>>6178360
>Right behind you
>A .22 pistol

>>6178360
>What doesn't kill you
>20 tabs of ecstasy

>>6178360
>What doesn't kill you
>A .22 pistol
Knowing players, those ensure that we'll survive the best

>>6178360
>>What doesn't kill you
>$20

>>6178360
>Right behind you
>A .22 pistol

>What Doesn't kill you
>A .22 pistol

Writing

>>6178368
Bold of you to assume survival is the best possible outcome.

File: Motel.jpg (42 KB, 500x374)

42 KB JPG

You scoop water from beneath the running faucet and splash it across your face again and again as if you can wash away what you've become. What you're becoming. You look down at the pink water sloshing in the basin. Sitting on the edge of the sitting beside where your pill bottle had been is a pistol. It was probably about as old as you are. As a .22 it wasn't likely to do much damage unless you hit just right with it.

You pick it up and turn it over in your hands, the diffuse fluorescent light playing off its metallic finish. You consider putting the muzzle to your temple and pulling the trigger but…well, somehow you're not sure that would kill you. "Alright," you say, meeting your mirror's gaze again. "Almost home."

You find jeans wadded up on the shower floor. They're dry enough so you pull them on, tucking the pistol in your back waistband. You take one more steady breath and grip the doorknob back to the hotel room. You know what you'll find even if you don't like it. The metal feels electric in your grip.

You exhale and open the door to reveal a seen of carnage.

"Fuck…"

Well, the good news is that she's definitely dead. No need for a mercy killing tonight. The yellow glow of the motel's sign spills in through the gauzy curtains, lighting everything a sickly gold. Everything but the blood. The bed and its sheets are doused in it, more blood than a human body should really contain, though you're not a doctor or anything.

Still, you've spilled enough that you should be an expert by now

You circle the bed slowly, feet sticking slightly on the tacky floor. Your eyes don't leave the body. She's as naked as you are, face down, toned legs, perky butt, her back oozing blood from a nasty gash by her ribs.

You keep circling until you see her face. Her eyes are glazed, unfocused, jaw slack. Definitely fucking dead. Her neck is torn open, her jugular pumped what life she'd had left onto cheap pillows and sheets. You still taste iron in your mouth.

"Fuck…" You run your hands back through your hair, trying to remain calm. You've had situations like this in the past but…nothing so animalistic. You're going to have to do something about that at some point. The pills didn't work. You'll need a different type of medicine.

One thing at a time. Right now there's a dead chick in your motel room. Who is she? How did she get here? Did she know you?

You look around. Her clothes are neatly folded and siting on the dresser. You rifle quickly through them, searching for anything. Money, ID…anything.

Nothing. No cash, no cards.

You look back at the body, desperately wracking your memory. Why would you pick up a girl while you were on your way home? Surely you knew what a big fucking risk that would have been. Unless this was exactly what you picked her up for…

You shake your head. You're certain you didn't check in here under your real name, with no credit card you'd paid cash. Maybe speed could be your ally. Get packed and get the fuck out of here before anyone knows anything's wrong here. Let housekeeping deal with the rest.

Maybe it would be best to try to get the body out of here…You tug the curtain aside and peak out. Your black AMC Eagle sits just outside the door of the room. The rest of the lot is empty, bathed in shadow. It's late. Late late. No decent people are awake. If you're quick you could probably carry a sheet-wrapped body to your trunk. Maybe you could wiped down enough of this blood that no one would be looking for a murder.

Or maybe that's too much time and too much effort for too little pay off. It wouldn't be too hard to light this place up. You've got some road flares in your car. With some strategically stuffed sheets, maybe a little siphoned gas, you could burn this room to the ground. It would destroy a lot of the evidence. Probably.

>Leave the body and hope for the best
>Smuggle the body to your trunk
>Burn this place down to cover your tracks
>Write in

>>6178397
>Leave the body and hope for the best

>>6178397
>Burn this place down to cover your tracks
Ain’t like we can just leave evidence. Especially when there might be our DNA.

>>6178397
>Smuggle the body to your trunk

>>6178397
>>Burn this place down to cover your tracks

>>6178397
>Leave the body and hope for the best

>>6178397
>Burn this place down to cover your tracks

>>6178397
>Burn this place down to cover your tracks

>Burn this place down

Writing

It's all gotta burn.

You wrap the body up in the bloodstained sheet, tucking it tight. Next anything flammable goes into a pile. Chair, dresser drawers, her clothes, everything that's not yours.

You wash your hands and dress again, T-shirt and then your leather jacket. The chains hanging from the shoulders jingle as you pull it on. The back is emblazoned with one word.

NEMESIS

An old music project, semi-abandoned for reasons that are now all too clear.

Next you tamper with the smoke detector. Standing on tiptoe you twist the plastic assembly and let it drop down from the ceiling, hanging by a wire. You yank out the wire. It lets out a continuous mournful beep as the onboard battery dies.

You shove it under the body to muffle it.

"Okay," you say to yourself, reviewing your handiwork. "Gasoline."

You open the door to the outside, shutting it quickly behind you. The air is cool and still. Silent. Not even traffic on the nearby freeway. Your boots crunch on asphalt as you reach your car.

Like your cigarette burns, the car was something you'd got from Dad. Unlike the burns, Dad never wanted to give you the car.

You open the trunk and produce your siphoning kit and road flare. You give another nervous glance around before setting to work. Your heart beats hard as you siphon out gas into a tiny gas tank. The fumes make your head spin.

Once you have about a half gallon you go back into the room and douse the pile, pouring liberally across the dead woman's wrapped body. Whoever she was she was about to become even less.

You strike the flare. It burns a sparking, flickering pale red. Blood.

You toss the flare onto the bed and the gas spill combusts instantly. You flinch away from the heat, painfully reminded of the source of your own burns.

You cough lightly and watch the fire spread, consuming fabric and wood, now igniting the wallpaper and mattress. Nothing more to do now.

Firelight faintly flickers through the closed curtains as you shut the door behind you. The door to the Eagle creaks open and then slams shut, starting with a roar.

"Just need to get home," you say. You put the car in reverse and are out of the parking lot and onto the road.

You put accelerator to metal. It's only about fifteen minutes later that you look down at the dashboard. Your heart sinks as you see the fuel gauge needle edging E.

"Dammit."

Maybe it would have been wiser to siphon gas from someone who wasn't broke. Well, you have a couple options here. Roselake isn't much further, even on E you should be able to at least get into town if you coast down hills and watch your speed.

You can stop at a quiet parking lot and do the gas siphon trick in your own favor.

Or you can get some gas and cash all at once by knocking over a convenience store. You aren't carrying your .22 for show. Plus you've already got murder on your rap sheet. What's a little larceny?

>Try to coast home
>Stop and siphon gas
>Rob a gas station
>Write in

>>6178587
>Stop and siphon gas
We need to lay low and make distance

>>6178587
>Rob a gas station
I'm down for some larceny

>>6178587
>Stop and siphon gas
As long as we haven’t been caught, we’re still innocent. No need to draw attention to ourselves with armed robbery.

>Stop and siphon gas

>>6178587
>>Stop and siphon gas

>Stop and siphon gas

Writing

You're not going to risk drawing more attention to yourself with a holdup and you're not really all that confident the Eagle can make it the rest of the way. That leaves siphoning.

You cruise the highway towards Lasker City, eyes out for remote parking lots. You pass a biker bar but it's way too lively. Someone would see for sure. Other lots are deserted and empty.

The fuel gauge needle is humping E when you see your chance. You slow down and coast into the gravel lot on the roadside. It's full of parked city work vehicles, mostly semis and bulldozers and shit. Stuff that takes diesel, but there are a handful of pickups too.

You slow to a stop between two and shut off your car, listening to the silence before you get out. With hose and gas can you reach the first truck, open it and start siphoning. You spit out the first of the bitter, burning fluid and stick the hose into the plastic can, listening as it slowly fills. This will take a little to get the gas you need.

You crouch on your haunches, a cold breeze blowing your hair, your eyes fixed on the empty highway. After a minute you hear the gas can is nearly full. You also hear distant sirens, fire trucks probably.

Without a phone or watch you're not really sure how long it's been. Maybe half an hour? Hopefully enough to burn up any trace of what happened in that motel room.

You pull the hose out and pour the cans into your gas tank. It's about half a gallon. It should get you home. If you take more time you could probably get a full tank and not have to worry about gas money for a bit.

Besides, maybe there's something in these trucks? Tools you can use or sell. Maybe some cash.

Or maybe you'd better get the fuck out of here.


>Fill the tank and search the trucks
>Just get home
>Write in

>>6178758
>Just get home

>>6178758
>Just get home
There's no reason to incriminate ourselves. Let's vamoose.

>>6178758
Get the gas, ignore the contents of the trucks.
Resist the urge to pee into the fuel tank of those who have more than you. Undeservingly so.

>>6178758
>Just get home

>Just get home

Writing

"Fuck it," you say, sticking your siphoning kit back into the trunk. You slam it closed and then look at the nearest truck. After a moment you shake your head. If you don't have time to loot then you definitely don't have time to piss on the gas tank. Even if you wanted to.

You climb back in and start it. The needle climbs above E a bit. But not enough to be comfortable with. It'll have to do.

You put the car in drive and pull back onto the freeway, pressing harder on the accelerator, looking to get miles between you and the fire. You get off the freeway before the exit to Lasker City and start onto the winding rural roads you remember. It's weird how quickly things return to you, memories of a childhood spent in suffering.

You flex your grip on the steering wheel, watching the scars stretch on the back of your hand. Every mile you drive shifts your concern from the motel and to home. You haven't been back in five years since you left the first time, what you thought was for good.

The hills rise around you, the endless commercial sprawl and infill of the highway corridor forgotten. The dark, sooty highrises of Lasker City lost in the gloom behind you. The moon climbs above the hills, pale light playing off endless acres of pines. It makes you feel small in a way you don't like. It makes you feel insignificant.

You cross Foster's Bridge. The deep drop off to the creek far below is invisible in the dark. You can feel your anxiety rising as the tires of your Eagle thud back onto solid pavement.

Roselake. Home. Where it all began.

A short distance further down this road will put you in downtown Roselake, such as it is, just beyond that the Lake itself. That's not where you're headed though. You take a left, driving up into the hills, the trees closing in around you. After a few minutes you hit gravel. A few more minutes later and pull off to a driveway beside a dead oak trunk and a mailbox that says MERCER.

Home.

You cruise slowly up the driveway, past an open shed and a closed up tin-sheeted barn. A small, two-story farmhouse sits atop the hill overlooking what were once cow pastures but now are just more dense pinewoods.

You pull in beside an aging Chevy pickup. Like the Eagle, it was once Dad's. You park and shut the car off.

The paint on the house is peeling, flaking away. The wooden floorboards of the porch are warped with age. Drifts of dead leaves have collected in the corners and hollows of this place making it look forgotten, abandoned.

The downstairs is dark, but garish pink light glows from the upper bedroom, your room at one point.

You get out of the car and close the door, not taking your eyes off the house. This place had been a prison for you when you were a kid. You'd swore never to come back. Guess you're not good at promises, huh?

The porch creaks and the screen door squeals on dry hinges as you pull it open. There's no doorbell. You knock twice, hard. Then you wait.

After a moment a light appears downstairs, then a pale, gaunt face appears in the window. Your mom, her light hair tied back severely. Her expression goes from suspicion to shock and then fear when she recognizes you.

She disappears from the window and the lights snap off. You sigh and knock again. You hear a voice, muffled but familiar.

"What the fuck are you doing, mom? Who is it?"

Your sister's voice is unmistakable, a relic of a time you'd done everything you could to forget.

You don't hear your mom's reply, but the light comes back on and the door jerks open. Your sister, Candi Mercer, stands in the open doorway, haloed with light. Her eyes are ringed with kohl, lips painted black. She wears a loose T-shirt and gym shorts. You would assume she was getting ready for bed if not for the makeup.

She has your same pale eyes and blonde hair, though hers is actually shorter than yours, beld haphazardly back from her face with hair ties and clips.

A moment of silence passed as she stares at you in disbelief. A ghost.


>Hey sis, I'm home. Surprise!
>You gonna stand there and stare or let me in?
>Candi. It's been a while.
>Write in

>>6178837
>You gonna stand there and stare or let me in?
Alibis are important.

>>6178837
>You gonna stand there and stare or let me in?

>>6178837
>You gonna stand there and stare or let me in?

