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About AmosLee1023

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    Human anatomy, art, writing, running, cooking, psychology, criminology, studying, and working.

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  1. Happy Birthday!

  2. Happy birthday!


  4. AmosLee1023


    Oh no, no no, I haven't finished it yet 😁 I love how long you make them though! It's okay, it's always best to take your time. You don't want to rush it and then be "aw man, details alacking so I gotta REREAD AND EDIT UGGH". Good luck with life and everything!
  5. AmosLee1023


    So glad you're back! I literally just dropped everything to read this; you're such an amazing author and I've been obsessed with this story for like, two years. Glad that you're back and got published!! Such an achievement! ❤️
  6. Guys, my friend outed my sexuality in front of family.

    Then they came over today to tell me they have Chlamydia.

    Karma?? 😂😂👍

    1. Brayon


      I would say that's one heck of a case for Karma. LOL.

      I hope it went well with the family.

    2. AmosLee1023


      It went a little okay, but I also planned on never coming out to them, so... Karma~

      Thank you :)

  7. AmosLee1023

    Chapter 1

    The child lay in his bed, curled up into a fetal position as he stared at the door across from him. It wasn't a door. It was a giant flab of flesh, glowing like when you put a flashlight under your hand, and breathing like a lung. It breathed slowly, filling with air and then flattening out. Then it breathed again. The boy was too scared to close his eyes, so he stared at the door that never left his room. It had been there for months. Haunting the child. Traumatizing him. As always inevitable, he eventually fell asleep. "It's the fifth drawing this month," the teacher spoke into the phone, her voice high and nasally. "If he does it again, we may have to suspend him. Your son is scaring the other children." "Alright. I'll talk to him. Thanks." The boy's father hung up the phone and slipped it into his pocket. He was tired of her calling. He hated her voice. Parent-teacher conferences were nightmares. He felt bad for the kids that she taught. Father walked through the living room to the kitchen, where his son sat at the kitchen table, his feet pulled up onto his chair. He was doing that a lot lately. Father tapped his son's head to get his attention, walking passed him to the sink where the teacher's phone call had stopped him from washing the dishes. "Feet off of the chair," he said. His son looked at him but didn't listen. "And what's this about "drawings"?" Father turned to look at his son, turning the sink on. "Why are you drawing those?" His son looked at the table and pressed his lips together. His father rose an eyebrow. "Well?" "...It's in my dreams," the child said. He looked back up at his dad. "Daddy, there's a door in my room. It's scary." "Well you'd better get over it because if you get suspended, you're gonna be grounded in there." The child frowned. "I don't like going in there." "You can't not like your room, it's yours." Father turned back to the sink, picking up the sponge and a plate to scrub, but then his son spoke up again, "I won't go in there." Father looked back at his son, who looked serious. He scoffed and put the sponge and plate back in the sink, turning off the water and grabbing the towel from the counter to dry his hands. "Alright. Let's go. Show me it." A child's stubbornness was always a little but funny, but it also earned a roll of the eyes. "...It only comes when it's nighttime," the boy said. His father gave him a look. "Let's go." His son reluctantly got up from the chair and walked with his father to the bedroom, where he stayed at the doorway and let his dad go inside. Father, adamant on proving the boy wrong, started looking around the room. "Hm. It looks normal." "...It's at nighttime." "Son," Father walked back up to the boy. He put a hand on the child's shoulder and knelt to be level with him. "You need to get over whatever... this is," he motioned around with his other hand. "I know you're not happy. I'm not happy. When you're unhappy, you see some dark things, okay? I saw things when I was a kid, too. It's just a phase. And you need to get over it." He watched his son, who's big eyes looked back at him. The man pat his son's shoulder before getting back up and slipping passed him, to finish his kitchen duties. The child reached into his bedroom to grab the door and pulled it shut to shut the room from him. Then the boy sat against the door with his knees up to his chest, looking at the hallway wall. l.l In the morning, Father made a plate of scrambled eggs for his son, putting the ketchup bottle beside it because children were weird and liked ketchup on everything. Then he went to his son's room to wake him up for school, but when he opened the door and stepped inside to wake him up, the bed was empty. He turned from the bed and called out for his son, but there was no reply. Then he left the room to start searching for the boy. He was nowhere. "Alright, Father," the first responder said, which already put them off to a bad start in the dad's mind. He wasn't fond of "Father" anymore. "We'll go out and look for the kid, but in all honesty, he probably just snuck out for some fun." "He's only eight years old." "Exactly. I get calls like this all of the time and it turns out the kid just snuck out to play in the woods, or to wander around; we'll look for him." Father looked at the plate of eggs, which were cold. The police hadn't come as quickly as he'd wanted. He looked back at the chubby officer. "...So, what can I do?" The officer cleared his throat. "Um, we usually ask the parents to stay home, in case the child comes back, which happens often; or in case there's a ransom call." Father watched the officer unhappily. "A ransom call? You think that he's either wandered off or been kidnapped for ransom? We have two hundred dollars to our name. I don't think it's a ransom." "Now, Father-" The dad almost told the officer to refrain from that word, but he didn't and just let his annoyance stir a little bit more. "I promise you, it's probably nothing. He'll probably come home on his own." "My son didn't just get up out of his bed and leave the house at six in the morning." The officer put a hand on the father's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze in reassurance, but it did nothing, so he just pat the man's shoulder and dropped his hand back to his side. "...You've just moved here, right?" he asked. The dad crossed his arms. "A few months ago. What does that matter?" "He probably just got lost exploring." "We just moved into this house, he's known this town since he was born." "Alright," the officer shook his head, "You don't have to agree with me, but these are the steps that we take as police officers. We need you to stay here." Once the officers left, the child's father sat waiting at the kitchen table for hours. There was no news. They didn't come by again. His son didn't come in through the front door. The plate of eggs just sat chilled, and the ketchup bottle sweating from being out of the fridge for so long. It was nearing sun down. The father stood up from the table and walked to his son's room, so that he could see if the boy was in there. ...To feel closer to his missing only child. He stepped into the room and sat on his son's bed, bowing his head and closing his eyes. Things like this, these are what made him hate the title "Father". They made him think, "Maybe this wouldn't happen if Lisa was still here." He sighed and opened his eyes again, but his breath caught when he saw the wall in front of him. He furrowed his eyebrows. ...He could actually see it. The door. A flab of flesh beside the closet. It was still and dull, no life going into its lungs. Father stood up from the bed and took slow, hesitant strides to the wall of flesh, where he reached out once close to it. He pulled his hand back before touching it in mortification. What was it? Carefully, cautiously, the father reached back out again and touched it. He felt it with his fingers before pressing his palm against it. It was cold. Not just that, it felt slick and wrong with whatever skin it was made of. The father stared at it for a long time before pushing his hand against it. He could feel it start to give, like a taut curtain. But it was too thick for him to tear open himself. Dropping his hand back to his side, Father stared at it longer, like it were a haunting, mystical alien. It wasn't there earlier. It wasn't. Why was it here now? Stepping back away from the door of flesh, the dad kept his eyes on it before turning and leaving the bedroom, where he walked quickly to the kitchen. He stepped passed the abandoned plate of breakfast and grabbed a butcher's knife from the knife block before rushing back to the bedroom. The flesh on the wall was still there, assuring him that he wasn't just seeing things. The dad tried and failed to stab the flesh, hesitating and pulling back at the last second, before shaking his head and trying again. His body tried to stop him, but his mind told him that he had to do it. He forced the blade into the flesh, making a sick sound as it slipped into it, and then the man dragged the blade down. He sliced the flesh open so that there was a space to slip inside. He didn't, though. The father used the blade to pull open the flesh, holding it to the side so that he could peer inside. From the surprising looks of it, there was a hallway. The floor and walls were metal, clean of whatever gore the man expected to see inside. He looked back at his son's bed, empty, haunting. ...He gave the hallway his attention again and slipped through the flesh, holding his horror the best he could until he was inside of the extremely cold hallway. The walls radiated bitter coldness, so cold it made the father's skin burn. He called out for his son but his voice just echoed down the hall. There was nothing. He held himself for warmth and started down the hallway, continuing down the cold metal until there was a door at the end. An actual, real door. With a handle and hinges. The father turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, stepping into whatever room it welcomed him to. The first thing that caught his attention was the warmth that licked his skin like a dog with a wound- it made him relieved. Then, he started noticing everything else. The giant forest that stood before him, with trees stained pink from the color of sundown that kissed them. The ground was dirt, no grass to match the trees. He was outside. Somewhere. He didn't know this place. He turned back to the door, but it was gone, like it had never existed. In its place, though, was a ticket stand. With a man on the other side. A real life man. The brunette smiled from behind the stand. "One finger," he said, with such a welcoming smile that the father didn't realize what he'd said. "...I'm sorry, what?" Father asked, looking the stand over absently. It looked like a child's lemonade stand, wooden and nailed together with a written sign that spelled "TICKET BOOTH" in a child's handwriting. The ticket man smiled again. "A ticket. One finger for one ticket." "I'm... looking for my son," the father said slowly, realizing now that there was nothing normal about this confrontation. The ticket man held up two slim fingers. "Then it's two, because you're here after hours." The ticket man reached underneath the stand and grabbed something, setting it on the surface top. ...It was a small