Will Graham (
collects_strays) wrote2014-04-07 01:30 am
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[OOM] suddenly appeared to me, whose memory fills me with horror
If you are this killer
that identity runs through these events
like a thread through pearls.
They sit at a card table, a white flat square top held by a mass of slender black branches that curve up along the sides in jagged points. Across from each other, Cassie Boyle touches her cigarette to her lips and inhales while Nick Boyle shuffles the stripped, thin deck of cards. She looks older than eighteen, her black hair tied into a sleek, knotted ponytail, blue jeans and a black leather jacket, lips painted dark red, thick mascara and gray eye shadow.
Pretty, and anything but plain. She has all his rough edges, he has none of her ease. He shuffles the cards with jerking movements, while she exhales, blowing a series of smoke rings that are quickly toppled by the slight breeze. It ruffles the tall grass around them, and above, storm clouds are blotting the remaining twilight glow, but neither seems concerned.
Nick stops shuffling, and deals. Cassie first, then himself. One card down, one card up. She shows the Ten of Spades, he the Queen of Hearts.
"You're up first." She smiles at him, and taps off the ashes from her cigarette. At her tone, Nick's jaw sets.
"Eyes."
"And out swinging." With her free hand, she taps the table. He burns and deals, they check and repeat. She wins with two pair, Aces and Jacks.
"I like to start big, too," Cassie tells him, as he collects up the cards. "That's what Dad said. 'Go big or go home.'"
"I wasn't starting anything," Nick mutters, shuffling the deck again.
"Mmm-hmm."
She wins the next two hands, with a pair of Kings and pair of Aces. They name more pieces as it comes to bet – she chooses ears, he chooses nose – but she makes no gruesome collections. At least, not yet.
On the fourth hand she folds, and does the same on the fifth. As he deals the sixth, she nearly sing-songs, "You know you have a tell."
"Just read your card, Cassie."
They both glance at their single downturned card. He's showing an Ace, and so sets the bet at hands. She raises as the next cards are laid down, and by the time she's won with Tens and Kings, she's regained nearly everything she had put in during the last two deals.
"You look at me. That's what it is."
"Cass –"
"When you've got something, or you're building up, you look at me. Like you're checking if I can see through you."
When he moves to deal her hand, she leans in and murmurs, "I can."
Cassie wins the next three hands, their wagers becoming steeper and more vital. Nick is careful not to look at her at all, but it doesn't seem to matter.
"Was that true?"
She takes a drag from her cigarette, and shrugs. Though her movements are still smooth and slow, her breaths are deeper, and heavier. Her voice is hoarse as she answers, "Maybe I was giving you a tell."
"Maybe you're just messing with me."
Cassie grins at him. "That's just how we talk."
He's landed three of a kind in the next hand before she folds again, leaving her lungs in the pot. But one deal later, and she's taken them back with a pair of Kings.
"Maybe you could just play, for once."
"And ignore you?" She laughs again, though it comes with a cough. "Nick, I can't. You give me so much." Cassie takes another drag of her cigarette, then drops her tone, impersonating someone with a much deeper voice. "My cup runneth over."
He's silent as he deals out the next hand, only tapping the table to check, even as she rolls out another two pair. She flicks ash from her cigarette, and takes another labored breath.
"I don't think you're stupid. Is that what you think?"
Nick stops shuffling. "Yeah, Cassie, I do."
"I don't," she insists. "I know you'll come after me. I want you to, Nick. It wouldn't mean much if you didn't."
He watches his sister until she taps the cigarette again. "It's the last one. Come on."
She shows the Queen of Hearts, he the Ace of Diamonds. Nick mutters, "Stomach."
Her second card is a Jack, his a Queen. He raises to "Heart." She checks without blinking.
The third deal gives her a pair of Queens. She doesn't smile, doesn't flaunt her advantage, just looks at him, and raises to "Brain."
He should fold, but he doesn't. Hasn't in any hand. He doesn't know how.
His last card is a Jack, hers is a Ten. It makes no difference, until he reveals his downturned card, showing a straight.
Cassie looks to their hands, the tip of her cigarette alight. Black smoke curls up behind her, rising in narrow lines that curve upward, through and up from her body, expanding into jittering, skeletal wings. She parts from the cigarette, and blows smoke at his face.
"Fuck off, Nick."