>>6178837
>Hey sis, I'm home. Surprise!
classic psycho

>You gonna stand there and stare or let me in?

Writing

You stare back for a moment. "Are you gonna stand there and stare, or are you gonna let me in?" You say finally.

Candi's jaw snaps closed but she doesn't say anything. Instead she steps aside, lifting an arm, beckoning you inside.

You step by her and hear her close the door behind you. Your mom is gone already, vanished back to her room leaving only the lingering skunky odor of marijuana. The living room is virtually unchanged from when you were a kid. A threadbare couch sits against the far wall facing an ancient television set. Beside the couch is a well-worn recliner. Dad's recliner. You half expect to see him sitting there, his face glowing in the ghostly light of the TV, beer can in hand, eyes hard, sharp.

Of course he's not there. Not anymore.

The coffee table has a handful of coasters and a handful of watermarks from glasses which didn't use coasters. The walls are covered in photographs of people, family you assume, though none are of you. There's one of Candi when she was sixteen. Her hair is back in pigtails, braces glittering in her mouth, she wears a Nine Inch Nails shirt.

"Jesus, Kyle," Candi says, looking you over. She seems shaken which is so unlike her that it almost unsettles you. Candi survived everything you did and more. If your presence here startles her… honestly, no clue what that means. Things are worse than you thought maybe.

You look back at her, regarding her silently.

She seems shaken, surprised. "I thought you…" she shakes her head. "Well I guess I'll go make some coffee, huh? I bet we have to do some catching up." She pushes past you and goes to the kitchen. There was enough room that the push was unnecessary, just a little sibling love. You watch her pass, unwelcome memories surfacing unbidden.

It will make you stronger.
It's okay. I'll show you.
We can do this.

She smells sweet, like perfume. She never smelled like that before you left. You see her through the open door of the kitchen, flitting from cabinet to counter, dragging out the accoutrements to make a low quality cup of instant coffee.

"Sure," you say.

You leave the living room, walking slowly, your footsteps squeaking floorboards. The smell of this place is eerily familiar. Somehow it's like you never left. The musk of your mom's weed, the sickly sweet tobacco smell of Dad's cigarettes, it's all here still, all these years later. You cross through the entry hall and stop in the doorway of the dining room. It's small, dark, mostly taken up with an old piano and a tiny table. A shotgun hangs on the wall here, double barrel. God knows if it has shells in it or not. You hope you won't have to find out.

Your eyes fix on the door to Dad's room. Really your mom's room now, but…it will always be Dad's room in your mind. It's closed, the soft sounds of the 700 Club coming from beyond. Flickering television light shines from beneath the door. You won't go in there.

You return to the hall and start up the stairs. There's a single door here, once your room- Candi's room too you suppose. It glows with the same eerie pink light you saw from outside. Once at the top of the stairs you seize the door handle and stop. Someone, probably Candi, has scored the wood here with a knife or a hatchet. A deeply carved equilateral triangle marks the door here, like a child's depiction of a mountain. This was new. Dad would never have allowed this. No one would have dared.

The meaning eludes you. Candi being Candi probably.

You push the door open and are bathed in neon pink. The room beyond isn't yours anymore, that's for sure. You step inside slowly, scanning everything. The bunk bed is gone, replaced by a large, queen size bed on a metal bed frame wrapped in LED lights. The wall above the bed has a pentagram marked on it in black spray paint from floor to ceiling. Across the wall are more lights, pink, the source of the glow. They wrap and cascade down the wall.

On the opposite wall is a small desk, a gaming chair, a laptop and a webcam affixed to a tripod with a circular halo light mounted on it. A streaming set up. A large, pink vibrator sitting on the desk tells you what you need to know about what sort of content Candi is making here.

The corners of the room, invisible from the camera's perspective, are full of heaps of dirty clothes. A mix of Candi's usually dark attire, more casual clothes, and less decent things. Lingerie, harnesses, costumes, a panoply of debauchery.

"Coffee's ready," Candi says, standing behind you.

You look back at her, her expression is blank, unreadable. It's no surprise, hiding her true feelings was something she got good at when Dad was alive. Maybe the reason why her body is unblemished and yours is a road map of pain.

"It's downstairs," she says, glancing with casual indifference at the vibrator and then back to you.


>What did you do with my stuff?
>Camming? Really Candi? Is this what you've been doing?
>Thanks. (Go downstairs)
>Write in

>>6178936
>What did you do with my stuff?

>>6178936
>What did you do with my stuff?
There's no malice, just curiosity.

>>6178936
>What did you do with my stuff?

>What did you do with my stuff?"

Writing

You take another look around the room before looking back at your sister. "So what did you do with my stuff?"

Candi stares at you before folding her arms over her chest. "What did I do with your stuff? Kyle…what the fuck are you talking about?" She blurts. "You've been gone for five years. And now you show up, walk in like nothing happened and want your stuff?" She closes her eyes and sighs. "I don't know. There's probably a box of tiddie mags and knives and rat skulls or whatever out in the shed." When she opens her eyes again they seem to glitter. She smirks, her expression changing like a mask. "Unless you miss our old bunk bed. Sorry, had to sell that one, hun."

"I noticed." You look back at the bed. "Well…let's get that coffee. We'll catch up." When you turn back around Candi is closer, nearly chest to chest with you.

She leans in slightly and you feel her breath on your neck, hot. She sniffs once, lays a hand on your chest and looks up into your eyes. "You smell like blood, Kyle. Again." She smiles, pearly whites peeking from behind lush, black lips. "I wonder why." She pulls away before you can answer. "I'm sure you'll tell me when you're ready." She walks out of the room, leaving you momentarily at a loss behind her. It's like you never even left.

You follow after her, closing the bedroom door behind you, blocking out that lustful pink light. "You haven't changed," you say.

"No?" She glances back at you as the two of you descend the stairs. "And how would you know? You've only just met me."

"Ha."

She walks through the dark living room and into the kitchen, pulling out a chair at the table. Two mugs of coffee steam on the counter. Cindy's is a novelty mug. It has a muscular Indian in a feathered headdress on it. When it gets hot his loincloth disappears.

Yours is white ceramic and lacks any nudity, tasteful or otherwise.

You sit opposite her and she sips the coffee, wincing. "Wow this is bad."

You sip and likewise wince. "Yeah."

Regardless of how hot it is or how bad it is, she drinks. She keeps her gaze fixed on you, staring at you over the mug. She's waiting for you. She finally sets it down. "So. You're back."

"I'm back," you say.

"For how long?" The question is tight, bitter.

You don't answer. You can't because you really don't know.

"Hm." She sips again, looking away.

"Alright. So what then? Why did you come back?" Her eyes are wide, unguarded, unjudging. She's not often like this. You both developed methods to survive what you went through. Her scars are on the inside, her defense mechanisms much more nuanced than yours, less visceral. For Candi to be open is an exceptional act of bravery on her part. Maybe she deserves an honest answer. Or at least part of one,


>I have to a score to settle
>I need to fix what's wrong with me
>I came back for you

>>6179033
>I have to a score to settle
Punished Kyle.

>>6179033
>I need to fix what's wrong with me

>>6179033
>I have to a score to settle

>>6179033
>I need to fix what's wrong with me
Love me some atonement.

Going to let this vote run another eight hours or so. Then we'll see what motivates you.

>>6179033
>I need to fix what's wrong with me

>>6179033
>I came back for you

>>6179033
>>I came back for you

>>6179033
>>I need to fix what's wrong with me
I sense some incestuous sexual tension in here

>I need to fix what's wrong with me

Writing

You look away from her, staring unfocused at the tabletop. "There's something wrong with me, Candi. It's…it hasn't stopped since that night. It's gotten worse."

Surprise flashes across her features swiftly hidden and replaced with concern. "Worse?"

You nod. "I…I can't remember things. Things I should. I wake up places and…"

"Are you hurting people?" She asks.

You think of the girl in the motel. You think of the others. You think of the blood. You nod.

"I came here to fix it. To…to find out what's going on and fix it," you say. "I've tried pills and…" you shake your head. "I'm all fucked up."

Candi's fingers brush across your cheek, gently guiding your attention back to her. "There's nothing wrong with you, Kyle." She gives you a patient smile, her fingertips on your dead skin. "I like you just the way you are."

You pull away, leaning back out of her reach. You can't meet her gaze. "It wasn't supposed to keep happening. What if I hurt someone important? Someone I care about?"

Candi's expression flashes sour, her lower lip pouting out. "Hey, good thing you came back to me," she says. "Otherwise you might have hurt someone you care about!"

"I'm not going to hurt you," you say in disgust.

"No? Why not? Is something wrong with me?" Candi blurts the question.

"No! Fuck, what's the matter with you?" you spit back.

She blinks and the anger is gone. She sighs softly. "I'm sorry. I…there's a lot going on right now and…" she sighs again, rubbing her face, careful not to smudge her lipstick or eye shadow. "Listen, you can stay here. Obviously you can stay here, Kyle. This is your home. Always. As far as what's going on with you…I'll look into it, okay? In the meantime…I don't know, go talk to Ralphie about something to help you sleep. All we've got is Mom's shitty skunk weed," she says bitterly.

Ralphie. A name from your past. A weasley kid blessed with the knowledge of marijuana cultivation. Maybe he'd have something to help you.

"Ralphie's still around?" you ask.

Candi nods but looks distracted. "Who isn't? Kyle, you really think anyone leaves Roselake?"

"I did."

"You did," she agrees with a saccharin smile. "And look where you are now. Right back where you left me."

Silence lapses. Candi stares at her empty Indian mug and then looks at the clock on the microwave. "It's getting late. Where are you sleeping?"

The bunk bed is gone of course, but there's room enough in Candi's new bed. She's a small sleeper. That or the couch in the living room. It's lumpy and smells like ass, but you'll be alone. If that's what you want. Dad's room is out of the question. Even if you made Mom sleep on the couch you won't go in there, certainly won't sleep there.


>I can sleep with you
>I'll sleep on the couch
>Write in

>>6179304
>I can sleep with you

>>6179304
Damn, Punished Kyle is a no-go.
>I'll sleep on the couch
Best to avoid awkwardness.

>>6179304
>>I can sleep with you

>>6179304
>I can sleep with you

LET'S GOOOOOO

>I can sleep with you

Writing

"I was planning on sleeping with you," you say.

Candi blinks a few times at you. At first you think she's batting her eyelashes but then you realize she's just surprised. "Really? You're sure? You wouldn't rather sleep in your car? It's supposed to stay above freezing tonight."

"Ha."

Candi shrugs. "Yeah that's fine. If you want. I just hope you're not still a bed hog."

"It was a twin mattress," you say. "There wasn't even enough room on it for just me."

"Suuure." She grins but then freezes, suddenly looking horrified. "Oh shit. What time is it?" She looks at the microwave clock and takes out her phone.

"What?" you ask. "Why? What is it?"

She types a bit and shakes her head. "I had a stream scheduled tonight but…I guess I'll reschedule. Yeah, it'll be fine."

You don't really know how you feel about that so you say nothing.

Candi types a bit more. "Yeah, I'll just do something tomorrow instead. No biggie."

Again, you respond with uncertain silence.

She looks up at you and then wrinkles her nose. "Just go shower first. You smell like blood."

"I thought you liked the smell of blood," you say, smirking.

She looks at you dubiously. "Sometimes. But I don't need it in my bed. Just go clean up, okay?"

"Sure." You dump your coffee and put the mug in the sink before going into the hall bathroom. The trashcan here is overflowing with wadded tissues and makeup removal pads. A clothes hamper is heaped high with more of Candi's shit. The sink is crowded with makeup in all its forms. You shove it aside and hear a few bottles drop to the floor but nothing shatters. You undress, folding your clothes up and setting them by the sink, finally resting your .22 on top.

You stare at your reflection again. Home. Full circle. You made it. You just hope Candi can help you. You sniff the back of your hand, smelling only skin. How the hell can Candi smell blood on you? Is t really that bad? Maybe she was fucking with you.

You sigh and put it out of mind. You shower, mindful of the phalanx of hygiene products that litter the tub. Plastic product bottles, lotion, shampoo, conditioner, exfoliating pads, back scrubber, loofa, razors, god, how much shit does one chick need?

Clean enough, you pull on boxers and head upstairs. The pink light is off. Moonlight comes in through the window, the only light in the room.

Candi's eyes shine in the dark. She lays in bed, half under the covers which she pulls aside for you.