guillotine. The father watched it for a moment before closing his eyes. It must be a dream. This is all a dream. He opened his eyes again and held out his left hand. The ticket man smiled at him before slapping the guillotine shut on two of the father's fingers. It wasn't a dream. The man screamed out in pain and pulled his hand to himself, and the blood was real. The pain, even realer. The ticket man wiped the guillotine's blade clean and put it away before picking up the father's severed digits. He used them to stamp two tickets with their blood, and then he held the small papers out to the father, who was yelling and screaming at him words of "What did you do" and "what's going on". "There's no need to be upset, sir, the children's fee is just a fingernail," the ticket man spoke. Father looked at his bleeding hand to see how bad it was, and then the ticket man's words hit him. He looked back at the man to ask him what he'd said, or meant, but... the ticket booth was gone. The man, too. Father took in deep, calming breaths, and wrapped the bottom hem of his shirt around his bleeding wounds. He looked back at the forest, the whole environment stained in pinks and yellows, and the trees blowing slightly, although he felt now air himself. What was going on? Was this really a dream? It had to have been, but why did that hurt so much? It must have been a nightmare. He slipped his phone from his pocket to call 911, but his screen was black. He tried turning it off, on, touching the screen, but it was just a worthless effort. It didn't work. Father put his phone away and slipped the knife into a belt loop. He regained himself and advanced towards the woods, walking into the trees and looking around, biting his tongue at the burning pain of his fingers. The forest was void of any life. There were no birds, rodents, or bugs, just fallen leaves coating the forest floor. There was something else unsettling, though. All of the nooses that hung from the trees. They were all empty, but the woods rank of something dead, like... like roadkill. The man walked for a long time, losing himself twice, before he amazingly found a cabin. It was a simple thing, small and wooden, with no mailbox in sight. The father walked up to the small house and knocked on the door. It was opened relatively quickly. When the door opened, the father was greeted by the ticket booth man, surprisingly enough. He tilted his head at seeing the father. "What's wrong?" the ticket man asked at the father's skeptical, confused face. "...I just saw you," Father said. The ticket man rose an eyebrow. "No, I don't think so. Would you like to come in for a minute?" Father stared at the man, watching him for any signs of abuse or assault. Why was he denying knowing him? The father ultimately decided to go inside. It may not be a dream, but none of this could be real. The ticket man held out a cup to the father, although the man couldn't reason as to how the ticket man had suddenly gotten it. He hadn't left the room, and he didn't go to a table- he just held two cups. Father reluctantly took the outstretched cup, peering inside of it. He was glad he did. It was black and thick like tar, with a dead fly floating in it. The man decided to hold the cup at his side. "I'm looking for my son," he spoke. It felt like those words were becoming more and more familiar the more he said them. "Is that all?" Ticket man asked, taking a drink from his own cup. Father nodded slowly. "Well, I don't know where any children are. You'll have to ask Security." Ticket man licked his lips, stained by the tar-like drink as though it were hot chocolate. It made Father nauseous. "...Where do I find them?" The ticket man pointed off to the side and Father followed the motion. He was outside again, surrounded by the trees. He looked back to the ticket man, but he was different. It was still the same face, but he wore a blue cap that read SECURITY, only the letters were backwards, like a mirror's reflection. "Yes?" Security asked flatly, noticing Father's confused staring. Father blinked and cleared his throat. "...I'm looking for my son," Father said slowly, confusion lacing his voice. His hand was void of the cup, he also noticed. "Oh, we get a lot of those," Security said and reached beside himself, grabbing and pulling a filing drawer out of thin air, like it were invisible. The man, the same man from the cabin and ticket booth, started sifting through files in the drawer. "Benjamin Kale?" he asked, looking in a file. "...No." "Adam Reese?" Father stared at the man, a young adult with dark hair. He brought his attention back to the trees. What was going on? What was happening? "Adam Reese?" the security asked again. Father shook his head. "Last one is Charlie Grayson." "...That's not him." The security man rose his eyebrows and shut the drawer, like he were annoyed or tired. He was just drinking some gross drink in a cabin! The drawer disappeared once more, to add to the questions. The brunette looked at Father. "Looks like he's not in the lost and found." "...What does that mean?" "That he's on the right track. You should be, too." Father blinked in confusion, but the Security was gone when he opened his eyes again. "...What?" Instead of the man, there was a painted, wooden sign in his place. It pointed two directions, left and right. It read, "School house right, certain death left". Father stared at it for a long time before going right. It was more trees, nothing to tell him if he was going in circles. He stayed right for a very long time, almost turning around to head back, but willing himself to continue. He couldn't risk getting lost. And that mindset let him find the schoolhouse, eventually. There was no name on the building, and it looked relatively old, but he could best assume that it was the schoolhouse. So he went inside. It hadn't occurred to him yet, but he'd just realized the lack of lightbulbs, both here and in the cabin. Yet, the rooms weren't dark. There were no windows in the front of the schoolhouse, but somehow light filled the hall, the same as the cabin. As though the lights were perhaps invisible as well, like the filing cabinet at the security. Letting those thoughts aside, Father noted that there were... no children. But he could hear them. It was like children were speaking loud and lively, but there was no physical evidence of such a thing. Until... A phonograph. A phonograph down the hall was the outlet of the voices. Father walked up to it in the empty hall, examining it. He was right. The voices were coming from this. But, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't understand what they were saying. It was all illegible, incoherent. It didn't sound like another language, it just sounded... wrong. Father left the phonograph of talking and laughing children, and started looking inside of the classrooms. They were all locked. Not locked, jammed. None of the doorknobs would turn. One classroom in particular, let out some speech, so Father tried that doorknob and- it turned. He stepped inside. It was the ticket man again- ticket man, cabin man, security- it was him, standing at the chalkboard and writing something. It looked like he'd written it so many times that the chalkboard was... filled with white chalk. "A dead man is a dead man, but a live one is a ticking man," he spoke while he wrote, as though he were teaching. But the classroom was empty. There were no children. The desks were old and empty, covered in dirt and soot instead of dust, and... one harboring a child's skeleton. Father stared at the skeleton for a moment before looking back to the... teacher. "...Ahem." The teacher looked at the father. "Yes?" "I'm looking for my son," Father said, looking down at his bleeding hand. The bleeding had slowed, almost to a stop, but his shirt was soaked in blood in that spot, the crimson spreading slowly up his white button up shirt. The teacher looked at the desks, each and every one, like there were actual children there. Then he shook his head and looked at Father, who glanced at him again. "Looks like he isn't here," he said, agitation lacing his voice, how Father's son's teacher always sounded when she called about the boy. Father sighed. "...Please, I just need to find him. Just tell me where he is, I know you know." The teacher watched Father for a moment before pointing a teacher's pointer at him. "Kids that run loose stick their heads in a noose!" he yelled angrily. Father blinked in surprise. "What?" He was in the forest again, standing in front of a noose hanging from a tree. From the noose, a hanging child; rotten and beyond recognition. Father screamed in alarm and fell back, staring at the child. From the copper hair, he could tell it wasn't his son. Relief flooded over him, but his heart still pounded. This was a dead child, no matter if it was his or not. It was still mortifying. Father managed to tear his eyes away from the body, trying to calm his quick breaths so that he didn't puke. Closing his eyes to concentrate on himself, his mind trained on a noise in the woods, a whistling. He opened his eyes again, despite not wanting to. He didn't look at the child, but he concentrated on the whistling. Getting up from the leafy ground, he stalked off to find the sound, holding his stomach as bile tried creeping up his throat. He eventually came to a clearing, where the trees ended. In the distance was again the ticket man, but in a blue jumper and wordless cap. He swept a cement platform just before a gate to a carousel ride, whistling a song to himself. Father made his way over. "Hey!" he yelled, getting the other man's attention. "What the hell is going on! There are dead children here! What are you doing?" The janitor looked at Father as the man walked up to him, and then glanced back to the platform, where he swept maggots from the surface. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. Father scowled. "Bullshit, tell me where my son is!" The most he had cursed in a... very long time. He hadn't ever said those words since highschool. The janitor stopped sweeping to look over the gate, at the carousel that was in service. He looked back to Father. "I shouldn't tell you," he said quietly, "But I saw a kid on the carousel earlier. Do you have a ticket?" The father furrowed his eyebrows before nodding slightly, getting the tickets from his pocket to look at them. He held one out to the janitor, who took it. Then the man in blue snapped his fingers in front of Father's face, making him flinch. When Father looked again, the janitor wore different clothes, a red and white striped dress shirt and black pants, and a hat the read SERVICE. The serviceman smiled. "One ticket?" he asked. Father nodded slowly. "...Yeah." Service brought the ticket up to his face and opened his mouth, dragging his tongue over the ticket to lick up the stamp of blood. The unsettling part wasn't him licking the ticket, it was him staring at the father while doing so. Service then pointed the ticket towards the carousel. "Enjoy your ride," he said, the gate squeaking as it opened, allowing access. Father walked to it, wishing that he could will himself to wake up, but it wasn't a dream, as much as he wished it was. The music of the carousel was a broken record, the result having no resemblance to any sort of music. But that wasn't as bad as what Father noticed next. This one took the cake for sure. It was the horses on the ride, alive, impaled by the ride and screaming in anguish. They thrashed their necks and kicked their legs, trying to get free of the torture, but they couldn't. Father glanced back at the serviceman, but