Marissa Schuur doesn't want to be here. The gymnasium is everything and everyone she hates in her life. Bright, exuberant voices chanting the same nonsense, clashing shades of blue and red painted on the floor and along the walls, the unpleasant screeching of tennis shoes that echoes in the cavernous room. Sunlight from high windows at the far end of the gym flashes between the cheerleaders and the basketball players making free shots. The letters 'PHS' are painted, huge, in alternating colors, at either ends of the floor. It's wrong. It's not Bloomington, Minnesota. The scene shimmers around Marissa, but no matter what she wants, she won't make it disappear.
As she has to be here, Marissa spends a few minutes pacing the sides of the bleachers. It's the time she needs to find her, made harder by the fact that she's not watching. About eight rows up in the opposite bleachers, Marissa sees her, head ducked, dark hair falling over her shoulders. She's got a book in her lap, Marissa's sure of it. She darts across the gym, between the basketball players and the cheerleaders, ignoring the stares she pulls as she climbs up the bleachers, and slides onto the bench next to her.
"Hey."
Abigail Hobbs looks up from the paperback on her knees, and offers a small, tight smile.
"How were you late?"
"Vending machines." She slides a can of soda over to her, and snaps open her own. No one else is throwing even a glance their way now, the sound of the chanting and cheering melting to dim television static. Abigail closes her book and slips it into her lap.
"Did I miss something? Well, I guess you wouldn't know, would you?"
Abigail takes a sip from her can, and shakes her head. Marissa puts her elbows up on the raised bench behind them and leans back.
"At least the end is nigh or whatever. Graduation and no more pep rallies."
Abigail shrugs in response. Sometimes it was hard to get her to speak, but Marissa knows it's because she waits until she has the right words. When she got it right, those words could be so sharp that even Marissa winced a little. But she also fucking loves it.
"You'd think they'd get tired of it. All this enthusiasm for something that's not gonna mean anything in a few months."
"Better them than me."
Marissa grinned against her can. Abigail was smart and dry, like the sips she steals of her mother's wine. Being around her made Marissa feel smarter and dryer. That she only ever seemed to use it for her own satisfaction, never went out of her way for it, made Marissa like it even more. She wished for what looked like Abigail's easy detachment – instead, everything seemed to reach out to annoy her.
"Yeah, I guess that'd be the only thing worse than sitting out here watching it."
The cheering and chanting is all still distant noise. The light from the windows catches in the cheerleaders' hair – every one of them has Marissa and Abigail's shade of dark hair. Abigail leans forward, resting her right elbow on her knee, her head in her hand. She watches the cheerleaders as Marissa glances at her.
"We're not really different," she says, quietly. "All stuck in the same place."
"Please," Marissa answers. "You could crush those bitches' bones between your teeth."
Abigail looks back to her, and for a moment in the gym's shifting shadows, her eyes are dark, black instead of gray. The cheering background static winds into a soft howl, and as Abigail shifts, there's a quiet rustling, like feathers.
Marissa smiles at her, and takes another sip of her soda.
"Well, doctor, what do you want?"
The room flickers, stiff white walls lit with an orange glow, dim glints across the inky pane of glass that looks into the observation room. The MRI machine is on, humming, but unlit – the only light comes from the fire burning inside it, licking up along the plastic walls, crackling despite the lack of any kindling, as though the machine itself were a warm hearth on a cold evening. The patient table is elevated, but still outside it, lined with white paper and set with two empty china plates, and two tall stem glasses, each half-full with red wine.
Donald Sutcliffe has taken his seat, but his guest has not.
"Come on, speak up." He calls from the far side of the room, out of reach of the light from the fire. "Are you afraid?"
"No," Sutcliffe answers, petulance plain on his tongue. "I'm not afraid to get my hands a little dirty."
"So you doubt me?"
Sutcliffe leans back, his office chair bending with him. The firelight flickers over his face, obscuring it into several pieces, shadows pulling at his mouth and his eyes.
"Perhaps. You see, I'm bored –"
"And there is no sin worse."
"- and there's no cure. The others are dull and you –"
If there's one thing he can't accuse his guest of, it's being dull. Sutcliffe keeps his relaxed stance, his careless tone, in a desperate bid to stay above water. The effort only compromises him. His jittering nerves play under his surface, like two strings of film that have been overlaid. Calm and smooth to oily on top, and trembling beneath.