You cross the room and lay beside her. She throws the sheets over you and curls up beside you, resting her head on your chest. "I'm glad you're back." You can't see her clearly but you feel her fingernail trailing the path of scars across your skin. "I thought you were gone for good," she says. "I thought you…" she trails off. "You're always welcome here, Kyle. I mean…with me. There will be a spot here until the day I die." She shifts slightly, looking up at you. "I'll never forget what you did for me."

You can see it in your mind's eye, the memory floating through the murk of your thoughts up to the surface. Candi's fingers interlaced, her nails painted black. You see her eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration. She opens her eyes and looks at you. She nods. We can do this.


>We took care of each other. You looked out for me too.
>I'd rather not think about it at all. The past is behind me.
>Say nothing
>Write in

>>6179408
>Damn, Punished Kyle is a no-go.
Don't worry. There will be plenty of opportunities to exercise violence against those who deserve it and maybe those who don't.

>>6179588
I FUCKING LOVE VIOLENCE. I LOVE HURTING PEOPLE. I LOVE CAUSING EXTREME PHYSICAL TRAUMA. I LOVE UTILIZING VARIOUS OBJECTS TO LETHAL RESULT.

>t. what Candi probably wishes Kyle would say

>>6179587
>We took care of each other. You looked out for me too.

>>6179587
Say nothing

File: Tumblr_l_1445413921327052.jpg (16 KB, 270x270)

16 KB JPG

>>6179602
Just because she (sometimes) likes the smell of blood you assume she must also like drawing blood?

That's a bold assumption, Anon.

>>6179587
>I'm glad to be back, too.

>>6179587
>We took care of each other. You looked out for me too.

>We took care of each other. You looked out for me too.

Writing

"We took care of each other," you say, staring at the ceiling, lost in darkness above you. "You looked out for me too." You remember Candi getting Dad off your case more than once. It wasn't any easier for her than you. It took guts and more than that it took love.

"Mm," Candi hums happily. "What else are big sisters for? But still…you're the strong one, Kyle. You always were."

You're not sure if that's really true or not. You saw what Dad did to Candi night after night. Thinking about it sets your teeth on edge, makes your pulse quicken. But it's over now. You try to relax, focus on your breathing, focusing on the weight of Candi's head on your chest, her arm across you. You did what you had to do to survive."

You're not sure if that's really true or not.

It will make you stronger.

Candi nuzzles into the side of your neck, her face against your scar. "Goodnight, Kyle."

"Night." You close your eyes and breathe easy.

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When you open your eyes again it's still dark. Sort of. It's night but everything looks… You sit up in bed. Everything is grainy, stark, a blood black negative. Your first instinct is to exclaim, say something like "What the fuck" or "Huh?" but a second, older, far stronger instinct overcomes you, an instinct that tells you to stay silent and very very still. You're in danger. It's a sensation you haven't felt since you were a child here, but its unmistakable.

You look around, head turning slowly. Candi's room is as it should be, aside from looking like you're staring at it through a fucked up red filter. Her computer is powered down, accent lights off. Candi herself sleeps curled in a ball beside you, knees to her chest, eyes closed. Her chest rises and falls softly.

"Candi." You speak softly, calmly. Not quite a whisper.

She doesn't stir.

"Candi," you repeat. You touch her shoulder.

"Mmmm," her brow furrows and she holds herself tighter, like she's having a bad dream. She's cold to the touch. Or maybe you're cold. Either way, something is wrong and she's not waking up. She's not a heavy sleeper. You're considering trying again anyway when you realize that the scars on your arms, some of them anyway, the important ones, are glowing.

The light is cold, white, dim, but its there. You hold up your forearm and marvel at the strange, angular paths. The cigarette burns and random slashes are there like normal, dull red like the rest of your flesh in this strange redness, but the special ones are all lit up.

Again, you resist the urge to say something about this out loud. That feeling of danger is only growing stronger.

You slide silently from bed, bare feet on cold wood. Dull light comes from the window. You go to it, staying in the shadows and peer out. You see the car and truck parked out front, the yard is as it was when you got here, the woods pressing in from all sides, all bathed in grainy crimson. There's no moon and no stars but somehow you can tell it's night.

You cross the room, moving past Candi's streaming set up to a second window looking toward the side of the house. You see more woods of course, blanketing the hills of what could laughably be called the Mercer Farm. You stop and squint slightly, surprised to see another pale white glow, this one tinting the horizon. Something deep in the woods, beyond the hills, is glowing very brightly. You don't have the faintest idea what that could be or what's even out there. Exploring the woods was always more Candi's thing.

You freeze, your heart skips a beat when you realize there's a woman standing at the edge of the woods.

She's stark naked, almost a hundred yards away. Her hair blows softly. Despite the distance, despite the dark, you recognize her. Its the woman from the motel. The woman you killed. She's staring back at you, her eyes shining in the red night. Although you should be hidden in shadow you're certain she can see you.

A chill runs up your spine but she doesn't move, only stands and stares.

Something else darts through the hellish red woods behind her, something bigger, something crueler. You catch half a glimpse of a pale flank and powerful limbs before it's gone, circling toward the front of the house. The sense of being in danger has amplified now, growing beyond an uncomfortable tickle. Now it's the voice of a terrified little boy screaming in your head to GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.

You ignore the voice and hurry to the front window again, trying to get a glimpse of the pale thing out there. You stare into the yard, watching tall grass blow in the breeze. The pines sway as one. Whatever it is, you don't see it anymore, but you know it's still out there. Somehow you know it's still out there and it's trying to get in here.

You look back at Candi. She turns in her sleep, whimpering softly. A nightmare for sure.

There's nothing to fight with in this room except your fists and teeth and you aren't sure those will work on whatever you saw. There are two guns in this house. A shotgun in the dining room and your .22 pistol.

The .22 is farther away in the bathroom in the downstairs hall. The shotgun is much closer in the den, but you're not actually sure if it's loaded.

>Go downstairs and get the shotgun
>Go downstairs and get your pistol
>Try harder to wake up Candi
>Write in

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I'll let voting continue to 3:00PM UTC or until there's a clear consensus if that comes sooner. I'll try to stick closer to a schedule going forward. Expect updates every day.

I'll try to update by the following times at least if I don't get a clear consensus before that.

3:00 PM UTC
12:00 Midnight UTC
4:00 AM UTC

Happy hunting.

>>6179837
>Try harder to wake up Candi
We wake her up. She wakes us up. No more scary things in the woods.

>>6179837
>Try harder to wake up Candi
Hoo boy here we go

>>6179837
>>Try harder to wake up Candi

>Try harder to wake up Candi

Writing

"Candi. Candi." You say her name forcefully, louder. "Candi!" You shake her by the shoulders. Panic edges into your words. You're alone. You're scared and your sister isn't here to help you.

"Shit." Enough of this. You rip the sheets off her and roll her onto her back. She loosens her grip on her legs and lays flat. Her chest rises and falls steadily.

You take her by the chin and turn her head, getting the angle right. Then you slap her across the face.

She grimaces and murmurs. "Nn-no."

You didn't want to do it but you also know Candi can take it.

"Candi! Wake up." You slap your sister again. Hard. Her head jerks to the side with the impact, hair tossing. Your palm stings from the strike.

You see a single tear run down her cheeks. Her lower lip trembles. "Dad…please."

She's not getting up.

Your sense of danger is becoming panic. That thing could already be in the house. Your pad silently over to the bedroom door and press your ear to it. You faintly hear…a voice? It sounds like a man repeating something. It sounds familiar to you but it also sounds unnatural. Like a recording. You can't make it out.


>Try to barricade the bedroom door
>Escape out the window
>Go for a gun downstairs
>Write in

>>6180024
>Go for a gun downstairs
The shotgun

>>6180024
>Go for a gun downstairs

>>6180024
>Go for a gun downstairs

Time to gun for it

>>6180024
Ah shit it's over, if we hear the fucker outside the bedroom door it's definitely in here, going outside might instantly kill us
Or I'm getting psy-oped and delaying to get the gun even more will end up with us killed
>Try to barricade the bedroom door
While the fucked up pentagram and strange triangle on the doorframe unnerve me and I probably wouldn't have voted to sleep in here, maybe it's doing something. There's also a tripod in here we can use for... staving off death by a few seconds. I'm also fine with going to get the gun however, this is a tough spot

>Go for a gun

Writing

Your anxiety is nearing full blown panic. You're not afraid of much, but this is something you don't know how to handle. It's a dream, right? It's got to be just a fucked up weird dream. If this is a dream then it can't hurt you.

You turn the knob and pull the door open. The entry way is empty, dark. Well, dark except for the light from the carved triangle in Candi's door. You turn and look at it curiously. It's glowing, light emanating from the scratches in the wood. It glows like your important scars do, like the light coming from deep in the woods. Does this light have something to do with Candi?

You hear that voice again and steel yourself to fight. It's repeating. Again and again. It sounds like it's coming from downstairs. You turn back and pick up Candi's tripod, yanking the cords out of the back of the webcam. It will have to do until you can get the shotgun.

You start down the stairs. Like Candi you learned years ago how to move silently. It was never good enough though, and it doesn't seem to be good enough now. Wood creaks beneath your feet, your breath comes fast and loud. You hold the tripod like a spear in front of yourself.

Finally you reach the hall and look around.

The bathroom door is closed but the dining room is closer anyway. The voice is coming from the dining room but you recognize the sound now. It's the television, muffled but audible, coming from Dad's room.

You slink around the corner and into the dining room. Grainy red light spills in from the windows here. The shotgun hangs where it always has. A faint flickering red comes from under Dad's door. The TV blaring. The 700 Club.

"JESUS IS HERE. HALLELUJAH. JESUS IS HERE. HALLELUJAH."

You lick dry lips and force yourself closer. You circle the dining room table and put down the tripod quietly. You reach up and gently lift the shotgun off the mount. It's heavy, familiar. The last time you held this… Best not to think about that.

You slide the lever over and break open the action, relieved to see two shells in the chamber. Loaded, but just two shots. You close it again as quietly as you can.

"JESUS IS HERE. HALLELUJAH. JESUS IS HERE. HALLELUJAH."

You hear another sound coming from Dad's door, muffled sobbing. It's mom. She's crying beneath the sound of the TV.

You're not going in there.

You back away from Dad's door and back into the hallway. Shotgun at the ready you look into the living room. Nothing. You pull back and see a flash of white at the top of the stairs. You whip and take aim in time to see something big disappear into Candi's room. A huge, muscled, naked form.

Your heart is trying to escape your chest, pounding hard. Candi. Candi!

Before you can hesitate you start up the stairs, taking them two at a time, not daring to look away from her doorway.

You slide through the light from the triangle and press your back to the wall by the door frame. You can hear the thing sliding and trotting through Candi's room. You swallow and risk a peak.

It's there. Huge, pale, back rippling with muscle. Its the size of a man–no, bigger. It moves on all fours like a bear or a hyena or a wolf. Where a man would have fingers it has hooked claws which leave scratches in the wood. Its hands are the size of catcher's mitts. The shoulders taper to a thick, muscular neck and a wolfish, equine face. It has saucer-sized eyes, black ringed with white. They wheel crazily in its head, looking everywhere at once. It has a mane of black hair running down its back.

You can only stare, frozen in horror as it circles the perimeter of the bedroom leaving a thick trail of saliva drooling from its jaws. It sniffs around her computer, sniffs the vibrator on the desk, sniffs a clothes pile, working its way steadily closer to the bed.

You've got to to something. You only have two shells.

>Shoot it in the back
>Make a noise, try to lure it into an ambush
>Write in

>>6180104
Somehow I don't think it's smart to fire shotgun shells in Candi's general direction while trying to take down this guy, that's just begging for the wake up and realize we killed our sister revelation
>Make a noise, try to lure it into an ambush

>>6180104
>Make a noise, try to lure it into an ambush
>Stomp hard on a creaking plank, hell, maybe even scream for it to come running, we know it's fast so we should not get that surprised by it.
The ambush should be at the end of the stares where we can have a clear way to run, if we do it on the stairs that fucker is going to trample and catch us in a neat corridor. If he's the one tight in the stairs and we have space to run, we're at an advantage.

>>6180104
>Make a noise, try to lure it into an ambush
Just in case we’re sleepwalking and already running around with a loaded shotgun like a maniac.

>Make a noise, try to lure it into an ambush

Writing

Silently, you duck back around the corner. You ready the gun and click the safety off. In that moment you hesitate. What if this is real? Or real enough? What if this is all your fucked up brain hallucinating and you're about to put two holes into your sister or something?