he was gone. He reluctantly stepped up onto the carousel. He looked at the horses. One of them had a black spot on its back, where it looked like a child had sat on it, but an impression was left for some reason. Father touched the horse beside him and his hand left the same black, ashy impression. ...His son had probably been there. But how could he actually ride one of these? Father looked up at the roof of the carousel, but instead his eyes found a black ceiling. He looked back down and saw that he now stood in front of a bar's counter. The establishment was silent, no voices or audio from a television. Looking around, Father could see that there were heads on the walls- human, and adult. He looked back at the counter, where the ticket man stood, but in a totally different attire that made him apart from the other people he had posed as before. He wore completely black clothing, with rings and leather bracelets on his wrists, necklaces that jingled when the man leaned on the counter. He dark hair was brushed back out of his face, revealing more of his looks. He had blue eyes, whereas when Father first saw him, they were green. ...Were they really not the same person? "What'll you have?" the bartender asked. Father shook his head. "Nothing. ...I'm looking for my son." "Your son? A boy came in here, but I didn't serve him anything." "Can you tell me where he went?" "If you buy a drink. Just one ticket." Father looked at the mounted heads, of fathers and mothers, presumably. ...What had killed them? The bartender fixed up a drink and slid it to Father on the bar. The man looked at it. It looked like normal beer from the tap, overfilling from the large portion of foam. The bartender was watching him. "No, thank you." Father slid the cup back to the bartender, who tilted his head. "You aren't buying?" "...No." The bartender hummed to himself and he was suddenly standing just in front of the father, inches away from the man. He clapped his hands in front of the dad's face, his rings clacking together. Father opened his eyes to a staircase, to which he was at the bottom. Walking up the red stairs was his son. All of the nonsense didn't have to make sense, Father didn't have to understand it- he had finally found his son. He called out to the boy, but the child didn't look at him. He kept walking up the stairs. Father started running after him. With each step closer to his son, the stairs seemed to expand five times further apart, until his son was unreachable. Like a never ending hallway, the stairs kept gaining and gaining, and after a time, it was like Father wasn't making any progress up the stairs at all. The next step Father took suddenly slanted downward, making the man trip. He tried to catch his footing, but all of the other stairs he had stepped up suddenly slanted, too. He fell. Father tried catching himself as he slid quickly down the slide of stairs, but there was nothing to grab. As he got closer to the bottom, he saw that there were giant spikes waiting for him below. With adult, human remains. Father grasped at the wall to stop himself, to desperately save himself, and a rope suddenly slipped down beside him. He grabbed it, his body jerking to a stop, making him grunt at the force of it. Down below, he stared at his intended fate. He had just barely stopped before the spikes. Looking up, he saw that the rope wasn't just luck; the ticket man, in mounting gear, stood at the stairs just before the slope. "Go ahead and climb up, we don't have all day," the man called. Father started climbing up the best he could with eight fingers. Once he made it up, he climbed onto the step and stood beside his savior, who rolled the rope up. "...Why are you helping me now?" Father panted. The noirette rose an eyebrow at the man. "I'm not helping you, I'm a guide." The man suddenly lashed out and shoved Father, the man tumbling down the slope and screaming in fear, until he landed on a flat, safe ground. He opened his eyes, chest moving in quick, panicked breaths. He could have died. Father got up on his elbows, looking around at his surroundings with shaky breaths. He was in the woods again, with the hanging nooses. One held a child's corpse that looked fresher than the other, but they were still, undeniably dead. Father closed his eyes again and sighed deeply. He needed his son. Thoughts ran through his head of where the boy could be, of what was happening- he tried to make sense of what was going on in this place but he couldn't. Why was he there? Why were there dead children here? Could that happen to his son? Memories, of his child being born, screaming and wailing in discomfort of the world. He needed to be protected. That infant knew that he was delicate. Tiny fingers, with even tinier fingernails. Father opened his eyes and looked at the ground. ...He had to find his son. He stood up and started through the woods again. When he didn't think he was going to find anything important, he came across the cabin again. Without knocking, he went inside. And there was no one there. "Hello!" he called out. "I need to talk to you!" When there was no reply, he started walking through the living room, putting his ears to the doors that lined it. There wasn't even a kitchen visible, probably hidden behind one of the doors. The rooms were all silent, and when the dad tried opening them, they were locked. Except one. It was unlocked, but there were no noises inside. The father almost decided to forget it, but he couldn't risk it and opened the door. He was hit by the immediate stench of rotting. It stank of blood and dead animals, and guts colored the floor. Father groaned and gagged in disgust, bringing a hand up to cover his nose and mouth. When he looked up, the ticket man stood in front him, watching him. "I'm sorry, I-" the father tried to speak, but he almost vomited and had to shut his mouth. It seemed like the ticket man wanted to apologize instead. "Sorry, I didn't think I'd have company," the brunette spoke, slipping passed the father and closing the door, shutting the stench away from them. He looked at the dad. "Was your son in the lost and found?" he asked like he didn't have a room full of gore. "...No," Father said, walking away from the room so that he could get in a deep, clear breath. The ticket man followed him, bloody footprints being left from the guts that he had been stepping over. "Oh, sorry to hear. So you haven't found him yet?" "No, I haven't. …What am I supposed to do? I don't know where he is, and everything here comes and goes when it wants." Father shook his head, sighing. The ticket man watched him, peering at the older man. "Do you believe on God?" Father looked at him, surprised by the question. He pressed his lips together. "...Not anymore." "Really? Everyone else here did." Father sucked his teeth. "I just- I need my son, that's all I care about. Would God let something like this go on?" The ticket man rose his eyebrows and smiled before shrugging. "You'll have to find the judge," he said. "He's in charge of the good children." Father looked at him. "Good children?" "The ones who know what they're doing. The judge should be in the courthouse." Father closed his eyes and let out another breath. "...Where is that?" The ticket man pointed and Father looked. A courthouse, far from any trees. Father didn't have to look at the ticket man to know that he was gone, so he just walked up to the courthouse and went inside. There were no pews, or pillars, or any decorations. It was just a single, giant and empty room. Two cages hung from the ceiling, with adult bodies inside. One looked like it had been skinned. The other, a skeleton. "Hello!" Father called. The floor was dirt; the place was like a mausoleum. When the father looked at the front of the room, the ticket man stood there in a black robe. The hood of the clothing cast a heavy shadow over their face, almost making his features indistinguishable He looked at the father. "You've come this far?" he asked, something in his voice telling Father that it was weird, being here. There were only two adult bodies here. Was it that hard to get to this point? Father grit his teeth at his thoughts. He was making it sound more like a video game or something, now. "Your son is ready for you," the ticket man added, "He took a detour and got into some trouble, but he's managed to make it just in time." "...Time for what?" "The verdict." The man suddenly fell, crumpling into a pile of clothing on the ground, dirt blowing from the small action. Father stared at the robe for a moment, confused, but then it was suddenly thrown at him. It wrapped itself around his face, blinding him, and constricting until he could barely get a breath. He clawed at it, trying to get it off, and managed to tear it off of him, throwing the clothing to the ground. He gave a breath that he didn't even realize, once he saw what was in front of him. It wasn't human at all. It was... something that would never happen in real life. A giant... monster, stood before him, on four legs although it looked like it could stand on two. It was hideous. Puss and some other substance leaked from its mouth, giant teeth jutting out from its lips, from an extensive under-bite. It had no eyes, just a layer of scarred skin to fill the absence. And it rank something more putrid than the room of gore in the cabin, from giant blisters on its rough, sharp skin. One popped, gushing a stream of blood and puss down its arm, so hot that steam trailed from it, and the monster stomped on the ground like it hurt. Father backed away from it and retched, but there was nothing in his stomach to puke out. Then it charged at him. Father covered his nose and stumbled out of the way, the thing lumbering passed him, the ground vibrating and the walls shaking, dust falling from them. Father looked at the monster, watching as it turned its humongous body to face him again. It was slow. It was a quick runner, but it was slow to turn around, like the building wasn't big enough for it. It charged at him again. Father tried to run passed it, but the monster grabbed him with a giant claw and slapped him back, sending him flying through the air until he hit the wall. All of his air was snuffed from him and his head spun. He coughed, trying to get some breaths, trying to will his vision to work right. He couldn't see, everything was in doubles. He could hear the monster scratching the floor, letting out a giant roar of excitement. It didn't come at him again, though. Did it not know where he was? Father groaned and got up, his back aching worse than anything he'd ever felt. His head pounded like the worst migraine. He had to do this. He couldn't die here. That thought was too real. He could actually die there. He had a knife. What he could do with it, he hadn't the slightest idea. He had it, though, from the kitchen. Slipping it out of his belt loop, he looked down at the slightly warbled blade from his healing vision. He was going to die here. And his poor son. "Hey!" Father called through his disorientation. The monster didn't waste any time running for him. Father used the wall as support to give himself a running boost, which helped because his body wasn't up for it and he stumbled, but managed to keep upright. As the thing charged at him, dodged out of the way and it hit the wall. Then it started turning back around. Father examined it with his clear vision. It all looked rock solid. Its skin was made of thick scales, and it showed no weakness on its body. Then he saw the blisters. It was the most grotesque idea ever, but Father ran to the monster while it turned and stabbed