[*screaming into the void intensifies*]
- Invitation Status
- Not accepting invites at this time
- Posting Speed
- Speed of Light
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- It varies a lot depending on my schedule, unfortunately.
- Writing Levels
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Psychological horror
It was morning again, or at least as close to morning as it ever came in the city of Potter’s Field. The shadows had withdrawn, but the gloom and desolation remained, not a living soul in sight. Potter’s field wasn’t a place for the living; only for ghosts, and the Umbra.
In the stairwell of an apartment building near the city’s center, a young girl crept between the flooded beams, dipping her pale toes into the tepid, stale water. She could have gone wading, if she liked; she needn’t worry about ruining her clothes, since all she wore was a white terrycloth towel that fell to just above her knobby knees. It was what she’d been wearing when she’d died, and somehow, anything else she tried to put on unraveled at her touch. So the towel stayed. Her hair, though, hung freely down her back, glossy and full even in death. In life, she’d worn it that way to show off; now, she just wanted to hide the gaping hole that had replaced her left eye.
It didn’t work very well. And it didn’t hide the bloodstains, the ones that wouldn’t wash away no matter how hard she scrubbed.
She’d scrubbed hard.
But she tried not to think about that, or how she’d come to Potter’s Field. Instead, she tried to fill her days with pleasant things, or as pleasant as could be had in the rundown, rotting city. And she tried not to think about the thing she saw moving between the beams in the night, stretching tendrils out toward her and whispering.
Shaking her head to clear it, she adjusted her towel, tightening it around her thin frame and shivering. It was cold here, lonely. She would brave the streets, for now, if only so that she could have contact with another person for just a little while.
The bar was defunct and trashed, the seats ripped up and posters littering the floor, the sign outside too faded to be legible, and there wasn’t a single bottle of booze left intact. Shit, who knew if you could even drink when you were a ghost? But it was his bar, and he tried to make it worth stopping in. Someone had to provide a little livelihood in this town, and he was happy to rise to the occasion. Fortunately, the jukebox still worked, though there was a loud static hum in the background when someone managed to make it play, and the selection was no more recent than ’99. But hey, it was music, and that was what counted.
He was halfheartedly polishing the bar when the door opened, and one of his regulars came in. “Hey Danielle. What can I do for you?”
She came and flipped over the lone barstool, taking a seat and pulling up the towel that seemed to be perpetually slipping down her chest. She sighed, kicking her bare feet. “Same as usual, Tyson. A little company.”
Tyson grinned. Well, grinned wider; he was always grinning, thanks to the stitched-up wound that curled upward from one corner of his mouth. This one was genuine, though, and he leaned across the bar to tweak her nose. “Any time, darling. I hate to leave a lady lonely.”
He meant it. He liked Danielle. She was a sweet girl. But the truth was, Tyson was just as lonely as she was, maybe even lonelier.
Sometimes he thought that was the real reason that she came.
It was outside the door again. She could hear it- hear the rat-like scrabbling at the walls and the buzzing of the flies and nasty, horrible dry rattles of its breath. It was trying to get in and she didn’t want it, she wanted to be alone alone alone, she didn’t want to be seen, because if someone saw her they’d see how ugly she’d become. She didn’t want to see it, because it made her think of things and when she thought of things she screamed and screamed and wouldn’t stop. She was screaming now, screaming at it to go away and let her be, let her be in the room she’d hated so much before, before, when she used to be pretty and everyone told her it was wrong.
Her name was Caitlin then…
Ten figures slipped from one swatch of darkness to the next, their shapes oozing into the world around them. They were the Umbra, and night was falling.
Potter’s Field was not at rest.