You hear the thing snuffling loudly in Candi's room and the heavy squeak of her bed frame as it gets onto the bed with her. Dream or not this feels pretty fucking real and you don't know what will happen to your sister if you do nothing.

You push hard on the floor with your foot, feeling a board yield slightly. When you take your weight off it the board squeaks loud and slow.

The snuffling stops. You hear her bed frame creak as weight leaves it.

You lift the shotgun to your shoulder, both barrels pointing at the door frame. You know that thing is fast. You probably have just one shot here, both barrels at close range the second you see it appear and god help you if this is real somehow.

Your hear beats out half seconds. You hear nothing. You see nothing. Then its head appears.

The thing slides around the corner with fluid smoothness. Its wide, horrible eyes are both fixed on you, huge and unblinking as it slides smoothly into view. Fangs drip saliva. It's smiling at you.

You don't scream though you want to. Instead you pull both triggers at the same time.

Roll 1d6
I need three rolls looking for 5 or 6.
More hits is more good.

Rolled 6 (1d6)

>>6180125
Damn I fucking hope that's not our sister looking out to see what the creaking was, but considering we chose the option that wasn't shooting her in the bed I'll place some trust in qm to not bullshit us

Rolled 4 (1d6)

>>6180125

>>6180129
I for one welcome dumping a hot bunch of shots into our sister. Wait a second

Rolled 6 (1d6)

>>6180125
ANOTHER 6 OR A 5 BABY, LET'S GO

>6,4,6

Kyle is a pretty good shot! Let's see how that plays out.

Writing.

>>6180148
let's gooooooooo two 6's for two shells

The shotgun roars just like it did the last time you used it. A double blast of buckshot rips into the thing's face, pulping eyes, skin, teeth, and jaws into a spray of blood that splatters the far wall. It falls lifeless to the ground and you open your eyes.

The sunlight, real sunlight, comes in through Candi's bedroom window. You blink. Nothing is red.

You sit up and look at Candi, knowing somehow what you'll see.

Your sister lies beside you, curled around herself, her makeup from last night is smudged around her eyes. She wakes up and looks up at you, blinking blearily. "Kyle?" She relaxes slightly, looking relieved. "I thought maybe that was a dream…"

You relax. Your sister isn't dead. You look around. The tripod and camera are where they were when you went to bed. Maybe it really was a dream…

"No such luck," you say to her.

She laughs softly and rolls onto her back. "Mm." She stretches, arching her back and reaching out to her sides, her arm lays across your chest. Her shirt slides up exposing a pale, smooth stomach. You can read the tattoo on her ribs.

Find what you love
And let it kill you

"Had a bad dream I think," she says. "Something about Dad." Candi frowns slightly. "But I can't remember."

"I had weird dreams too," you say, watching as she gets out of bed. You wonder how much of her dream about Dad has to do with your dream.

"Yeah. I guess that shouldn't be a surprise for us. For you being back here." Candi peels off her shirt and tosses it into the nearest pile and opens her dresser drawer, rifling around for a bra and another shirt. She stops and looks back over her shoulder at you. "What, are you just going to watch?"

You sigh and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling as Candi dresses.

"I've got a lot of shit I've got to do today," she says. "I need to run my stream tonight and I need–fuck. Are we out of groceries? What days is it?"

You look over at her. "Sunday I think."

"Fuck. Yeah, we'll have to go shopping probably. Oh! I can send you." She smiles deviously at you. Now Candi wears just a bra and panties. You blink, surprised when you see another tattoo on her chest. "Is that an Ouroboros?"

She smiles at you, confused. "Yes? Why?"

"I didn't know you had one too…"

Candi tilts her head. "Seriously? Kyle we got it together after…you know."

Why don't you remember that?

"Why? When did you think you got yours?"

You shake your head.

Candi frowns sympathetically at you. "Wow. You really don't remember shit, huh?"

You shake your head again.

"Poor thing." She pulls on a tank top marked prominently with an image of Baphomet. "We'll get it figured out. I'm sure it will all come back to you whether you want it to or not. Now I've got to go shave and get ready for tonight. Go see if Mom will make breakfast or something."

>So is this what you do now? Camming?
>What's with the triangle on your door anyway?
>I dreamed there was a monster in here hunting us. I tried to wake you up.
>Write in

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>>6180148
>>6180129
That’s it right there.
>>6180174
>I dreamed there was a monster in here hunting us. I tried to wake you up.

>>6180174
>What's with the triangle on your door anyway?

>>6180176
>Sleep
Kyle's on that sigma grindset

>>6180174
All this devil shit is freakin me out Candi
>What's with the triangle on your door anyway?
Also let's take a look and see if ol' shotgun really does have two shells eventually

>>6180174
>What's with the triangle on your door anyway?
If the girl we killed is some kind of Witch (like maybe our sister is) and she placed a curse on us because we killed her, better if we try and understand this dream magic bullshit

>>6180176
Born to fuck our sister, forced to grind

>What's with the triangle on your door anyway?

Writing

You get out of bed and look around on the floor for your pants. Right. Your clothes are in the bathroom downstairs still with your gun. You open her bedroom door and stare at the triangle here. You can't shake the eerie sensation that dream left you with. "Candi."

"Hm?" She's pulling on pants, wiggling them up her thighs and buttoning them. "What?"

"What's with this triangle?" You point.

She comes over and looks at it. "Oh. It's a protection symbol." She studies it for a second. "When you left and it was just me…" she hesitates. "Well I didn't like being on my own here so I made some changes."

"Protection symbol?"

"Yeah," she says. "Something I learned. You have one."

You look at her. "What?"

She reaches and you takes you by the wrist, lifting your left forearm. "See?"

Sure enough, among the other scars, partly obscured by the burn on your left side is an equilateral triangle. When you see it, you remember.

Candi's eyes are red from crying. You sit on the lower bunk facing her. You're mostly numb to it all. Your heart would break if you let yourself feel everything so instead you just stare back at her. You know why she was crying. She was with Dad.

Candi smiles at you. It's a sad, pathetic thing that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She's just trying to look okay. She's hold your left arm by the wrist. "Here," she says, flicking open a butterfly knife with expert precision.

You watch the steel flash as the blade flies out. The handle is decorated with jeweled hearts. You stay still, her grip on your wrist is firm but gentle to ensure you don't flinch away.

"It will make you stronger," she says, looking into your eyes.

You nod.

Candi traces three lines of fire across the bare skin of your arm, enclosing some of Dad's cigarette burns and parallel razor slashes.

You clench your teeth hard, determined not to cry out or pull away. You can't show Candi any weakness. You need to show her that you are strong, as strong as she thinks you can be.

She gives you a sympathetic smile, this one more genuine. In a minute it's over, leaving a bloody triangle carved into your arm.

Your hand trembles slightly and blood drips down onto your sheets.

Candi is quick to cover her work with a paper towel. The white quickly soaks red. She presses gently. "It will make you stronger," she repeats, a tear running down her cheek. "And then when you're strong enough you can prot-"

"It's just a little superstition I guess," Candi says with a shrug. "I dunno. Look, shoo. I've got to start doing my hair and stuff. It's going to take all day. Just … stay out of trouble okay?"

"Alright," you say, still staring at the mark on your arm. It must have been glowing with the rest of the marks Candi put on you. You pad downstairs and into the bathroom. Your stuff is all still here. You tug on your jeans and stick your pistol back in the waistband. You'll have to wash your stuff soon and get your other clothes out of the car. It'll be nice to have a place to do laundry for free at least.

You leave the bathroom and start for the kitchen and then stop, looking toward the dining room. Out of curiosity you walk in and over to the shotgun. It still hangs on the wall, exactly where you last saw it. You take it down and break it open.

Two shells, both fired. You extract them and take a closer look. Green plastic with brass caps, each with a single dent in the back where they had been struck by the firing pin. Where these the shells spent yesterday? Or did they get used last night?

You close the gun and hang it back up before continuing into the kitchen.

Mom is here. She slides four pieces of white bread into the toaster and pulls the handle down. She turns around and catches a glimpse of you and jumps, her eyes go wide. Just as quickly as she panics she reigns herself in, raising her arms semi-defensively.

She looks like she did last night, maybe less stoned. Tired, afraid, washed out like a photograph left in the sun for a decade.

"Kyle," she blurts. "I…hello…there's breakfast." She gestures to some scrambled eggs cooking in the pan and the soon-to-be toast.


>I can see that
>Thanks
>Boo!
>Write in

>>6180241
>Thanks
Alright, the bedroom is the safest place in the house, noted, good thing we didn't sleep on the couch probably, then we wouldn't have double triangle protection (maybe that triangle carved in is what makes us hard to kill)
Shells were used, something definitely happened
And thanks for breakfast mom

>>6180241
>>Thanks

>>6180241
>Thanks

>Thanks

Writing

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"Thanks," you say, not failing to note the total terror in her eyes and the fact that she doesn't look away from you. You look at the eggs. "You're gonna burn them."

Her eyes dart to the pan. "O-oh." She takes a half step away from you and continues cooking, stirring, flipping, and folding. "Pepper?" She asks.

"Sure." You move away from her and sit at the kitchen table as you watch her cook. You wonder why she sticks around here. Maybe she's just too scared to leave. Sure as shit she doesn't want to be here. You have absolutely no positive memories of your mother. The best thing you can say about her is that she never hurt you. She also never helped you or even acknowledged what Dad was doing to you and Candi. She kept herself sedated on cheap weed, kitschy bible shit, and "family values" TV.

"So, Kyle. Um…" Her hands shake as she scrapes some eggs onto a plate. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Yep."

She glances at you. "I know … uh…C-Candi has been saying how she wished you were around."

"Yeah?"

"Y-yep!"

Her pathetic attempt at a cheery "Domestic" voice is grating. Phony. Your mom doesn't give a shit. This is her version of the survival mechanisms you and Candi developed. While you got strong and Candi got good at hiding herself, Mom has always been a sycophant. A people pleaser. You could tell her to eat shit and die right now and she wouldn't bat an eye.

"She's a busy gal!" Mom says as she keeps cooking for a minute. "So …h-how long are you staying?" She tries to sound casual. She tries so hard to sound casual that it's incredibly forced.

"Not sure," you say, watching as she puts the plate in front of you along with two slices of buttered toast. "For a while."

"Oh."

You eat and leave Mom fidgeting nervously beside you.

Candi flits into the kitchen her hair clipped up again, in the process of being…whatever the hell she was going to do to it. "Shut the fuck up, Mom. Jesus. Go take a hit or something you're stressing everyone out."

Mom smiles nervously at Candi. "What?" she says.

Candi rolls her eyes. "Where's the syrup?" She opens the fridge, bending at the waist to peer inside.

You wrinkle your nose in distaste as your sister's peculiar habit of putting maple syrup on her scrambled eggs.

"I …uh…I think we're out dear." Mom says.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Candi closes the fridge hard enough to rattle the accumulated stack of flashlights and spare dishes on top of the fridge. She sighs. "God dammit." She presses her palms to her eyes.

Mom chews her lip nervously, eyes darting around looking for an escape.

"Forget it," Candi says finally. "Worry about it later. I don't have time." She seems to realize you exist and looks at you again. "Maybe you can go pick up some syrup and shit from the store after you eat?"

"I don't have any money," you say.

Candi's expression turns sour. "No mon-" she stops mid-word, turns, and walks out of the kitchen.

You watch her go and then return to eating your breakfast. As far as eggs and toast goes it's pretty good. "It's good," you say to your Mom.

"Oh. Th-thank you, Kyle." Mom doesn't sit or join you. She just stands by the stove watching.

You chew and swallow before washing everything down with a glass of milk. "Mom."

She jumps. "Yes?"

"Have you guys used that shotgun for anything?" You look at her.

Mom's eyes, already wide, get wider still. "Shotgun?" She says like she's never heard of the word. "Oh, no. Heavens no."

"Squirrel shooting? An intruder? Anything?" you press.

"N-no! Nothing. I don't touch it and Candi doesn't either," she says.

You believe her. That meant the last time it was used was when you used it before you left.

"Hm. Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know if anything is out in the woods out past the hills?" You ask, thinking of the glow you saw in your dream.

"In the woods?" She thinks. "No, I don't think so. Maybe Grandpa's mine but I've never seen it. I don't go out in the woods."

"Grandpa's Mine?"

"Your grandfather thought there was coal in these hills," she says. "Your Da–" she stops, terror spreading across her face as you look up at her. "I-I heard that he built a mine. A explorer mine or something."