a blister on its front forearm. He backed away when it started spilling over, the monster roaring out in pain and stomping against the ground, making the courthouse rumble. Father could feel the heat from the blister from where he stood. He backed away some more, to avoid the stench and getting trampled. But then he went back in. He had to finish this. With each busted blister, the monster got more agitated, but it couldn't see its attacker, and it probably couldn't smell him, either, over its own stench. It was being burned. It seemed that the longer the hot puss stayed on its skin, the deeper it penetrated. After a time, it fell onto its side, weak. Father could see something large working its way up the monster's throat, forcing the thing's mouth open and slipping out. It... looked like an oversized, soft-shelled egg. Father stared at the abomination and saw it move, whatever inside pushing the side like a baby in its mother's stomach, kicking her. It prompted the father to kneel beside the egg and cut open its soft exterior. His son lay inside, in a fetal position, wet from whatever fluids were inside with him, and unconcious. His father gasped in surprise and grabbed his son, shaking the boy lightly to wake him up. "Wake up, baby," he urged, nudging the child and wiping his hair from his face, the dark strands stuck to his forehead like after a hard day in the heat. He didn't wake up, though he was breathing. It wasn't enough for the father, but he stood up with the boy and carried him out of the courthouse. He expected to see the forest upon exiting, but was greeted by the ticket stand instead. The ticket man, inside. "Ticket?" the man asked and held out a hand. Father watched him for a moment before stepping up to the booth with his son and getting the last ticket. The man behind the stand took the ticket and looked at the stamp of blood before nodding. He looked at the child. "And the child's ticket?" "...He doesn't have one." "Well, it's a finger for an adult and a fingernail for a child. Do you want to pay?" The man held up a set of pliers, the tip stained with blood. The father glanced at his son before shifting to hold the boy better. He held out his hand of three fingers and the ticket man used the pliers to rip off a fingernail. "Ah!" Father hissed in pain and waved his hand, biting his bottom lip. The ticket man touched the air and the door that the father had arrived in appeared again. He then opened it. "Congratulations," he said. "You must really love your son." Father looked at the man before carrying his son to the door and stepping inside. There was no cold, metal hallway. He and his child were suddenly standing in the middle of the boy's bedroom. He looked at the closet, but there was no door of flesh. l.l The ticket man looked at his puppet, the thing's blisters torn and ripped open. He hummed to himself as he stitched the felt back together. "And one was won," he said to himself, lifting the puppet up higher to admire it, the sewing needle sticking inside of it. He smiled.
  8. Chapter One: Hide and Seek Beep beep beep beep- Liam reached over the bed to shut off his alarm. Then he lay in bed for a few long moments, his eyes heavy and begging for more rest, his mind just as weak. Waking up at five in the morning just to write was the biggest mistake. He never got anything written with his head throbbing in lack of sleep. This morning was even more unforgiving because he had passed out drunk last night, and his head was already paining. Get up, Liam. The man breathed out heavily through his nose and sat up in his messy bed. He put a hand to his head with a heavy hiss of pain and mentally went through what he would have done differently last night: put an end to his menace of an alarm, not invite Ashe over so he wouldn't have such a dry hangover, written something worth...something, because his deadline is impending and he hasn't written a single chapter in a week. “Fuck,” he grumbled to himself and started climbing out of bed. He stumbled but caught himself and headed to the bathroom. Dirty clothes scattered across the bedroom floor, along with old beer cans and bottles, none of which he knew when they got there. He just seemed to drink a lot more lately. And Ashe didn't help, because the bartender knew his liquor, and he liked it strong. The bathroom was no cleaner. Dirty clothes lay in the corner of the small room, hidden by the side of the door. There were empty shampoo or body wash bottles tossed about when Liam found they were empty, because he just hadn't a care in the world. He stepped to the toilet and unzipped his jeans, pulled himself out of his boxers to pee. The house was silent, besides the tinkle of his urination and his sniffs from sleeping without a blanket. He could hear some other faint sound, but he didn't dwell on what it was and just put himself away before turning to the sink. There, he started washing his hands, forearms, face- drank some of the tap water to help his headache to no avail. He brushed his teeth and took some pills, and then splashed his face with some cold water to further wake up, because he just felt beyond shitty. He looked at himself in the mirror. His face was pale, water dripping down his chin and catching in his morning stubble. Droplets gathered at the tips of his black eyelashes before falling and hitting his cheeks like tears. His lips looked full and red because of his spicy toothpaste that always irritated them, making it look like he had been making out with someone for a while. He sighed heavily and looked at his eyes. Grey irises lined with the grey of sad health and insomnia, he wanted to see his brother's eyes but never could. Fraternal twins, Liam had grey eyes while his brother had a lighter, more beautiful and unique color between grey and blue. Liam always wanted his brother's eyes as children. Now, he could hardly remember just what they looked like, exactly. Liam left the bathroom and the unknown sound got louder as he headed to the living room. His real goal was the kitchen, but he had to go through the living room to get there. And evidently, as he entered the living room, he found a snoring Ashe on his couch. No wonder he didn't have a girlfriend. His snoring was horrendous. In the kitchen, Liam started some coffee and got a glass of orange juice to wait. Rather than a 'glass', it was one of the plastic cups laying around from he and Ashe's drinking shenanigans last night; because he hadn't washed his real dishes in days. And for breakfast, he mixed up some instant potato flakes with hot tap water and some salt- bam, mashed potatoes. Sitting at the kitchen table, the man ate his potatoes and drank his juice, staring off into space while he listened to Ashe's persistent snoring and the coffee's Liamant spitting. The coffee smell stung his nose like a beautiful flower. “No, Mom said this much coffee- not anymore,” Noah scolded Liam near the coffee pot. Noah held a small measuring cap of four tablespoons, filled with coffee grains from the Folgers bin. Liam gave his brother a look. “She said that's just for one person- I wanna make some for Dad too,” he said. Noah gave an exaggerated sigh. “Then you just do it again! Like,” the boy poured the grains into the machine, “That's for one person,” he filled the cap again, of four tablespoons, “And now it's two people.” Noah looked at his brother to see if he understood, but Liam was looking away because he hated it when Noah was right. As if on cue of the childish tension, the two's father, asleep in his recliner in the living room, gave a loud, hearty snore that made the two crack up into a laughing fit. Liam sat at his desk with his coffee, sipping the hot delicacy lightly to not scorch himself. It was bitter, like he always made it. He could never make it right. In front of him on the desk were photos, notes, and copies of the case file on the Dewsome case. The murder/investigation of ten yearold Marsha Dewsome, whose murderer was her own uncle, remaining unsolved for five years. Liam was stuck on the first chapter of her story. He knew how to start it off: Marsha was walking home from school, when a man offered her a ride home. The first sign that it was someone she knew, because she accepted. Liam just couldn't bring himself to start writing because... he just couldn't. As if to save him from writing, Ashe came into the room, with Liam's jug of orange juice in hand. Why they weren't best friends. “Hey, you wanna help me open shop?” he asked, his voice slow from sleepiness. Liam gave him a look. “I have a story to write.” “Aw come on, Lizzy said she ain't coming in today, and I hate being there alone with James.” James, Ashe's older brother, who rightfully owned the bar. He was stern, demanding, and always got his way. He should have been the place's bouncer. Liam huffed and looked at his computer screen. The cursor blinked sitting in place, waiting to write something for the dead girl whose case information lay scattered on Liam's desk. The man ultimately stood up from his seat and turned to Ashe. “Put that juice back up- you better not be drinking out of the carton,” he said. Ashe rolled his brown, naturally big eyes and left the room to put the orange juice back into the fridge. Liam went back to his bedroom to grab a sweater and pull it on. It was always colder out here at the house; it was Liam's dad David's, whom had left it to him when he got sick. Miranda, the boys' mom, left the family not long after the incident. Last Liam knew, she'd remarried in Michigan and had another kid. Last he knew. “Oh fuck, Liam, I'm late! Hurry, come on!” Ashe yelled, his voice warbled from a sleepy hangover. Liam left his bedroom and slipped passed Ashe, who was patting his jean pockets and looking around for his car keys, to pull on his shoes. Liam was ready. Ashe wasn't. “Dammit!” “Just let me drive, come on.” Liam snatched up his own car keys and stepped outside, seeing Ashe lumbering after him in the corner of his eye. Walking up to his beat up Chevy, Liam hopped in and Ashe followed. The truck was a gift from their friend Carlos, the only one out of the group to actually get some good money. Sam had a good job at the clinic, but it was only a matter of time before she got caught for forging prescriptions. Liam started up the truck and started driving down the muddy road to town, which was about an eight minute drive from the trailer out in the trees. David always liked living in privacy. It was okay, too, because Miranda was a stay-at-home wife while he went out trucking, so the boys were never home alone to get kidnapped or hurt. That's how it was supposed to be, anyway. “Shit man, James is gonna kill me!” Ashe whined. Liam shook his head. “I think you're supposed to know by now that being drunk every other day doesn't look good on the job resume.” Ashe scoffed. “Dude, you're drunk like, every day.” “With good reason; my boss is up in-” “Yeah yeah, cut it with the “I've got a rich sugar daddy up in the high state”.” Liam gave Ashe a sideways glance. “You saying “sugar daddy” is enough to make anyone's dick fall off. My publisher.” “Well, Liam, not everyone can have a rich publisher, okay!” Ashe leaned forward to turn on the radio, which had some awesome rock music playing. Liam rolled his eyes and sat back. “Anyway, Carlos gets a shit ton more money than all of us. Stop griping at me.” Liam could see Ashe glare at him in the corner of his eye and he just picked up the speed. The faster they got there, the faster James could yell at Ashe and embarrass him in front of everyone. Carlos worked real estate in the nice side of town, which was