"- you left."
"Then I shall give you proof."
Sutcliffe swallows, the only surface break in his performance. He sees, but sees only what he wants. The shine of a steel hook in dark water. Maybe he knows enough to recognize it was no helpful hand, or shoulder up from drowning. He would never be free of that, of the envy sliced with admiration that he had for that respectability, effortless allure. Not as long as needed the arm up at all. But close mattered much more than most afforded.
"Then what do you want from me?" Sutcliffe asks.
There is movement, but what comes with it aren't footsteps. Too loud, too even, a clack against the smooth floor tiles. His shape, or the lines of it, slip into the firelight. Tall, and lean, the flames just catching the edge of high, curved antlers.
"Everything."
Sutcliffe takes a breath, and smiles for his guest. He reaches forward, curling his fingers around his glass, and lifts it from the patient table.
"Then – " He hesitates, knowing whatever he says, it won't be so clever, won't be so easy. Sutcliffe waits long enough for his guest to interrupt, but when he isn't so rescued. "- to finding a cure. For a dull world."
He puts the glass to his lips and drinks, deeply, so deeply that the red wine spills in thin streams from the corners of his mouth. Across the table, his guest has already retreated, out of sight from the burning light.
Their laughter crackles above the fire. Beth LeBeau is smiling so much it's begun to hurt, and she leans her head back, light brown hair sliding over her shoulders. Georgia Madchen covers her mouth, trying to contain herself. There was no one for their laughter to bother – above them the sky was pitch black, not even any stars. They were surrounded by a circle of trees, white bark shining intermittently in the glow of their campfire, and they were dressed in sweaters and thick vests and deep blue-and-red scarves around their necks.
"Here, come on, I have them." Beth reaches into the backpack at her feet, pulls out a torn open, plastic package of hot dogs, and sets it down on the log between them. Georgia takes one out and skewers it to the end of a long branch, Beth doing the same, the last of the laughter finally slipping from her lips as they lean forward, holding the branches out over the fire.
"You're holding it kind of low," Beth warns her. "It'll burn."
"I don't mind."
Beth smiles again, and shrugs. "Okay. Do you know what we do now?"
It feels like a little test, a quiz on her "normal"-ness. It should bother her, it does bother her – except that it doesn't. Like her proper reactions have been peeled away from her. There's both no reason it should trouble her, and every reason it should.
"Campfire stories."
"Do you have one?"
Georgia shakes her head. "I kind of missed that stuff, remember?"
"That's okay," Beth gives her another smile. "I'll do it. I have one for you."
Georgia nods, turning her branch over the fire.
"Okay. So one time, there was this girl who died."
"Already? That's the beginning of the story?"
"Georgia..." Beth uses her free hand to reach out and shove the other girl's shoulder. "Shut up and let me tell it."
"Okay, okay."
"Anyway, there was this girl who died. And she was kind of sad about it, but it's what happened. No point being that sad. The thing is, she didn't go anywhere."
"So she was a ghost?"
"Yeah." Beth turns her own branch over the fire. "No one could see her, the way she was. No one was really with her. But she just stayed in her house. Or wandered around, and knew she was dead. She kept waiting to go somewhere, anywhere, but she just stayed where she was, in this place she didn't really belong to anymore. And then..."
Her voice curves, the way it does when the teller is approaching a sharp turn.
"... everything started changing."
Georgia glances back at Beth. In the corner of her eye, she'd thought she'd seen someone else. But Beth is just watching the fire, her long hair partially obscuring her face.
"Everything started changing?"
"Yeah. The places she knew once would disappear, be replaced by others. The walls of her house changed colors. Her things disappeared. And then, it wasn't just things or places. Her mother changed – her nose changed, and her eyes changed, and the girl couldn't –"
Georgia looks to her again. This time, she knows she's not imagining it. Something does look different about Beth. Maybe it's the way the light from the campfire flickers over her, but her profile – the line of her nose, the shape of her cheeks – aren't what they were before. Her voice remains the same, however, as she continues.
"- recognize her anymore. And the same happened to her friends, the ones she'd had when she was alive. They didn't just become taller, or change their clothes or hair. Their faces were different, too. Like they were different people."
