back inside to find Justin— or Shades, or even this Melissa he went in looking for— he spotted a crumbling stone fence marking some inner border of the estate. Originally about waist-high, more decoration than barrier, whole sections of it had toppled over through the years. Only the section that joined the mansion wall still standing fully intact, with its half-open iron gate.

Still no sign of the cat, though.

Nearby, built into the wall, he saw a fountain full of clear water.

On some vague impulse, Max ambled over to the fountain, looking down at the smooth stone basin. As the wind swept his shaggy hair, he was taken aback at just how much resembled his father in that moment. Or at least, what he remembered of him. Though he didn’t really like the stern vibes he was getting from those storm-clouds swirling overhead.

Much like that toy sailboat from earlier, he found himself profoundly uncomfortable with where all of this imagery was leading.

A few seconds later, a few drops of rain began to fall, then more, obliterating all reflection, and he looked around under an ever darkening sky, that night swirling around him as surely as the storm growing above. He blinked at the crumbled line of fence, a flicker of lightning showing him ancient Cyexian tombstones, runes and all. In the background, swaying trees all seemed to hang down with thick willowy fronds, completing the scene for him.

Somehow, he was back on Kinsasha, the farthest of the islands of Layosha, and he half expected the infamous clan ringleader, Slash, to grab him from behind, for Cyexian pirates to hold him hostage as they did one night long ago.

In his growing alarm, he spun around, and was genuinely surprised to find he was not surrounded by Slash’s old crew once again.

His relief, though, melted into sublime shock at the figure who came stumbling through that iron gate instead.

“Dad…” Max’s voice breaking even as he uttered that one word.

Sure enough, there stood Robert of Layosha, Slash’s mortal nemesis, sopping wet in the rain, and smelling faintly of sea-brine, as he strode toward this surreal reunion.

“My son…”

“Is… it really you?”

“Son… I forgive you…” Robert’s voice stern and somber, making Max cringe in spite of himself.

“Dad… How did you find me?”

“I forgive you…” Robert repeated, and as he drew nearer, he seemed to loom over Max as if he were still a child. “For failing me…”

Max backed up a step, finding himself up against an overflowing fountain that instantly put him in mind of the railing of a storm-tossed deck, the thunder rumbling overhead, just loud enough to make itself heard over the waves and the rain.

“I forgive you…” Robert said once again, reaching out for Max with both hands, “for letting me die…”

Even as he reached out to ward off those pale, seaweed-draped hands, having nowhere to retreat to, he struggled against that crushing feeling that he somehow deserved this, even as his small, feeble hands struggled against the steely grip of a man who had never laid hands on him like that…

That somehow the watery grave he avoided back then by the unintentional sacrifice of others had finally caught up with him.
-Standing backwards, Scoot.