why no one really saw him much. He couldn't be seen in the dumps to often. Bad for business. They reached town a few minutes later and pulled up to the bar. The OPEN sign was turned, and apparently they were about fifteen minutes late. Whoops. “Get out, get out,” Ashe said and clambered out of the truck. Liam got out after and followed Ashe inside, where James was making some pitchers of tea; some regulars sat nearby and talked to him, their cigarette smoke making up the place. When James saw Ashe and Liam come in, he pointed at his brother, a cigarette between his fingers. The action of pointing made a stick of burning ash fall off of the end. “You're late, asshole. And where the fuck is Lizzy?” he asked, the regulars turning their heads to look at Ashe, like it was a show. It always was for them. If the two had an argument that fell short of amusement, they'd all groan and shake their heads in disappointment. Ashe puffed. “She said she ain't coming in today! I don't know! I brought Liam, though.” “I don't fucking want Liam, I want you and Lizzy to do what I pay you for!” James looked at Liam, who watched him in hopes that he'd just send him home. “No offense Liam,” he added, to which the noirette shrugged. Then Liam looked back to his brother. “Get your ass over here and wash some fucking dishes- you're on bathroom duty tonight, too.” “Aw, James!” Ashe cried, his life visibly draining from him. His brother pointed his burning cigarette at the sink, which was piled from the lunch and dinner services yesterday that Ashe had probably skipped out on washing. As Ashe stalked off to the sink, James rose his cigarette to get a deserved puff, but it had burned away to the butt while he made the teas and griped at his brother. He sucked his teeth and snuffed it out. Liam walked up to the counter to sit on a bar-stool. He may have been dragged there, but it didn't look like he was being forced to participate in the punishments. “Hey, Liam,” James greeted. He was still an eighties kid at heart, who spent some good time at the mirror greasing his hair and making it look good. He was handsome,give or take. Nice eyes and body, but a pretty nasty scar on his left cheek from a bar fight that got out of hand back in the day. He had the same green eyes as Ashe, but his hair was black while his younger brother's was an ashy red. Liam and Ashe grew up together, to an extent, and James, being eleven years older than the two made him their babysitter, so he and Liam were well acquainted. “Hey, James.” “How's your new book coming along? Ashe says it's a good one.” “They're never “good ones”. It's the Dewsome case.” “Ah,” James took the pitchers to put them in the fridge and lit a new cigarette, taking quite a few puffs before smothering himself with a long drag. All of his years smoking made his voice a little dry, but apparently that and his scar had girls lining up to sleep with him. He may even have a kid by now. Or two. Or three, plus. “That one down south,” he continued, “What year was it?” “1994.” “Mm. Sure do remember that one- threw everybody into a panic. Even the college girls were scared.” Liam shrugged and nodded. He was twelve when Marsha was killed. James was about twenty three; he'd never gone to college, but he'd been known to sneak a hot car ride with a few of the girls there. Liam remembered the case like it were on his forehead. He'd watched it all unfold on the news, read the papers, listened in on the gossip- all up until they caught the man responsible. Her uncle. And now he was even writing the book on it. “Hey kiddo,” James said, taking a drag of his cigarette that would undoubtedly help set him on the course of cancer. “Don't let it get to you. I know it's about that time.” Liam chuckled, but a pain in his chest choked it. He dropped his gaze down to the bar. “About that time.” He didn't notice, but he had been having more trouble the last few days. Tossing more drinks back than usual probably meant something. “Can I snag a drag?” he asked, reached out for James's cigarette since he didn't have his own. The bartender handed it over and the other noirette took a puff. He looked at the clock on the wall. “...You got today's date?” James pulled up the date on his phone and clicked his tongue. “...Twenty fifth.” Liam nodded, smoking James's cigarette. “Well,” he sighed, blowing out a stream of smoke. “I guess it's that time.” James lit another cigarette, leaving Liam the other. He lit the tip and puffed from it. “They'll get him some day, kid.” Kid, even though Liam was twenty four now. The noitette shrugged but didn't say anything. His chest was constricted and he couldn't trust his voice to come out alright. James pat the man's head before leaving to serve one of the regulars, and Liam looked at Ashe to watch his friend wash the dishes. His phone went off in his coat pocket and he pulled it out to look at it, which was better than watching Ashe try and hide a plate he just broke on accident. It was a phone call from Sam. He wasn't a prick, so he answered despite not wanting to. “Hey,” she said softly on the other side of the phone. “Need me to come over tonight?” From the chatter in the background, Liam concluded that she was working and sneaking a phone call. He took a drag from the cancer stick and winced when it burned his throat. He blew the smoke out. “...Yeah,” he said simply, looking at the cigarette that burned between his fingers. “Okay, I'll-” “Can I come over on your lunch break?” He snuffed out the cancer in the ashtray on the bar. “Well, yeah, of course,” Sam said through a smile. Liam nodded, watching as the cigarette's smoke slowly disappeared. Lunch break was at noon. In Liam's truck, Sam fucked herself on his cock, her arms wrapped around his neck as she straddled him, her forehead pressed again his and her long bangs tickling his nose. She moaned a little too enthusiastically, her minty bubble gum breath hot against her friend's face. She tried to kiss him, but Liam turned his face away, grunting in pleasure when the girl slipped further down his cock, rolling her hips against him. She slipped her hands into the back of Liam's shirt collar, where her nails scratched him. He pushed her away from him, her back hitting the steering wheel and making it honk. She laughed. “What?” she asked, biting her bottom lip. Liam huffed. “You scratched me. And you're high.” She laughed again. “So? Isn't it better?” She looked into Liam's eyes with her dilated brown. Putting her hands on his chest, she started moving up and down again, the sound of her wet pussy on his cock and her moaning filling the truck once more. It'd be better if she didn't play with toys that were too big for her. There wasn't as much friction as Liam was hoping for. The man grabbed her hips and helped her move, making her go faster so that he could hurry up and come. Sam leaned forward and kissed him, holding his face so that he wouldn't turn away. He let her, because he decided he was more focused on finishing this and getting some real pussy, or at least going home and getting drunk. Sam brought a hand down to play with her clit while she fucked Liam's cock, breaking the kiss and straightening up more so that she'd be at a better angle for him to rub against her nerves. She moaned and tossed her head back. “Oh, Liam!” she gasped, her pussy clenching around the man's cock as she worked herself to an orgasm. It helped add to the friction, and Liam pushed his hips up to fuck against her, shoving his cock deeper inside. Thrusting up against Sam, he fucked her while she orgasmed, the woman clutching his shirt tightly as she played with herself. Liam fucked her harder until he came, his cock pulsing inside of her and spilling cum into his condom. Sam climbed off of him before he was completely finished and started fixing her clothes, pulling her panties up and smoothing her dress's wrinkles. Liam jerked himself to completion before slipping the condom off and dropping it out of the window. He tucked himself away, thinking about how much he hated sex with Sam. He looked at her, who was already gazing at him with her stupid dilated eyes. “...You know what day today is?” he asked, feeling as stupid as he thought she was because he even bothers to fuck her. She hummed. “Nope.” “It's the day they found Noah.” “Mm, who's that?” “...My brother.” Sam reached out and pat Liam's cheek. “Aw, sorry.” He shook his head and looked at the parking lot. They were just outside of the clinic, but it was relatively empty because it was a Tuesday. He glanced back at Sam. “I gotta go,” he said. She smiled at him and climbed out of the truck, giving him a wave before turning to leave into the clinic. Liam started the truck and drove back home. He didn't have a reason to be at the bar, and Sam was even more disappointing than expected, so his new goal was to get home, take a shower, and get drunk. At the house, that was just what he did. He took a shower, had a rightful orgasm, and went to the kitchen to get some beer. Popping it open and taking a drink, he paused with the beer just at his lips when he heard a clatter from outside. “Fucking raccoons, man,” he dropped his hand to his side and went outside, going to the trashcans. “Get outta here!” he called and kicked a can. A raccoon popped its head out and he grabbed the can, shaking the rodent out. It took off running when it hit the ground. Liam shook his head. “Fucking rodents.” Bringing the beer back to his lips, his took a few drinks until something else sounded, from the backyard. A loud squeak. “What the hell?” The man walked around the house to the backyard, where he opened the gate and slipped inside. The swingset David put up for the kids was still there, rusted from years of neglect and rain. One of the swings were rocking. “Who's back here?” he called out, looking around. The yard was empty, but one of the lawn chairs were knocked over. Liam walked over and picked it back up, looking around the yard once more. “Hello?” He gave the yard another quick look over before stepping up to the back door and going back inside. Immediately, he saw that the bathroom's light was on. The door was open and he could hear running water. Going into the bathroom, he turned off the sink and shut off the light, before opening the closet in the hallway and getting one of David's gold clubs. There was definitely someone here. “Get the hell out of here! There's literally nothing to steal!” he called out, peeking in rooms to see where the perpetrator was. Nowhere. They weren't anywhere. In the kitchen, the fridge was open and his orange juice was on the floor, spilling a mess. “Goddammit.” Liam dropped down to his knees and started cleaning it up with paper towels. “Motherfucker. If you're still here, you'd better get the hell out!” he called, but the house was silent, along with outside. It was probably just some stupid teens. Grabbing some more squares from the roll, Liam turned back to the puddle to lay them down over it, but just beside the puddle, in front of him, were small, muddy and bare feet. He furrowed his eyebrows and looked up. A naked boy covered in mud, standing just before him, so dirty that he could barely see their skin color. Liam blinked a few times and sat back, staring at the boy. “...What the hell? How'd you get in here?” he asked, completely dumbfounded. The child got down on their knees and looked into Liam's eyes, the boy's eyes grey- no, blue- a shade just between to two colors. ...Only one person had those eyes. “...Noah?”
  9. Guess I'm back guys; I have some new stories in the mod que because I'm shit and didn't work on updates for the others 😌