"Hm." You finish your breakfast just in time for Candi to return.

She angrily thrusts a handful of bills at you. "This is all the cash we've got, Kyle," she says. Her eyes narrow at you. "So if you're going to fucking skip town, this is your best chance. Otherwise, when you get around to it I would really appreciate it if you could go grab some food."


>I'm not going to skip town, Candi
>Why can't Mom go do it?
>What's gotten into you? I said I'm here to help
>Write in

>>6180315
>I deserve that. Uhhh. You got a list for me, you know how I am?

>>6180317
>Alright, alright, I hear ya
Acting casual is the best way to defuse
Alright we got three sub-objectives- find weedfarmer bro, investigate mine, and buy food
And get gasoline I guess so we can actually drive places
We definitely shot dad with the shotgun

>>6180328
Actually we need to check out the shed for our old stuff too/first probably

Man, Candi REALLY likes syrup huh? gahdamn

>>6180317
>I'm not going to skip town, Candi

>>6180325
>>6180328
>>6180355


Writing

You take the money and the harsh words. "I deserve that."

"No shit," Candi says, folding her arms and staring at you defiantly.

"I hear you, really," you say. "But I'm not going to skip town. I'm here."

"You're here because–" she freezes, jaw clicking shut. "Forget it. Fine." She relaxes a little but now she won't look at you. She's pouting. "Just get the groceries and…and come back. Okay?"

"You got a list?" you ask. "You know how I am."

"Yeah," She says. "I sure do." She moves to the fridge and snatches a piece of paper out from under a magnet. "This is it."

You take the list and review it. "Bread, milk eggs–" you stop and look up at her. "Tampons?"

"Regulars," she says. "Look, I'm low okay?"

"Jesus," you shake your head. "Fine. Whatever."

"And to be honest it's the fucking least you could do," she says, narrow her eyes and setting her jaw.

Mom hovers on the edge of your conversation looking increasingly uncomfortable. She tugs at her dress with fidgety hands.

"I know," you say. "I know. Look I… I'll get everything okay?"

Her mask of defiance slips enough that you see a glimpse of concern beneath. "Fine," she says again, relaxing again. "I've got to get ready. You still know the way?"

"Paul's?" you ask.

"It's the closest."

"Yeah, I know the way."

"Okay," Candi says. "See you when you get back." She leaves without a second glance. You hear the bathroom door close and the shower start up.

You give Mom a glance but she's turned away, cleaning dishes.

Time to go.

You pull on your jacket and step outside into the cool autumn air. The sky is a brilliant turquoise, the pines a verdant green. There's one thing to do before you go. You start down the gravel road, rock crunching beneath you as you make your way to the shed.

It smells like motor oil. There's a metal john boat up on saw horses with the bottom completely rusted out. The engine on the back is gone though the mount remains. You feel like there used to be a motor on it before you left. Everything else here is junk. Dry rotted tire tubes, some loose rebar and crumbled cinder blocks, a plow, disc, and mower attachment for a tractor that you don't have. These were probably too cumbersome for anyone to sell off so remain to rust away to nothing.

You definitely don't see any boxes, your stuff or otherwise.

Maybe Candi meant the barn. You look warily toward the windowless, sheet metal building near the house. You have no great desire to go to the barn but… you walk over, alone with your thoughts for a minute before you haul open the door and step into the dark and gloom.

The air is stale, thick with dust and the mildly sweet smell of decaying hay. The sides of the barn are lined with stalls where cows were supposed to be milked. The center path is a cement block dotted with support beams.

You walk over to the nearest one and see it peppered with a fist-sized spread of buckshot at about eye level. The wood here is stained a faint purple. The rough edges of the holes has been sanded down.

The memory is faint still. Candi's fingers interlaced, her nails painted black, her back against the beam. Her eyes are closed, brow furrowed. She opens them and your pale blue-green eyes meet hers.

You move forward and touch the support beam. Your fingers trail over the splintered buckshot holes and the stain. Rather than blood it smells slightly of bleach. You smile at this abortive cleanup job. You have to wonder what a crime scene investigator might see if they ever came to this place.

Looking around you see that many of the other wooden support beams here are dotted with strange carvings, shapes, symbols, runes. You see circles, spirals, crosses triangles and other, stranger, more complex figures. You recognize some of them from the scars on your arms. Candi has been busy.

You detour to the milking stall beside the damaged beam. The ground here is charred black. You see more old blood stains on the wall. Small puddles of melted wax surround the burn mark here. You stare at it a long time but the memory won't come. Not yet.

You turn your back on it, giving one more look around this place. You wonder if it glows in your dreams. Then you see a tumbled of old cardboard boxes. One has your name on it.

Kyle

You open the box and find it. Your stuff. Such as it is. You dig through slowly and carefully. Candi was partly right anyway. The first thing is a stack of girlie magazines, mostly Hustler. Not having internet growing up was hard on you. You put these off to the side, now that you're here you don't think you'll need them.

A hunting knife is next, the blade nearly as long as your forearm. It fits in your boot so you tuck it there.

You pull out a rusty BB gun. The action doesn't open and you have no BBs. It goes with the magazines. A wadded ball of some clothes, most of this stuff should still fit you. Beneath all of that you find a smaller box full of CDs and USB drives. The CDs are 50/50 your projects and other artists. You browse through and find yourself smiling at the memories. Below even that, at the bottom of the box, is an old laptop. Your laptop.

God knows if it still runs, even if it does it runs like shit. But it's how you were able to do music production when you were in high school. You were shit at it then but you got a little better after you left home. It could be useful. Maybe.

You put the shit you want back in the box and leave this place, walking back to the house. The box goes in your trunk beside your siphoning kit and you climb into the Eagle. It starts with a grumble. The fuel needle hovers in the lower quadrant still. Your pilfered gasoline won't hold out forever but it will get you to Paul's and back easy.

You back away from the house, noting that Candi's pink lights are on again, shining like a debaucherous beacon from her bedroom window. You pull onto the driveway and start for town.

In most places Paul's would be considered a gas station or a convenience store. On the outskirts of Roselake Paul's was more like an outpost of civilization. You pull into the lot and park carefully between two pickup trucks and get out. It's busy. There are at least three other people here shopping. You grab a basket from beside the door and follow Candi's list, diligently tallying the total in your head and keeping an eye on the cash she gave you.

People in the store give you side glances as you pass them in the small aisles. Maybe they remember you from your time here. Or maybe you're just a burned guy in a leather jacket that says "NEMESIS". That might stand out.

You finish shopping, stuffing Candi's tampons into the basket and review your funds again. You've ended with a small surplus, about $50. You could always bring it back to Candi like a good boy, but generally speaking you're not the good boy type. You're more of a pragmatist.

Glancing around you see a few more things you could use with that money.


>Gas up the Eagle
>Buy a prepaid cellphone
>Get some more shotgun shells and .22 ammo
>Save the cash for something else
>Write in

>>6180470
>Save the cash for something else

>>6180470
>Get some more shotgun shells and .22 ammo

>>6180470
>Gas up the Eagle
>Some shotgun shells
We still got some .22 ammo since we didn't use any last night, and now with the knife we'll have more options
That cellphone option sticks out to me for some reason, good way of calling home and all that, but it's also probably gonna ring during the worst time or we'll get schizo calls that make us think something is happen when in reality nothing is, so I think it's fine without it
If Paul's is really ripping us off on shotgun shells or gas pricing I'm okay with just half a tank and the shells, but the car needs some gas for it to be useful (also we can always siphon gas out of our on car for useful things like setting stuff on fire)

Though if we need a tiebreak by some hours, I'll change my vote to the shells and .22 ammo

>>6180470
>>Gas up the Eagle
>Get some more shotgun shells and .22 ammo
If we cant half and half it, gas it up is my first.

Running behind today. Will hold voting open for the next 1.5 hours

>Shotgun shells and Gasoline

Great album name

Writing

You grab a case of double-ought buck on your way to the register. Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.

You wait in line behind an old timer in a Carhartt jacket who gives you a couple sidelong glances. You ignore him and study magazines for sale.

"That will be twenty one oh two."

It's a voice you recognize, a voice from your past. You look up and see Annie Liddell behind the counter looking more or less how you remember her from school. Long black hair, razor-sharp bangs, green eyes.

[i]Stop it! Don't hurt him![/i]

Shit, Candi was right. No one gets out of Roselake. If anyone was going to make it you would have expected it would be Annie. Smart, pretty, easy to get along with. Hell, the fact that she got all with you said it all.

Back when you thought you might someday have a shot at a normal life you most often imagined having that normal life with Annie. It was stupid of course. Normal isn't in the cards for you, but it was nice to dream, at least for a while until things got really bad. Until you went all in.

Your heart is beating hard as you consider how best to handle this unexpected social obstacle.

The last time you saw Annie was…

You remember the crunch of bone, hot blood on your fingers. The dull wet thud of a skull against rock. Again and again.

This might be a little awkward.

The old timer finishes his purchase, grabs his shit and moves. Your turn.


>Hey Annie, it's been a while
>Pretend not to recognize her
>Write in

>>6180694
>Pretend not to recognize her
>But don't play dumb, if she recognizes us or tells us something, we say Hi Annie

>>6180694
>Hey Annie, it's been a while

>>6180694
>Hey Annie, it's been a while
Wtf are we afraid of?

>>6180723
Presumably her freaking out and someone calling the cops thinking Kevin is being an asshole. Or, y'know, feels. Kevin is very clearly one of us.

>>6180694
>>Hey Annie, it's been a while

>Hey Annie, it's been a while

Writing

You move up and set your basket down by the register, watching as Annie starts pulling out items and scanning them

"Hello, how's it going," she says automatically, not looking up.

"Hi Annie," you say.

She looks up, confused. Her eyes widen slightly as she sees who it is. You watch her eyes trail up your body, linger on the scar on your face and finally fix on your eyes.

"Kyle," she says, her hands freeze mid action.

You smile at her as naturally as you can. You think you pass. "It's been a while."

"Wow," she says, blinking and breaking free of her paralysis. "Yeah. It has. God, how are you?"

You've been better but you say "fine," anyway. "How about you?"

"I…just keeping busy." She looks like she's seen a ghost, like she can't quite believe this is real. At least she's not reaching for a gun under the counter, backing away, or screaming though there's a part of you that wonders if maybe she should. "What are you doing here?" She asks, resuming her work, beeping each item and bagging it quickly.

"Visiting home," you say, watching her work. "I didn't know you worked here."

She scans the milk carton and then a package of ramen. "Yeah, just part time." She picks up the box of shells, hesitates for a split second and then scans it. She doesn't look up at you. "I'm going to school here."

"That's great," you say, feeling genuinely pleased. There's still hope for her to get out of here.

"Yeah," she says. "Right now biology but I'm going for this veterinarian thing if I can get into it. Horses."

"I've heard it's good money," you say.

"Um. What about you? School? Working?"

You keep smiling at her. "I'm in between things right now."

She laughs, it's tight, a little nervous but doesn't seem forced. "That sounds like you." She glances at you quickly, maybe seeing if that offended you. It didn't. She picks up the tampon box and again hesitates before scanning it. "So are you...staying with your sister?"

You almost say "no those are for me." Instead you say. "Yeah."

"How's she doing? I haven't really seen her much since graduation."

"Doesn't she come in here?" You ask.

Annie looks up at you. "I…don't know actually. Usually it's your mom. I guess Candi's busy working." There's an unspoken question there about what it is that your sister does for a living in a town this small.

You leave it unanswered. "Before I forget, can you put twenty bucks on pump two?"

"Sure," she says, keying the register. She reads out your total and you hand over the cash. As she counts it out she says, "So do you still make music?"

Another one of those forgotten dreams. Funny how "music producer" is a normal aspiration compared to "psycho killer". You're a pretty okay drummer last time you tried your hand at it and you're halfway decent at guitar and synths. You'll never be famous, not even if you tried, but you used to hope you could get some fans.


>Sometimes
>No, not anymore
>Sure, when I get the time
>Write in

>>6180737
>Sure, when I get the time

>>6180737
>No, not anymore

>>6180737
>Not really. They hiring here?

Retail is... something.

>>6180737
>>Sure, when I get the time

>>6180737
>No, not anymore

>No, not anymore

Writing

>>6180827
It's a tie? And I vote for
>Sure, when I get the time

>>6180828
No, not anymore and Not really are along the same vein of no we don't do music now

"No, not anymore," you say. It lost a lot of its luster over the years.