"Beth –"
"Huh?" Beth turns to look at her, and Georgia's heart jolts. She doesn't know the girl she's sitting next to. Her hair is Beth's, her clothes are the same, but she's never seen her face before. The stranger with Beth's clothes and Beth's hair watches her with obvious concern.
"Georgia, are you okay? I didn't even get to the really scary part yet."
Afraid to confess it, Georgia just nods. The woman's eyes linger on her, and then look to the fire. "These are probably okay now."
Reluctantly, Georgia pulls her branch back. The hot dog was burnt, a little, but it's not why she has to force herself to bite into it, tearing at the thin skin and into the salty-tasting meat. The other girl also takes her own, but continues her story.
"So everything and everyone was different. And she knew even more she didn't belong there. And she just started wandering around, because nothing anywhere made any more sense to her than anything else. But because she was dead, and she wasn't really there, she'd start to see things. She'd see people doing things they wouldn't do in front of others, if they thought anyone was there to see."
Georgia takes a deep breath, and the air is cold, like she's swallowing a mouthful of ice water.
"She thought it wouldn't matter, since she was dead. But seeing those things – it made her feel heavy. It got harder to walk anywhere, because she felt it weighing down on her. And she didn't understand why it made her feel so heavy until she realized –"
The firelight flickers, and the other woman lowers her head, hair obscuring her face again.
"Beth –"
"I'm almost there, okay? Until she realized all the strangers and all the horrible things she saw them do – she wasn't in the wrong place. She'd never died at all. It hurt her and weighed her down because she was alive. And she remembered what she'd seen."
Beth looks up again, and now, her face has vanished entirely. No eyes, no nose, no mouth, like her features have been hewn away. Like she's wearing a mask.
Georgia looks away from her, over her shoulder, to the leaf-strewn bed of the forest behind them, the firelight blazing over them, twining the two girls' long shadows into two curved, flickering branches.
Abigail Hobbs didn't fall. She climbed.
Eagle Mountain is the highest natural point in Minnesota, reaching 2,301 feet above sea level. Its summit can be reached in less than three hours, through a moderately strenuous trail. From its peak, you can see the lowest point in Minnesota, Lake Superior.
This is not Eagle Mountain. Its summit is so high they can't make it out; it's all steep, stone cliffs that settle into eight jagged peaks before they'd reach the top. They wear red jackets and black alpine harnesses and shining metal hooks. Abigail has a large hunting rifle strapped to her back. The sky is clouded, but not yet storming, and she presses her palms up against the stone, feeling it out for the little give to let her grip, and step up.
"Come on, Abigail." Alana Bloom calls down from about ten feet above. "The next point isn't much farther."
Abigail curls her fingers into the stone and pulled herself up, settling her foot against the tiniest bit of ledge she could. Out of instinct, she grabs at the rope between them – it was slender, made of tightly braided, dark auburn hair. Alana pulls at it, slipping it away from Abigail's fingers and tugging at her harness.
"Why are you here?"
"We have to talk about it now?"
"Strain is a crucible, Abigail," she calls back down. "Why are you here?"
Abigail presses herself to the stone again, finding balance on her feet and pulling herself up closer to Alana. "I wasn't his. He was afraid of losing me, but I didn't belong to him. I'm not his daughter."
She looks up to Alana and calls out, louder, "And I'm not yours."
Alana holds her place until Abigail is just a few feet below her, then tells the girl to stop. Abigail pulls out her wedges – the off-white color of bone, carved into violent, sharp edges – and shoves them into the thin cracks in the rock surface. As Alana climbs above her, she does so with far more ease, her movements smooth and exact. She stops just below the ledge of the sixth peak, then tugs at the rope between them again.
"Keep talking, Abigail."
Abigail takes a deep breath, strain shooting through her arms, as she pulls herself up along the rock. "He wanted to keep me." She nearly yells it. "So he – kept them. All those other girls. He –"
"What did you want?"
"I wanted to survive."
When she reaches Alana, Alana takes her arm, and pushes up, shoving her onto the ledge just above them. Alana follows without difficulty, and when they stand, she puts her arm on Abigail's shoulder, moving her away from the edge, so she won't look down. They walk along a curved, rocky trail, and Alana pulls something out from her gear.
"Here."
It's thin, unpackaged strips of jerky. They chew it down – they need to eat. It lightens the weight they carry with them, lets them think. Until they reach the next rock face, and Alana again starts the climb.