  10. That does sound interesting, I'll think about that!
  11. Stalking my sister-in-law's Facebook for pics of the nephew and niece and accidentally liked the posts from 2 months ago 🤦

  12. https://youtu.be/Hu0xlyLwK7Q Chapter Twenty: Finale Arty sat in the peace of Jack’s study, with his laptop on his husband’s desk. Geil was asleep in his room, his medicine having made him drowsy. Daniel was still out with Laura, doing whatever they had decided to do. So, Arty had been using this time to look at the things Cameron sent to him. An accident report from Daniel’s previous orphanage in Scotland. The file was confidential, but Cameron had gotten passed that. May 24, 2014: Accident Report Charlie Anderson, 14 years old, was found deceased at 6 p.m. this afternoon, four miles north of Cauvlin Children’s Home. Police officials said he had been deceased since 1-2 pm that day, of suffocation due to anaphylactic shock. Questioning of the children in the Home has placed Daniel Scott as a witness. Arty closed that file and opened Daniel’s witness statement, which Cameron had also gotten a hold of. In total, there were two cases that Cameron had sent to Arty, both involving Daniel in some way. I, Daniel Scott, of 503 Burwood Rd, Cauvlin Children’s Home, state: On May 24, 2014, Charlie and I were walking along the fields for a last time before his adoption, at eight a.m.. We stopped to break at an old maple tree and I took a nap. When I woke again, he was gone. I looked for him for a bit, but I assumed he had left me, so I started back to the Home. I returned at five and looked for him, but I didn’t find him. I told the Headmistress that he was gone and she called the Yard. I believe that the contents of this statement to be true and correct. Signed: D. Scott Dated: May 25, 2014 Arty closed his eyes and sighed. That was the shortest witness statement he had ever seen. If these documents were in Confidential, that meant that the orphanage didn’t want anyone to see them. Probably to keep a good image. But, that could mean that Daniel lied. And they let him. Charlie and Daniel left at eight a.m. and stopped for a nap. Charlie’s body was four miles away, that gives the time of their stop at about noon. Okay, so Daniel napped at noon. Then he took a four hour walk back to the Children’s Home and got there at five. He should have gotten there at four. Had he slept for an hour? No, rather… had he lied about napping? Could he have done something else instead of sleep against a tree? Why would Charlie just leave him? The orphanage could have helped cover up whatever happened. Arty ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back, out of his face and sighing. Daniel could have murdered Charlie in that hour nap. How, though? ...Why? Arty looked at the computer screen again and closed the witness statement. There were a lot of ways to die of anaphylactic shock, he didn’t have to think too hard on that. Daniel had simply found a way to do it and not get caught. At thirteen years old. He had killed someone at thirteen years old. Theoretically. There was another document, on the death of another boy, so Arty opened that one to look. Death Scene Investigation Report: Investigator : John Lee Date of Death : April 14, 2016 Case Number : 22165 Primary Rationale for Medical Examiner Activity: Other: Suicide Decedent Identification: (Last Name) Reid (Middle Name) Anderson (First Name) James Aliases: Jimmy Date of Birth: August 12, 2002 Age: 13 Gender: Male Home Address: Cauvlin Children’s Home Secondary Parties: Identified By: (Last) Langstien (First) Marla Relationship: Other: Orphanage Headmistress Means Identified By: Appearance. Witnesses: Found Decedent. Name: Daniel Scott . Address: Cauvlin Children’s Home Scene Information: Describe how death occurred: Suicide by hanging, with- Arty cursed and sat back in his chair. The rest was blacked out. There certainly were factors the orphanage was hiding. One thing was certain, though: Daniel was transferred to the US half a month after this incident. He closed the browser and shut his laptop before getting up. Shaking his head, he left the room so that he could cook dinner. Opening the fridge for ingredients, it was getting pretty empty. He hadn’t been going out too much for groceries. Jack couldn’t, because the stores were closed by the time he was back. “Ugh, fuck.” The brunette shut the fridge again and pulled out his phone. He’d just have to order pizza or something. Dialing in the number, he suddenly hung up and put his phone into his pocket. Where were Daniel and Laura? It was almost dinner time. Turning to leave the kitchen, he walked to the back door, sliding the doors open and stepping outside onto the porch. He looked around the snowy outside for the teens but didn’t see either. “Daniel!” he called. He crossed his arms and leaned against a porch beam. “Daniel, Laura!” He was about to call for them again, but Daniel suddenly came up behind him from inside the house. “What, Arty?” Arty turned around to look at the teen. He dropped his arms to his sides and pushed off of the beam. “Where were you?” Daniel smiled. “Why? Miss me?” He tilted his head with his smile. Arty shook his head with a scoff. “Where’s Laura? Where were you two?” Daniel straightened up and rolled his eyes. “We were in my room. Her parents came to pick her up. A-nd I tried to tell you...but we couldn’t find you. Shame; her parents wanted to meet you.” He turned to head back into the house, but Arty grabbed him by the arm to stop him. Daniel looked back at Arty, who was looking the teen over. His pants were wet. The bottom, associated with drying snow. “What’d you do, sneak in the front door?” Arty scoffed. Daniel rose an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?” “Because you have a way with lying.” Daniel laughed. “You think I’m lying? I’m flattered, but no. Can I have my arm back now?” Arty held him for a moment before letting go and shaking his head. He brought his hand up to run his fingers through his hair. Daniel continued going into the house, and then Arty spoke up again. “Tell me about Charlie and James. What really happened?” Daniel glanced back at Arty. He smirked, although his eyes held contentment. “I wonder what strings you’ve pulled to get those files. Confidential, aren’t they?” “You killed them.” Daniel sucked his teeth. “That depends on what you’re willing to believe. If I told you the reports weren't true, you’d still think I were a killer, wouldn’t you? Stubborn.” Arty gave a humorous laugh. “Stubborn? You don’t get to call me stubborn! You put Henry in the hospital!” “And you lied to me about him!” Daniel snapped, turning to face Arty fully. “All you’ve done is lie to me! Why do you keep lying!” He rose his voice exceptionally and Arty glared at him. The man walked over and put his hands on Daniel’s shoulders. “Daniel. You need serious help.” “What, are you threatening me? You think you can threaten me with something like therapy ?” “No, not therapy. And I’m not threatening you.” Arty pressed his lips together. “...Just stop while you’re ahead.” Daniel sneered. “Stop what ? Maybe you should focus on your own things. Like Geil, or your naive husband . Or better yet,” he leaned in close to Arty’s face. “Dealing with your own demons. You’ve too many for me to help you with.” He twisted out of Arty’s grip and left to the stairs, to his room. Arty bit his lip and looked at the floor. He growled to himself and spun around to hit the glass doors. His phone vibrated. He was going to ignore it, but it was persistent, a phone call. He reached into his pocket to pull it out, to which he saw his mom’s caller ID. He took a deep, calming breath, and answered it. “Hello?” he asked, wondering why she was bothering to call him this late when she had other things to do. Like dinner parties. “Arthur, it’s your mother,” Sandra’s voice sounded. Arty closed his eyes. “I know. What?” “I’m coming over in a few days, so make sure you’re not… asleep.” That in particular made him more annoyed with her, because that had only happened once. And the word “sleep” was something he wasn’t keen on hearing anymore. “Sure, okay,” he said, “Anything else?” “No, nothing in particular. How is Geil? After what I've been told.” “He's fine.” “And the new one, Daniel?” “...He's fine too.” “Good, though I don't really believe you,” Sandra said softly, not out of emotion, but because she was preoccupied by brushing stray hairs out of her face in front of her vanity's mirror. Because she was headed to a dinner party, like Arty knew. Her son leaned against the glass sliding doors and put a hand on his forehead, closing his eyes and trying to mentally hang up on her, because physically doing so would just make her come back with a vengeance. Sandra cleared her throat into the phone, gently because she had 'manners', despite being trailer trash once. “Anyhow, I expect you to be home and aware, because I have matters to discuss,” she said and tapped her finger against her red lips, making sure that her lipstick looked perfect in her reflection. “Like what Mom? I have things to do.” “Oh, son, we both know you don't. I'll be there in a few days, so keep your “schedule” open.” Sandra hung up her phone and Arty gladly threw his phone at the sofa in the living room. He dropped down to sit against the doors, where he pulled his knees up to his chest and rest his head against them. l.l “What'd you tell your dad?” Joe asked Daniel as the two walked down the school hallway to their classes. Daniel shrugged a single shoulder, his arm still cast and in a sling. “Her parents came for her.” “...Why isn't anyone asking about her yet?” No one was. All the students were going about their own business, and no one mentioned her name. “She's just a nobody. She told me once her parents don't care if she's gone.” Daniel turned a corner with Joe, but