"Aw, that's too bad," Annie says, frowning slightly. "I always liked your stuff when you let me listen in school."

You remember sitting side by side with Annie on the bus to school sharing a pair of headphones, each of you using one earbud to listen to whatever slop you'd thrown together with fruity loops. You did a lot of work using the school's wifi after class if you thought you could get away with coming home late. Every minute you weren't at home was another minute Candi was alone with Dad.

"Yeah?" you say, smiling genuinely at her. "It wasn't good."

"I didn't say it was good, I said I liked it," she laughs. The sound instantly takes you back. The way she covers her mouth, hand just under her nose. It's familiar. Warm. "It was weird," she says with a disarming smile.

"Weird?"

"Yeah, lots of quotes and stuff."

"Samples," you say.

"Yeah. Old movies. I dunno. It was cool." She seems to come back to herself, withdrawing a little. "Well, they do shows sometimes at the university. Maybe come by and check it out. Maybe you could start back up."

"I might," you say. "Speaking of, are you hiring by any chance? I'm in the market."

"Oh," she says, frowning. "No. Sorry. My uncle owns this place. Paul. That's how I got the job but I don't think we're hiring."

"No problem," you say. You aren't sure you really wanted the job anyway. Maybe a job is something to consider more seriously, or at least a way to get money. You sense that Candi isn't exactly thrilled about paying your way.

Annie falls silent. Her green eyes dart quickly in thought. "So," she says. "Who all knows you're back?"

"You," you say. "And my sister."

You see her thinking. "So you haven't seen Chip or anyone?" She asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Chip. The name spikes your heartbeat. Chip was one major obstacle in your life that you were more than happy to have left behind in Roselake. Chip, among other things, was Annie's boyfriend. Or he had been. It really shouldn't surprise you that he's still here, his dad owns damn near half the town. You don't let any of your feelings effect your expression, your smile remains fixed. Annie knows full well exactly how you and Chip got along, or how you didn't.

Stop it! Don't hurt him!

If you weren't catching beatings from Dad at home then it was from Chip at school.

"Nope," you say. "You two still together?" You wonder how it would feel to put your hunting knife through Chip's throat and watch him drown in his own blood.

"It's…complicated," she says, followed by nervous laugh.

With Chip you're not surprised.

"He's working for his dad now," she says. "He's changed a lot since he was a kid but…" she trails off, remembering that she's talking to the person her boyfriend used to torment. "I know he was…" she trials off again, unsure how to proceed. "He was a dick to you," she says finally. "But he was going through a lot back then. He was just a kid…" she trails off.


>I was just a kid going through a lot too.
>It's water under the bridge.
>You should cut him loose. He's a waste of space.
>Write in

>>6180828

2 "Sure"s and 3 "No"s, sorry.

I went with "no". If your vote hadn't tied everything up I would have counted it. I'd rather just move on for now, you can always get back into music production if that comes up.

>>6180856
>Sure.
End the conversation and move on, we've got things to do and monsters to hunt
We don't need pity from her, forgiving him by proxy is cringe, and trying to convince our old one-sided crush to break up with him now years later is ultra cringe

>>6180830
>>6180858
Fair enough.

>>6180856
>I was just a kid going through a lot too.
The reaction should be a lot more cynical and dismissive if Kyle didn't do as Chip did but we're finding out the backstory as we go so idk maybe he was the same way, maybe he wasn't.

>>6180856
>I was just a kid going through a lot too.

>>6180869
Yeah we should just kiss his frontal lobe with an icepick.

>>6180869
Hmm it doesn't strike me as asking for pity, more to say that she's just making excuses but I do like your "Sure" response as it doesn't even dignify her copium with a real answer.

>>6180870
Im switching to
>Sure.

>>6180856
>It's water under the bridge.
Looking forward to seeing what you cook up. Uni sounds interesting

>Sure
Writing

File: Eagle.jpg (120 KB, 736x552)

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You can't believe the shit coming out of her mouth. Just a kid? What the fuck did she think you were? As if you didn't have your own shit going on. "Sure." One word, cold as ice.

Annie stares at you as if expecting more. She nods once to herself. "Anyway it really is good to see you again. Maybe we can catch up at some point," she says.

"Sure," you say again. "Give me a call if you feel like it."

"What's your number?" she asks, taking out her phone.

"It's the same. My house."

"Oh." She makes a show of tapping through her phone. "I don't have that one."

Of course she doesn't. Why would she? You recite it from memory, ready to get out of here

"Cool," she puts her phone back, glancing over as someone else gets in line behind you. "Well it was really great seeing you, Kyle. Say 'hi' to your sister for me."

You have more to say. A lot more. But now isn't the time or the place. Knowing that she's partly free of Chip is nice, but knowing that she's still completely delusional about him isn't. Maybe psychos are just Annie's type. "Later."

You collect your stuff and leave the store. You watch the road as you gas your Eagle. Once the pump stops you return the nozzle and climb in. Since you don't have any cash for drugs right now hitting up Ralphie seems pointless. Whether or not you end up actually paying for the drugs you should at least be able to show some money if called on.

File: Drive.jpg (678 KB, 2048x1536)

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Your drive home without incident, pine woods and run down homes flashing by on the road. After parking in front of the house you carry the groceries in and put them away. The entire downstairs is humid and the shower is still running. Who knows how long Candi has been at it but you can hear her music pulsing from a shitty Bluetooth speaker in there.

Last on your list is the shotgun shells. You set the box down on the dining room table beside a dusty nativity scene. You pop the spent shells out and slide in fresh ones before closing the gun and returning it. You consider keeping it closer at hand but decide you don't want to leave it floating around the house. It feels right somehow to leave it here.

No sign of mom, probably locked away again. Just as well. You go sit on the couch in the living room and stare at the dead television listening to Candi's muffled music. Talking with Annie reminded you that you're going to need to bring in some income, at least something to keep Candi off your back about it. You imagine she'll demand you get a job soon enough anyway.

The problem is you're not exactly eminently employable. You look like death metal Frankenstein, have no college degree, and no employment history. Really as far as real jobs go there's only one option in town: the lumber mill. They hire anyone, even Dad worked for the mill. Steady hours, decent pay, but it will take up a lot of your free time. Assuming they hire you you'll basically only be free nights and weekends.

You could always look around for music gigs. You could probably make a hundred bucks or so a week playing for dive bar bands or something. It wouldn't be much cash but you'd have plenty of free time to get other shit done.

Option three is going to Lasker City for some breaking and entering. You've got the skill set and the lack of moral fiber necessary for that sort of thing. You might not make too much but who knows, you could get a good haul. Another upside is that you set your own hours. Plus, it's fun.

>Plan to apply at the lumber mill
>Plan to look for band gigs
>Plan to do some larceny in Lasker City
>Write in

>>6180931
What a chunky car. I love it.

>>6180933
Interesting, looks like we're in this for the long haul
>Plan to apply at the lumber mill

>>6180933
Larceny just has too many variables to be sustainable.
>Plan to apply at the lumber mill
>Plan to look for band gigs
Former during the day and latter during nights and weekends, I don't know what good things one would do with free time in this place anyway. If there is something to do then just give up a music gig.

>>6180933
>Plan to apply at the lumber mill
What would free time even be for? Making music? I guess exploring the town but it seems like Kyle already knows a lot of what's going on

>>6180940
>>6180943
Why not work night gigs for extra cash?

>>6180953
I like having prep time at home for fucked up dream night monsters

>>6180955
Well, how exactly will we prep for things when reality gets so trippy? Only thing that has proven it's worth is a gun so let's get more money to get more gun.

>Plan to apply at the lumber mill

Writing

>Free time
Getting high, sibling bonding with Candi,winning Annie over, hunting/killing, fighting the nightmares, unraveling mysteries, exploring the depths of the human condition, generalized mischief. Etc.

>>6180957
Being at home when reality gets trippy is better than coming home late and realizing the monster is already in there
We can also carve more triangles, set up barricades, unravel some mysteries, etc

>>6180961
But hasn't it only started when we go to sleep? How would we explain the barricades to Candi? I still think we should take night gigs when we have to come up with something to do.

>>6180959
We YEARN for the mill.

As sick as you are of following in Dad's footsteps it seems like this is yet another fated step. The lumber mill is just tough to beat. You're also thinking about what you'll do if you have another of those nightmares. Maybe you could prepare somehow, assuming things in real life effect the dream.

What the fuck are you saying? It's just a dream. You're over thinking it.

You get off the couch and walk to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge to scan the shelves. There's a couple bottles of Budweiser in the back. You pull one out and thump the cap off on the counter top. Oh, that fucked the laminate. You stare at the blemish and then shrug, taking a sip.

You wander out of the living room and back into the entry hall. Maybe you could barricade doors…or maybe you could carve more weird-ass runes into things, assuming that even does anything. How would you even explain that to Candi? You look down at the floorboards by the stairs and freeze.

A scratch.

Your heart beats harder as you stare at the shallow gouge in the wood. It looks like… you move closer, nursing your beer as you study it. You crouch down and touch it, feeling the rough edge of the wood. It looks like a claw mark… You look up the stairs, scanning for more. You don't see any but… You touch it again. That's real. Real as you are anyway. You don't think that was there yesterday, at least not before you went to bed. The bathroom door comes open and you jump slightly.

A wave of steam rolls out, surrounding Candi for an instance as she leans out, wrapped only in a beige towel. "Hey," she says. "You're back." The Ouroboros peeks out above the edge of her towel.

"I've been back a while," you say. "You've been in there for at least an hour. I got your tampons."

She rolls her eyes. "I don't need them now. God." She looks at you crouching on the floor. "What are you doing? Hey, is that my beer?"

You shrug and take another swig.

She sighs. "Okay, question. Which do you like. Blue?" She holds out a narrow strand of hair on the left side of her head now dyed a pastel blue. "Or pink?" Sure enough, she has a pastel pink streak on the other side.


>Blue
>Pink
>I like your hair the way it is
>Write in

>>6180975
>I like your hair the way it is
Was dad blonde?

>>6180975
>Eh, I like your hair the way it is. By the way, what the fuck's up with this clawmark here

>>6180967
Fair
It's not like we're locked out of them though, now it's just opt-in instead of opt-out

>>6180977
Mom is blonde and Dad was blonde, yes.

>>6180975
>"Your hair > Blue hair > Pink hair"

>>6180978
I prefer "Was this here last night?" Calling it a clawmark might come across as too schizo.

>>6180975
>I like your hair the way it is

>>6180975
Pink.

>>6180975
Kevin, have you considered that maybe trusting the research of a heavily abused teenage girl on the basis of protection symbols might be a bad idea? For all we know these goofy triangles call the bad juju. We need a second opinion. We must ask another formerly teenage abused girl about rune-ology.

>>6180982
Yeah, don't mind that, as long as we bring it up and subtly start cluing her in

>>6180985
Damn you right, what if the triangles are the things fucking us up

Triangle on the doorway did jackshit to the monster just going through after all

>I like your hair the way it is
+
>Was this scratch here before?

Writing

File: Candi.jpg (50 KB, 500x375)

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"I like your hair the way it is," you say, looking back at the floor. "Was this here yesterday?" you ask. "This scratch." You put your hand beside it so she can see it better.

Candi stares down at you, her eyes flicking to the gouge and back to you, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Finally she says, "Kyle, what the fuck are you talking about? A scratch? Really?"

"Was it here yesterday?" You press.

"What, are you fucking tearing up my floors? Jesus, I don't know! Maybe! I ask about my hair and all you care about is the stupid fucking floor? God. Get a grip. Go get some fucking wood filler and fix it or something. Be a man," she huffs.

Great, you pissed her off.

"Relax," you say. Your reply comes automatically.

"I'm trying to relax," she says, holding her hands up like she can't even. "I'm trying to get ready. I'm trying to do so much stuff right now. Sorry that I'm not worried about a scratch on the floor.

You roll your eyes and sip your beer again. Although maybe she's right. Maybe you're being schizo. You're not the most reliable of narrators after all. "Forget it."

"Oh, are you sure?" Candi asks sarcastically. "You want me to forget it?"

You glare up at her silently. "Candi," you say, tone oozing glacial patience. "I said I like your hair like it is. It's nice. Blonde looks good on you. Is that what you want to hear?"

"Something like that," she sniffs with mock indignation.

"So don't waste your time coloring it. Leave it as is."

Candi surprises you by crouching down beside you, studying the scratch. She puts her arms around her knees, holding the towel in place. "Did you do this? For real."