Like before, she calls down to Abigail, who answers as her muscles are taut, as she pulls herself up against an unforgiving block.
"How did you survive?"
"I – kept his secrets." She shoves her shoulder into the rock, pulling herself up. "And he kept mine."
"Why did you keep his secrets?"
She takes longer to answer, and keeps climbing, until Alana has to call down, "Abigail –"
"I didn't see him." Abigail presses her forehead to the rock face, pausing long enough to catch her breath. "I saw all his – fine things, but I didn't see him."
Alana again pulls her up as they reach the seventh peak. This time, she brings out full, red pomegranates. They crush them with their fingers, ripping open the skin and pulp, leaking the seeds and red juice on to their hands. The wind picks up as they eat, the sky growing darker, and they're high enough now that all Abigail could see around them were wafting clouds. The tart taste only makes her feel colder inside, but the cold gives her drive to climb again as they reached the next steep, stone face.
"Are you all right, Abigail?"
She stops embracing the stone, and starts carving into it. "I'm as well as other times," she nearly snarls.
"Then why did you have secrets?"
Her footing slips, and the dark rope steadies her, but Abigail doesn't lessen her assault against the rock. "The other girls –"
"Did you hurt them?"
She takes a moment to breathe, then pulls herself up again. "No."
"You didn't."
"He – had my consent." She's shouting again, eyes closed, as she shoves herself onward. "When he went to hurt them."
Alana doesn't speak again. She feels something soft and cold hit her cheeks, and her eyes blink open. Her fingers are inches away from the ledge, and snow has begun to drift around her, catching in her dark hair and eyelashes. Alana doesn't come for her, and so Abigail pulls herself up over the side of the ledge.
There's no one else there. The end of the dark rope is tied to a single post that has been rammed into the rock. When she looks up, Abigail sees that the final climb in front of her is a wall of pure ice.
Abigail doesn't pause, doesn't eat. She rips the harness off her body, throws her bone wedge to the ground. It and the rope left behind her, she pulls out a knife, and an ice axe. Slams the knife into the ice, and then the axe above it. The wind intensifies, snow blocking out her vision, but she doesn't need to see. She only has one direction now, and she clings to one weapon as she brings down the other. Falling isn't an option now, and neither is stopping, not even to breathe. Abigail continues up, without slowing, without hesitating, until her axe hits a ledge, and she pulls herself up over it.
She rises to her feet at the mountain's summit. But she doesn't look out to the view, nor down the path she had come. Because now, she's not alone. It's standing in front of her – massive, with sleek black feathers along its body, and raised, pointed antlers curving above its head. The stag hangs in the air before her like thick, black smoke, unaffected by the strengthening wind that chills her hands and whips her hair. Abigail pulls the hunting rifle off her back.
(the scales have just fallen from my eyes)
"I can see you now," she whispers.
The stag shifts, and rears up, the wind around them reaching a roar against her ears. She lifts the rifle and aims, as wisps of black smoke leak from her hands, from the rifle, from the stag. Abigail can't even hear her shaking breath as she puts her finger to the trigger, and fires.
"Yeah, it looks like you were right."
There's only very bright light. He blinks against it, trying to block it out, and it flutters, but remains.
"Mr. Graham, blink once if you can hear me."
He realizes his eyes are open, and does what he's asked. The light clicks off, and after a moment, he registers the dark ceiling.
"I need to call Crawford."
"We can remove the mask now, here –"
"He should really be restrained –"
"He's not going anywhere."
"Tell that to his ambulance driver."
"Crawford..." He murmurs it, the moment the nurse has slid the oxygen mask from his face. The nurse is the only person in view, and makes no sign of hearing him, but he keeps speaking. "I need to talk to him –"
"Yeah." The nurse steps out of view, but someone else comes forward. A woman he doesn't recognize, dressed in a suit, looking down at him impassively, though she sighs as she speaks. "I'm sure he'll want to talk to you, too."
He feels her hand on his wrist, and then something cold cut into his skin against it. With the soft rattle and lock, Graham knows she has handcuffed him to the hospital bed.
[ooc: Dialogue in the Sutcliffe section is partially lifted from the Jules Barbier and Michel Carré libretto for Charles Gounod's Faust; some dialogue from the Abigail section is drawn from the 1692 Testimony of Abigail Hobbs.]