the two came to a stop when they saw some police officers. Joe puffed. “...Sure about that?” “Damn. Must have been her aunt. Come, get inside the bathroom,” the brunette grabbed Joe by the shoulder and quickly ushered him to the bathroom, but before he could follow after, an officer looked over as a student pointed at the teen. The slightly bigger man started making his way over, and Daniel let the bathroom door shut, shutting himself out of the safety of hiding. “Daniel?” the cop asked. Daniel nodded, putting his hand in his pocket. “...Yes?” “Could you come into the counselor's office? We need a word.” Daniel nodded again. “Sure, don't know what about, though. Is it about Kaiden? Because I didn't know him too well,” he said, walking with the officer down the hallway. The officer glanced at him. “No, it's about someone else. Let's wait until we get into the office.” Daniel gave a light nod and followed after the officer. When the man turned his attention back to the office at the end of the hallway, Daniel looked back at the bathroom door, which was still shut. He wasn't one to scare easy or anything, but man, did he wish he was in there right now. In the principal's office, Meathead left him to the officer and apparent police chief's mercy. The three sitting in chairs with Meathead in the hallway, the police chief introduced himself and his colleague. “Daniel, I'm Lieutenant Downy. This is officer Laine,” he spoke. His hair was white and coarse, as was his mustache. The officer that had brought Daniel in, Laine, had hair of such a red shade that it looked brown. Perhaps it was auburn. Daniel nodded in greeting. “Hello.” Downy gave the teen a smile and shifted in his seat to get more comfy. Then he cleared his throat, to get back into his seriousness. “Well... We hear you're a relatively good student. Wouldn't you say?” Daniel gave a small, single shouldered shrug. “I suppose. Have I done something wrong?” “Laura Givens,” Laine spoke up, “She's also a good student here. Perfect grades, perfect attitude- and she's been missing since yesterday.” “What? Laura?” Daniel laughed, his laughter dying into a snicker and shake of his head. “No, that isn't Laura. You're right, she's a good girl- she must just be sick, mate. Have you talked to her parents?” Downy nodded solemnly. “We have. Her aunt reported her yesterday after school. Do you know if she has any enemies? Or problems at home? Maybe she told you some secrets.” “Mm, she said that she had to go home after school, that her mom was working a lot. Maybe... maybe she felt neglected and ran away. She never had any enemies- she was my first friend when I moved here. She made me feel welcome. Is she really gone missing? Are you sure she isn't home? Maybe if I call her-” “No, she's gone missing. She isn't home. ...maybe you should go about your day,” Downy said, earning a very upset glance form Laine. Daniel took the opportunity though, standing from his seat and looking at the two men. With his lips pressed together in “worry”, he gave the two a small nod before leaving the room. Meathead gave him a firm, comforting pat to his shoulder as the teen made his way from the adults. In his escape from the doom, he was caught by Joe, who caught up jogging from behind. “What happened?” he asked. “Get away from me.” Daniel elbowed Joe in the ribs, the latter giving a hefty “Ow”. “We need to keep a distance. If they ask, Laura didn't tell you anything. She maybe seemed a little off, but she didn't let on. Alright?” “...Yeah, sure. ...I'll see you in art, I guess.” Daniel gave the noirette an annoyed look. “No, you won't. You're still upset over Kaiden, look it.” l.l Arty walked Geil into the house. The boy was tired and wanted to be carried, but his father wanted him to walk to stay awake and alert; the boy was sleeping excessively all week, and he was starting to look like it. Daniel walked in front of them, moving his bangs from his eyes with an exasperated breath that he didn't mean for Arty to catch. Really, he was also exhausted. He hadn't been sleeping well. He hadn't nightmares, but he kept tossing and turning, and staring at the ceiling. With that, he hadn't been painting. It was a bad case of idle hands- he desperately needed something to do. And add school, with the persistent girls and mourning students, and police interrogations. The teen glanced back at Arty, whose beautiful blue, tired eyes were on the teen. Daniel would smile at him, usually. Or make him fluster. The exhaustion of everything seemed to affect their gazes. Daniel just saw Arty looked at him and turned away again, his mind void of thoughts. He didn't even have any thoughts for Arty. A single thing came into his head regarding the goddess of a man. It's probably time to kill him, too. It was a pained thought, much like when your dog becomes too viscous and has to be put down. It was probably time to put Arty down. As much as he adored him. For Arty, he was still racked with disgust and anger at Daniel- emotions brewed from the teen's shenanigans: murder, almost killing Henry, torturing Geil, drugging Arty. It was the same as with Daniel though; he was exhausted. He wanted to shake his head at the teen, or spit in disgust, but instead, he just watched the tall brunette who seemed to be a little taller than he was before, brush his hair from his face and sigh tiredly. Stripped of his jacket when he entered the house, Arty could see how Daniel's dark grey t-shirt moved against his torso, his waist slim but thick from athletic activities that garnered him a tight body of light muscles. As the teen moved his hair from his face, Arty could see the tendons in his forearm roll and shift. Then Daniel looked at him before looking away, as though he barely saw him there. Arty looked down at Geil. “Go on to your room and do your homework. If you fall asleep, I'm taking your crayons.” “Daddy...” Geil whined, looking up at his father with his choppy hair and wide yet tired eyes. Arty pointed to the stairs. “Go on, don't make me say it twice.” “Come Geil, I'll help you,” Daniel sounded, stopping to look back at the two again, Arty shutting the front door and beginning to strip of his coat. He unconsciously gave Daniel a distrusting look, which made the teen roll his eyes. “I'll keep him awake. That's all.” He and Arty held each other's gazes for a moment, as if searching for truth and lie; similar to a spurned couple having a cold war, to which one could blow the bombs at any moment. Arty gave in first. “Okay Geil, go on with your brother.” “Da-” “ Go , Geil.” Daniel stepped up and took the boy's hand so that he could pull him along to the stairs. Once the two were out of sight upstairs, Arty planned to sit on the couch and relax for a bit, but there was a sudden knocking at the front door before he could relax. Turning direction, the man left to the front door to open it. Sandra stood on the porch, looking more decked out than usual. She gave her son a look. “Did you forget I was stopping by?” she asked. Arty rolled his eyes, because he didn't really care for remembering anything anymore. But, then, he did remember something. The case files. “Mom, I have to show you something,” he said and grabbed her by the skinny arm, pulling her inside the house. She scoffed. “Arthur, what is it?” He always hated his name, but hearing her say it every time she saw him was deadly. “It's something about Daniel- there's something wrong with him, and I've got to show you.” “He's a boy, puberty isn't a weird thing. You should know,” Sandra rolled her eyes, her lashes coated in some rich mascara. Arty gave her a look before focusing on the task at hand and dragging her along to the stairs. His laptop was in his room; he had been looking at the files last night to make sure he didn't miss anything, and it instead just got him to know the cases better. Dragging his mom up the stairs, the woman's phone went off before they reached the top, and she pulled her son to a stop to look at the notification. Arty wasn't going to pay it mind, but he found himself looking at his own phone when it also went off. An amber alert. With his car model. “Isn't this your car?” Sandra asked. Arty shook his head. “No, it's the wrong model. What are you even here for?” he asked, since she had stopped his quest for his laptop. It was his car, though. Laura was missing, and she was last seen getting into his car. What exactly had Daniel done to her? Had he lied to Arty? Of course he had! The two had been lying to each other like they were saying “hello”! “I'm moving,” Sandra said in response, shutting off the buzzing amber alert and putting her phone up. “I've just come over to tell you.” Arty blinked in surprise before staring at his mother. “Moving where?” “North Carolina. I've met someone and we're moving there. I wanted to see you before I left.” “...What, are you moving now? You're moving right now?” Arty scoffed, disbelieving. “Yes. I'm taking a plane. And you'd better straighten things out, or those kids of yours won't be here anymore. Someone will take them away,” his mother said in a weak, condescending voice. Arty laughed. “Why the hell would they take my kids? I'm there for them a hell of a lot more than you ever were for me.” “I may not have been the mother you wanted, but your father is the one who abandoned you. Not me.” “He didn't abandon us! He left us money when he died, and you spent it all of jewelry and country clubs instead of paying for Andrew's hospital bills! That money was for us!” Arty stared at his mom, eyebrows furrowed. “You chased Dad away, and you killed Andrew,” he said. “ Now you're trying to forget that they ever existed!” “Why wouldn't I! Have you seen yourself?” Sandra's eyes wandered over her son, like she were looking on at a monster that she had once known. That's how he was looking at her . “Your obsession with those two is