You shake your head.

"So what is it?"

"Was it here yesterday?" you ask again.

She looks at you, expression unreadable. "No? I don't think so."

You stare at each other. You're trying to figure out what she's thinking. Is she really still upset about your relative lack of reaction to her hair? Or was that an act to get more attention? Is she staring at you wondering something similar?

"Why?" She asks.

You shake your head and stand back up, offering a hand to her. She takes it and gets back to her feet, adjusting her towel again.

"Just wondering," you say.

"Kyle, what's going on?"

You shake your head again. "Not sure yet. Nothing to worry about." Maybe that second part was a lie, but the first one wasn't.

She looks at you dubiously. You see worry in her expression, maybe a hint of fear. You can't tell if she thinks you're going nuts or is genuinely worried about something else.


>Tell me about that triangle. Where did you learn about that?
>Seriously, your hair looks great. I like it.
>You'd better finish getting ready
>Write in

>>6181003
>Tell me about that triangle. Where did you learn about that?
She's dealing with a lot. Talk about something that calms her
Quick updates OP, are you doing this daily? Looking forward to it regardless

>>6181003
>Seriously, your hair looks great. I like it. ...Don't worry about the scratch, if I find out something concrete I'll let you know.
For the same reasoning as anon above, freaking her out now won't help too much

>>6181008
>Quick updates OP, are you doing this daily?
I sure am, though this is my last update for the next ten hours or so. I'm trying to get a post made every time there's a clear consensus (typically three votes in favor) to keep the pace moving.

I'm also trying to make good progress before I inevitably get burned out and have to take breaks.

Glad you're enjoying it. I wanted to write something Different. I wasn't sure if would strike a cord with people. I'm still not sure, we're just scratching the surface.

>>6181013
Nice glad to hear it, keep up the good work. I'll be around to read while you still write
What other quests have you written? I'll check out the QST archive tomorrow

>>6181019
As Nemesis? This is my first. My older quests have been nothing like this one. Fresh start.

>>6181003
>Seriously, your hair looks great. I like it.
guys it was just a dream don't worry about it

>>6181003
>Tell me about that triangle. Where did you learn about that?

>>6181003
>Tell me about that triangle. Where did you learn about that?

>>6181003
>>Seriously, your hair looks great. I like it.

>>6181003
>>Seriously, your hair looks great. I like it.
caress her hair for good measure

Nemesis time, bitches. Let's go.

>Your hair looks great

Writing

But because it was so close and I'm just a nice guy I'll throw the triangle anons a bone

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"Seriously, your hair looks great," you say, the sentiment genuine. Before you can think, before you can stop yourself, you reach out and brush her hair back gingerly, taking a strand between your fingers. It's automatic. Her hair is fine, soft, freshly conditioned. "I like it," you say as you feel it.

Candi watches you without expression. Her expression doesn't change, she doesn't lean into your touch and she doesn't pull away. She meets your eyes again. Her eyes look so much like yours.

She smiles slowly, lips peeling back. "You know just what to say, Kyle." She caresses your cheek, trailing her nails over your skin. She stands on her tiptoes and plants a soft kiss on your jaw. When she pulls back she's grinning even wider, eyes sparkling. What is she thinking? Who the fuck knows.

She turns away. "Now I need to finish getting ready. I still have to shave."

What the hell has she been doing this whole time? How fucking long can it possibly take for one girl to get ready?

"Before I forget," you say. "I wanted to tell you I'm going to be going for a job at the mill."

She looks back at you, surprised.

"I figured since I'm staying here now the extra cash would be good."

She smiles again and it reaches her eyes. "Aw. Thanks. I appreciate it. Best brother ever." Maybe that last part is a bit of hyperbole. You're not even sure you qualify as an "Okay" brother.

"Thanks. Also, I wanted to ask, where did you learn about this triangle protection stuff?"

Her expression changes, flashing from bliss to fake in an instant. She's on guard now for some reason. You can't read her anymore but you can tell she's wary. "Oh, some book."

"A book?" you press.

"Yeah, books and stuff. I found this book in the woods forever ago. Well…part of a book."

"In the woods?" you say, dubious.

"Yes," she presses. "Out past the pines. Now I've got to finish getting ready unless you want to help me shave." She sticks her tongue out at you.

"Pass," you say. You're not sure you should be allowed your sister with razors, safety or otherwise.

Candi laughs and disappears back into the bathroom. A moment later her music starts up.

Book? Past the pines?

You think of the glow from your dream. If the symbols Candi has been carving glow and whatever is out in the woods glows…well it stands to reason those things are connected. But it's still just a dream, right?

Too much to think about on just one beer. You get another, drinking and thinking as Candi continues getting ready. About an hour later she finally emerges, now wearing gym shorts and an over sized T-shirt. You see that she left her hair blonde in accordance with your wishes. You're not really surprised but you're a little touched.

"Annie says 'hi', by the way," you call from the couch.

"Annie? Oh. Chip's girlfriend." Her tone is neutral. Too neutral? Hard to tell with Candi. "You see her at Paul's?"

"Yeah. She says you don't stop by."

"I send mom," she says with a shrug. "Gives her something to do."

"Do you ever get outside?" you ask. You're not sure it's healthy for Candi to spend all her time in this place.

"When I need to. Why would I? I don't have any friends and this place is like hell."

"Be friends with Annie," you suggest.

Candi laughs and goes upstairs. She doesn't elaborate.

The day passes. Finally, out of desperation you put on TV and cycle aimlessly through the same few channels of nothing. It's edging into late afternoon when Candi shouts from upstairs. "Kyle!"

Your heart skips a beat. You're off the couch and up the stairs before you even consider going for the shotgun. No time to turn back now. You throw open her bedroom door and freeze.

Candi is at her computer looking horrified. The first thing that you notice is how little she's wearing. Black latex underwear and a black, strappy body harness. All her tattoos are visible like this. The outfit is topped off with a pair of pink, plastic devil horns. She looks at you. "Kyle!"

"What?" you blurt, moving closer, looking around for…what? Monsters? Come on.

"My fucking webcam isn't working!" she says, panic edging her voice. "It's like it's unplugged. Look!" She clicks rapidly through an interface you barely understand, cycling overlays and shit until she gets a black screen.

No Input detected. Please connect camera.

You look at the webcam and pick up the tripod like a neanderthal, examining the back. It's still firmly plugged in. You unplug and plug in again.

"Jesus Christ, I already tried that!" she says, angrily. "Did you fuck with it?"

"No," you say. Well… sort of. But not in reality. You remember ripping the cables out of the back in your dream. Your pulse quickens and it has nothing to do with what Candi is wearing. Well, almost nothing.

"My stream is in like an hour!" she says. She sounds on the verge of tears. "Oh my god. Fuck. Okay, I need a new webcam." She looks at you pleadingly. "Can you run to the mall and get me one? Please? Just like this one." She holds up the non-functional webcam.

"I don't have any—" She slides an envelope stuffed with cash out of her desk and takes out some money.

"I thought you said we didn't have any more cash," you say, startled.

"It's for the bills, shitbird," she blurts, stuffing the envelope back. She holds the cash out at you. "Please go get me another camera. I can't go like this!" she gestures to her outfit.


>Alright, I'll go
>So just don't do the show tonight
>Write in

>>6181224
>Alright, I'll go
It's obviously important to her, if we want her to stop streaming Kyle is gonna have to step up and make money. Lumber yard also gives us a chance to explore the woods hopefully
Gotta do this fast though this sounds time sensetive

>>6181224
>Sure! Uhhh but first did you try updating the drivers, like Windows update or the manufacturer's website?

>>6181224
>Alright, I'll go.

>>6181226
I would vote toin character question if it wasn't a software problem were it not for the fact that everything is lining up to show that objects impacted by action in the dream maintain those impacts in real life.

Though perhaps it could be justified as "just making sure".

>>6181224
>Alright, I'll go

>>6181250
He has music software experience and sn old laptop. I'm just guessing that he might not be totally airheaded in this area. Maybe Im wrong.

>>6181257
No, I agree with you but first the spent shotgun shells then the claw mark on the stairs and now this? Once is an anomaly, twice is a coincidence but thrice is a pattern. But like I said, you could reason that Kyle would check if it's a software problem "just to make sure".

>Alright, I'll go

Writing

"Alright. I'll go, chill." You study the webcam. "Try to update the drivers and everything while I'm gone." Somehow you doubt that will work but it won't hurt to try.

"Yeah," Candi says. She relaxes her shoulders, looking relieved. "I'll try. Thank you, Kyle."

"Sure." You're out the door in a hurry and off. Good thing you put gas in the Eagle otherwise this might be more dicey. The mall isn't exactly close. It sits in a sort of dead zone about halfway between Roselake and Lasker City, out of the hills but not quite into the urban sprawl.

Roselake Mall was a commercial mecca when it was built. Now it's like basically every other mall on the planet: Dying. Somehow it shambles along, not quite dead and definitely not quite alive. You pull into the huge parking lot, cruising by endless empty rows. A handful of cars are parked here, clustered mostly around the entrances of the department stores, the ones that are still open.

The mall is sort of laid out like a star, spokes radiating from a central hub. The exterior crooks of these spokes are taken up with dumpsters, loading docks, and garbage. It looks like maybe a homeless encampment has been set up in one. Great.

You park by the Sears and get out. This place was never a part of your childhood, but a lot of the other kids in your school would come here to hang out. Dad wouldn't let you or Candi be away that long.

You walk inside, the automatic doors obligingly slide open.

File: Roselake Mall.jpg (240 KB, 800x600)

240 KB JPG

Sears is empty. Almost empty. There are clothes racks and things for sale but they're patchy, half-stocked. Shelves are more often bare than not. Soft muzak echoes faintly. You don't see any people.

You pass through the Sears without seeing another soul. Inside the mall proper there are two levels. The upper level looks down from an upper gallery on the lower, edges railed with glass. Many of the shops here are shuttered and dark. In fact, it looks like nothing in this spoke is open. Your boot falls echo on the tile, mingling with the faint music. You pass by an arcade. Of the two dozen or so machines inside, at least a third of them are unplugged. The attract loops play endlessly for no one. The carpet is dingy and dusted with crumbs and trash. There's no one inside.

"Nemesis."

You stop and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. You turn toward the voice, staring into the gloom of a darkened clothing store. The shutter isn't down. The store front is just open but it's obviously derelict.

"Nemesis," the voice hisses again mockingly. You haven't been called that since you killed Dad.

You open your mouth to challenge the voice when you lose the words. A figure steps smoothly out from the shadows. Human. Sort of. It wears a rotted band T-shirt and shredded blue jeans. It has no face, just a pillar of flesh for a head, dotted with crevices and darkened maws. Eyes? Mouths? Something else?

It croaks, long and slow and steps forward again, body shuddering. Wide, fleshy webbed feet press onto the cold tile of the floor. It drips with water, trailing clots of string algae from its limbs. Its hands hook into wicked claws which drip more fetid water. The flesh pillar sways side to side as it sweeps the air. It's searching for you.

You look both ways down the empty concourse of the mall. You are utterly alone. You and this thing.

"Nemesis," it croaks again, somehow detecting you. It lowers it shoulders and charges at you, webbed feet slapping the floor.


>Draw your knife and fight
>Draw your .22 and shoot it
>Run
>Write in

>>6181264
>>Draw your .22 and shoot it

>>6181264
>Draw your knife and fight
>If there are some clothes racks near, grab it and make it trample and fall with it, then go for a stab

We're not on a dream, so I don't want to bring cops in this shit unless we REALLY need to, lol

>>6181264
>Run
Iiiieeee!

>>6181264
I feel conflicted, is this real or a hallucination? If it's real, how will we deal with the body? If it's a hallucination, would we be attacking nothing or someone?

>Run
Play it safe I guess.

>>6181293
>tfw it's just a guy who read keyshaugn's jacket and is trying to get his attention

>>6181264
>Run

>Run

Writing

Is this real? It sure as shit feels real. You turn and run, slipping on the tile. You almost fall on your face, catch your self with your hands and push off, boots squeaking, that thing thumping toward you closer and closer, croaking and howling. If it catches you…

You've got to get away from it.

Roll 1d6
I need three rolls looking for 5 or 6.

Rolled 1 (1d6)

>>6181322
Schizophrenic episodes are well known for being very obviously fake to the people having them. Poor Kelvin bucks that trend.

Rolled 1 (1d6)

>>6181322
Look at this 6.
>>6181324
Checked.

File: IMG_3251.jpg (541 KB, 1080x1618)

541 KB JPG

>>6181334
Oh boy.

Rolled 6 (1d6)

>>6181334
>>6181324
Noo not like this!

>>6181340
>Schizophrenia averted

>1
>1
>6

Writing

You get your feet back under you and get some traction just as a claw cleaves the air behind you. You almost slip again but manage to keep running, just in time to collide with an old standing marquee which crashes to the ground, sending you staggering.

The thing is right behind you, croaking and swiping as it stumbles after you.

A claw brushes your back, cutting through your leather jacket like tissue paper and trailing fire down your back. You grind your teeth, feet slipping. You hit the ground and roll, clambering back to your feet again. You feel your blood running down your back. The pain, somehow, is tremendous, but it doesn't slow you down. You feel like it might have cut all the way to the bone.

Red flashes at the edges of your vision. You feel a growing blood lust within you, your hands are shaking, jaw clenched so hard that your head hurts. You feel an overwhelming desire to kill.

This is not normal.

You channel this deadly energy into running, legs pumping. You see the light of the central skylight of the mall's hub ahead. The thudding of webbed feet behind you grows softer, duller, more distant as the monster falls behind,

Finally you emerge into the central atrium. Escalators, a movie theater, shitty modern art, an empty food court, a fountain that's switched off. Silence

You look back. The monster is gone. You stand there panting. Your hand automatically goes to your back, feeling your jacket. It's seamless. No rip, no raw flesh, no blood. You're fine.

Soft muzak plays through the mall. In fact, you see a man and woman walking along on the upper level. Everything seems normal.

Almost everything. You feel…tremendously blue balled. Frustrated. Angry. You realize that your hands are still shaking. You shove them into your jacket pockets, trying to make them be still. Your breath comes slow and hard. You desperately want blood.

You don't have time to worry about it, you have to get this camera and get the fuck out of here. You walk fast, not looking up. In the sadly run down electronic store you stalk the aisles, grinding your teeth until you find the right thing. You grab the box off the shelf and return to checkout.

"Find everything okay?" the cashier asks.

You remain silent.

She shifts uncomfortably and scans the barcode and reads the price. You put a handful of bills on the counter, working your jaw back and forth, feeling your teeth rubbing on each other. Your vision is tinted red and you can smell blood. Her blood. You look up, giving her a hooded look.

She flinches and looks away, counting your change while you stare at her.

"H-here. Nice day." She jams your receipt into a bag and almost shoves it at you. You take the bag and walk out, still thinking about what it would feel like to cut her open, how it would make this feeling go away.

Fuck, you just need to get home.

You take a different way out, not daring to retrace your steps. You're approaching a Nordstroms when you see him.

Chip catches sight of you as he comes out of the store, the same moment as you see him. He's surprised at first, seems like everyone is. But then he sneers, his eyes cold and hard.

"Holy shit," he says. He's not alone, but he never was, he has a friend with him, some other guy. Both of them wear suits like they're on their way to a fucking board meeting. Or a funeral.

"It's Kyle Mercer," Chip says. He starts walking toward you. "Roselake's prodigal son, home again, huh?"

You stop and stare. Your breath comes slow and and steady, your eyes tracking him.

"The psycho," he grins, but it turns bitter, angry. He points at your chest, moving forward aggressively, flanked by his friend. "You know, you're real fucking lucky that Ken pulled through."

Oh yeah, that. You can almost feel Ken's skull fracturing in your grip again as you thrust it against rock. It was one of the more satisfying moments of your youth. You can't say he didn't deserve it. He definitely did.

"A guy like you belongs in jail," Chip says. You find it hard to disagree. "If Ken had died you'd be facing life. My dad should never have covered for you."

You still don't say anything. You're imagining your teeth sinking into his throat, how good it would feel to drink his blood.

"Nothing to say?" Chip's friend adds.


>{I'm going to cut you both a new smile}
>I've got nothing to say to you.
>Ken wouldn't be a zombie now if he wasn't an asshole first.

>>6181389
>I've got nothing to say to you.

Too many witnesses.

>>6181389
>No
As nice as it would be to settle old scores, it is preferable to do so while minimizing the risk of getting caught. Think of peace Kyle... serenity now!

I for one welcome the future parking lot showdown. With complementary tire irons and chunks of concrete.

>>6181389
Kens a much nicer guy these days.

>>6181410
I feel it'll be more kidnapping and torture in the woods than parking lot showdown.

>>6181422
I bet this noodledick never goes anywhere alone enough to kidnap. Probably brings his asspals in to take a piss, too.

>>6181425
Most people are alone at one point or another in their day, this asshole is not the exception. Those previously mentioned burglary skills could come in handy.

>>6181389
>I've got nothing to say to you.

>I've got nothing to say to you.

Writing

>>6181419
I fuckin laughed

>>6181410
Showdowns are for cowboys. You're more of a gut em and skin em type of guy.

"I've got nothing to say to you." The words are a struggle. You are moving beyond them. There's an animal rage gnawing at the back of your mind, clawing, scratching, burning, burrowing. It's going to get out.

"You know, man," Chip says. "It's a good thing your dad decided to fuck up your face instead of your sister's." He leans slightly closer. "That would have been a real shame. I like the way she looks."

Everything is red now. Your chest burns with rage and hate. You're so hungry. Chip is so close you can almost hear his heart beating, his blood wooshing around in his veins for now. All you can think of is different ways to take him apart.

You hear Ken's skull give way as you bash his head against the rock one final time. His insane screaming becoming a gurgling sigh.

You feel the gasoline ignite and flames consume your left side. You feel the skin on your face charring. You feel yourself screaming and screaming and screaming.

You feel the hunting knife so very close. You just need to kill. You're beyond words. Whatever is wrong with you is now VERY wrong with you. If you don't leave now then Chip and his friend are both going to die right here and right now.


>{Cut his face off}
>{Gut him like an animal}
>Say nothing and leave

>>6181475
>Say nothing and leave
"Kill me."
"Later."

>>6181427
Maybe we can steal his shoes, too. Bet he owns some designer Nikes or something.

>>6181469
>You're more of a gut em and skin em type of guy.
Hey cowboys do that too. Though usually it is followed up by eating which uh. Keenan has never like actually eaten anyone, right?

>>6181475
He pushed the sister button. Damn. What a shame. Wonder what kind of tragic "accident" he's going to suffer later. Hopefully one that involves acetone and his eyeballs.

>>6181475
>Say nothing and leave
Wow this guy is a piece of work

>>6181475
>Say nothing and leave

I wanted to say some shit like "Keep your butt-buddy quiet" or something, but seeing that we have two options being violence and the only normal one is leave without saying shit, I mean idk

This retard literally saw us bash the skull of his friends and think is okay to talk someone like that. Even if we look like that mf from Ghost Rider 2, trying to bully a potential serial killer, who is obvious is not mentally well, is even more retarded lmao

AND THIS FUCKASS WEBSITE AGAIN WITH THE TEN-MINUTE WAIT TO POST SOMETHING, JESUS CHRIST

>>6181505
It becomes clear that daddy really is the reason this clown got anywhere in life.

>Say nothing and leave

Writing

>>6181505
>AND THIS FUCKASS WEBSITE AGAIN WITH THE TEN-MINUTE WAIT TO POST SOMETHING, JESUS CHRIST
We all feel your pain

>>6181479
>Keenan has never like actually eaten anyone, right?

Define "Eaten".

In entirety? Not as far as he knows. Maybe he ingested some pieces incidentally. Blood is definitely on the menu though.

Chip is a motherfucker. His time will come. It takes a tremendous force of will not to leap at him like an animal and do to him what you did to Ken.

The way Chip stares at you, smug, defiant, suicidally bold, you almost think he wants you to attack. Maybe he thinks he can take you. Maybe he thinks you wouldn't kill him. Maybe he's a goddam idiot.


You say nothing. You turn to leave.

You turn to leave…

You turn…

You're still standing there, feet firmly planted, hands in your pockets, eyes locked on Chip. It would be so easy, the quiet voice in the back of your head says. There's hardly anyone around. One slash and Chip goes down. Then you run down his little buddy and skewer him a few times. You can drag them both out of here before anyone sees. If you're lucky Chip will live long enough to witness first hand the true depths of the human condition. Not that there's anything human about what you're prepared to do.

And hey, if someone does see then you can just run them down too. You're pretty fast when you're pissed. And you are very, very pissed.

Are there really any witnesses if you kill everyone?

Chip's smile seems to change, twist, it's not cocky anymore, it's bitter and angry. You wonder if he's holding back half as much as you are right now.

You crouch and draw your knife before Chip can react.

Only you don't actually do that. You turn away. Candi is waiting for you.

You walk, threading the needle between Chip and his buddy who only reluctantly steps aside.

"I'm not afraid of you, Mercer," Chip says. "You're a big bitch. Everyone knows it."

You feel Ken's blood soaking your hand as you drive his head against the rock.

"You just try what you did. Just try again you little bitch."

Ken keeps screaming, first in fear, then in pain. Then he forgets how to scream.

You walk into Nordstroms.

"Say 'hi' to your fuckin sister for me!" Chip shouts after you as his friend laughs.

The automatic doors part and you leave the mall behind. The parking lot is deserted, which is just as well because if literally anyone was here you don't think they would be here much longer.

You climb into the Eagle and start it, setting the webcam gently on the seat beside you. You rest your hands on the steering wheel, somewhat alarmed to see them trembling violently. You grip the wheel. Tight. Tighter. Your knuckles turn white. The trembling becomes only a furious quiver. You drive.

It's almost thirty minutes back home even though you drive fast. It's enough time for your human senses to start returning. Your jaw aches from clenching it, your heart is fluttering with unspent adrenaline.Your breathing is shallower, lighter. You shake your head.

"What the fuck." You don't know the last time you felt like that. Whatever happened to day wasn't only because of Chip. You think about that monster, that drowned thing that chased you. Where had it come from? "What the fuck," you say again, louder. You came here to get better. Things seem like they're only getting worse. You only hope Candi can figure out what's happening.

It's getting dark when you get home. You park the car and exhale. Your bloodlust is gone. Mostly. You can feel it as a dull headache at the back of your mind now, a bruise that hasn't quite healed. At least you're no danger to Candi now. Well, no more of a danger than you are normally.

You lift one of your hands, holding your palm level to the ground. The tremble is there, but almost imperceptible. You breathe out slow. That was close. You get out of the car and go inside. Mom is nowhere to be seen so you just head straight upstairs and into the unearthly pink light.

Candi is sitting on the bed fidgeting with the straps of her outfit anxiously when she sees you come in. "Did you get it!? It's almost time…"

You hold the bag out.

She jumps up giddy. "Oh thank you, thank you! Thank you, Kyle!" She puts her arms around you and hugs you tight, her little devil horns poking into your chest. She looks up at you, still holding you, joy replaced with concern. "What's wrong?"

You shake your head.

Say 'hi' to your fuckin sister for me!

You close your eyes and just for a moment you long to sink your teeth into Candi's soft, bared neck. You open them and shake your head. You can't trouble her with what happened at the mall, not right now. Not right before her show. "Go make sure it works," you say.

She breaks the hug and quickly unboxes the camera, squatting down to remove the old one from her tripod and affix the new one. You see she's wearing stiletto heels. You're not sure you've ever seen Candi in stilettos before. She's surprisingly stable in them. "The drivers didn't work either," she says as she works. "Wouldn't detect the device at all. Chinese piece of shit." She plugs the webcam in with a dull click.

Ding

"Eee! It works!" she says. "Fuck yes." Another look back at you as she sits down in her chair. "Thank you, Kyle. Really."

"Sure. Hey, how long is this going to take?" you ask.

"Probably a couple hours," she says. "Depends on tips and stuff. I'll let you know." Her attention drifts back to her laptop. "Oh shit! Okay, shoo! I've got to go live."

You step outside her room and gently close the door.

"Hi everyone! I'm back," Candi says with cheer sweeter than antifreeze. Her voice is only slightly muffled by the door. "Miss me?"

You stare at the crude triangle carved on the door, listening as she puts on music, industrial rock, turned down low. "Oh, you guys like my outfit? Want to see the back?" She giggles.

You hear her laptop ringing like a bell. Tips.

"No!" Candi says playfully. "I will not. That's gross. I don't do butt stuff."


>Go wait in the car until this is over
>Go wait downstairs until this is over
>Sit at the top of the stairs and listen
>Write in