making you a mess- you can't even sleep at night! I'm leaving, Arthur,” she spoke. “And you need to learn how to take care of yourself.” “All you care about is money! Dad died and you never gave us a cent of what we were left behind! You killed my brother! You killed Andrew! You killed him! ” “Art-” “You only care about yourself!” Arty shoved his mom and it was like a switch went off. Everything froze as they looked into each others' eyes, hers growing wide and his burning with hatred. A gasp, a little breath was all that came from her before she fell down the stairs, tumbling and rolling down the steps with sick thudding and cracks. She lost a stiletto in the fall, and by the time she was at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes were staring vacant, her head turned to the side and looking off. Arty started blinking, realizing what he had done. He raced down the stairs, hopping over her stray shoe. He knelt down beside his mom. “M-mom, are you okay?” he grabbed her shoulder and shook her, her head rolling limply to the other side. One of her arms were bent underneath her, her collarbone misshapen. Arty brought his hand to his mouth, staring at his mom and panting heavily. “...Oh my god,” he pulled himself up to stand and watched her, in case she was going to blink or say “Ow”, but she didn't do anything. “What's that noise?” Daniel asked, peering down the staircase. Geil wandered in behind him, keeping a distance from the scary teenager but also hearing something strange. Before Arty could yell at the two to go away or not to look, Daniel looked at Geil and pushed the boy back. “Back to your room, lad!” he scolded. Geil looked up at the teen, his plump lips trembling at the look in Daniel's eyes. The boy turned on his heel and ran back to his room. Then, Daniel shook his head and made his way down the stairs. “My god Arty, is she dead?” “I don't fucking know! Oh my god,” Arty cried, putting his hands over his face and then running them through his hair. “I didn't mean to!” he sobbed. “Did Geil see?” “No, or he would be screaming his arse off.” Daniel knelt beside Sandra to look her over, and then he looked at Arty, who was pacing in a small area. The man stopped and pulled out his phone. “I have to call an ambulance!” “No, Arty!” Daniel got up and ran over to steal the man's phone away. He pointed at Sandra's body. “It was an accident, yes? Then we'll make it an accident. Call and tell them she fell- tripped. You'll go to prison, Arty. Tell them you found her like this, alright?” “I-I can't-” Arty got weak in the knees and dropped down to sit on the floor. Daniel left back to Sandra and started moving her body, lying her onto her stomach and staging her broken arm once more. It was difficult with only one hand, his other still in his cast and sling, but he managed to get her how he wanted. Then he looked back at Arty. “I'm giving you the phone. Call and say you found her- it's okay if you cry, they'll believe it more. Do it.” He slid the phone across the floor to Arty, who wiped his tears and brushed his hair from his face. He looked at Daniel. “I'm not a killer,” he whispered, his eyes glassy. Daniel watched him for a moment before smiling, the smile that he would give before they got so tired of each other. “You are now.” Did he really think of putting Arty down? No, Arty isn't like Charlie or James; he didn't know what he was doing. He didn't meant the things he'd said before. And Daniel didn't mean the things he'd thought. He'd miss Arty too much if he got rid of him, he knew that. And now he could really keep Arty to himself. “Call before it comes suspicious,” he said to his sinful angel. “I can't have you going away. You mean too much.” Arty looked good with blood on his hands. The man swallowed and picked up the phone to dial 911, his hand shaking. “911, what is your emergency?” “M-my mom, I think she fell down the stairs! Please, you have to help me!” “Okay, your mother fell down the stairs, is she breathing?” “No, she's not! I can't- I can't- I need help!” “Alright, are you alone? I need you to start CPR, I'll help you through it.” “My son is here,” Arty breathed, looking at Daniel. Daniel met his eye and kept him there. “How old is your son?” “Sixteen.” “Can he help you with chest compressions?” “No, he has a broken arm- are you sending help?” “I need your place of address; hand the phone to your son, please.” Arty gave the phone to Daniel, who put it on speaker phone and told her their address. Then she started telling them how to do CPR. When Arty went to do so, Daniel stopped him. He shook his head. “The CPR isn't working, M'am,” the teen spoke into the phone, watching Arty. Arty stared at the teen. This was how he killed those kids. So calmly, he just... faked it. He faked everything. How many times had he done this before? He had killed Laura. There's probably an APB out for Arty's car. They think he killed her. When the ambulance gets there, there will be police- Arty grabbed Daniel's arm tightly, making the dark brunette look at the man. “They know Laura got in my car yesterday,” he whispered, his voice barely coming out. Daniel watched him for a moment before his eyes widened in realization. He gave Arty a look as though it were his fault, and turned his attention back to the operator on the phone. “M'am, the cellphone's dying. I don't know-” the teen hung up the phone and quickly shut off the power. Then he looked at Arty again. “Drive your car out to the woods, make sure it's deep inside. I'll dust the tire tracks.” Arty shook his head, breathing heavily. “You can't just hide a car , Daniel!” “You can if you can't do anything else! Now go and hide it, we have just fifteen minutes if we're lucky.” He watched Arty sit there, the man lost on what to really do. “Go!” he ordered, pushing Arty's shoulder. The man stood and turned to leave the house, going out the front door. Daniel stood up himself and went off to get the broom, to which he followed after Arty to start dusting the tracks as the man drove the car to the woods. Sweeping the snow took a while, but it was double that time and Arty hadn't returned. Daniel stood on the front porch, jacketless, as presumably was Arty. The teen was worried. He could hear the police sirens echoing through the snowy fields. They weren't close, but they were in the vicinity. Then Arty emerged from the woods. He looked like he had been running, so he had probably hidden the car far in the woods and run to make up for lost time. Daniel waved him over quickly. “We have to warm up! Hurry before they get here!” he called. He waited for the older brunette to reach him before going inside the house with him. Arty started making the fireplace, his hands shaking from the cold. The fire lit up and the two knelt in front of it, rubbing their arms and chests to help the heat take over. They were both chilled to the bone, but the fire's heat gave condolences to their skin. When they got to a nicer temperature, the sirens were ringing outside. - A few days later - “I'm moving,” Daniel spoke. He plucked at loose fibers on his cast, his arm itching underneath. Joe furrowed his eyebrows and looked at the brunette, dumbfounded. They sat together on the ledge of a bridge in town, the water a light current beneath them, looking beautiful and calm, but holding a bite chilling to the bone. “Are you serious? Why?” “My family wants a fresh start, simple enough.” “...Will you call?” Daniel looked at Joe, who's blue eyes were still on him. “Call you?” the brunette asked. “Well, at least like, write,” Joe looked away, abashed. “Or something.” “Do you want me to?” “...Yeah, sort of.” Daniel watched Joe's flustered face before looking down at the current. “I'll call you.” l.l “Is that it?” Jack asked, looking back at Arty. Art shook his head, arms crossed while he watched his husband lift the boxes into the moving van. “No, there’s one more in the kitchen,” he spoke. Then he brought a hand up to his mouth to bite his nails. Jack watched the man for a moment before tossing his hands up. “Well?” “A-am I getting it?” Jack rolled his eyes and stepped away from the truck to leave back into the house. Arty watched his husband until the man disappeared, and then he looked at the house, big and... void. He'd lived in this house for eight years. Now it was just... It looked so bare. He'd gotten his mother's inheritance when she died. Plenty enough for a new start. He didn't feel guilty about her death- it was an accident. And it wasn't her money to begin with, anyway. No, he was just... scared. Of getting caught. Of what came next. “Art! Arty!” Daniel called from the truck. He was in the front seat with Geil, the two keeping warm with the heater. Arty walked around the truck to the two, Geil on the older boy's lap, looking drowsy and uncomfortable. He had been upset about the move, and then excited, and then he tuckered himself out. Or it was his medicine. One thing was for sure, he looked like he wanted Arty to hold him, but Arty was too… he just didn't want to. And Daniel revelled in that. He owned them. “What?” he asked. Daniel motioned for him to come close, so the man climbed up the truck's door step and perched on the edge of the seat. “What?” he asked again. Daniel leaned over to the brunette, his mouth so close to Arty's ear that he could feel the hot breath on his chilled appendage. Whispered words that released more heat against the side of Arty's face, making the brunette close his eyes in silent pleasure, because it was very cold outside. And then Daniel dipped his head down into the crook of Arty's neck and pressed his lips against the side of the man's throat, kissing him tenderly along his pulsing vein.
  13. I marked it as complete a little early on accident haha, chapter 20, the finale, is in the mod que 😌 Sorry!!
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