Plotlogs
Wooden Judas Where Will You Go Sr Owen
Shirley and Lanie arrive at the decrepit apartment building of 1052, Old Way – a site shrouded in poverty and despair in Boston Common. Their paths converge on a mission that's shrouded in mystery, but mutually aimed at one person: Robert. In this macabre setting, they find themselves lured to apartment 312 by Robert, who has a sinister air about him, as well as a history of being framed for a crime he insists he didn't commit.
The apartment itself is unsettling, sprinkled with clues of recent female occupancy amongst Robert's possessions. The place seems unfitting for someone claiming innocence. When Shirley and Lanie confront Robert with his suspicious activities, they are shocked by the discovery of a brutally murdered woman in his bathroom – her blood mixing with salt in an odd circle on the ground. Robert begs for their help with some unknown otherworldly task, hinting at dark forces at work.
The confrontation becomes violent when Robert tries to attack. Lanie fights back viciously, stabbing him and disrupting the mysterious salt circle accidentally. As the lights flicker and burst, a chilling entity emerges from the blood-soaked salt circle – a shape made of shadow, silencing Robert's pleas. The entity snatches Robert, dragging him through the supernatural portal as his blood mixes with the salt, concluding his tragic tale.
Shirley, injured in the scuffle, yet lucid enough to witness the horror, and Lanie, quick with her knife, are left in a place where the borders between worlds blur, urging them to flee before law enforcement arrives. The scene they leave behind is one of chaos – a testament to the cruelty of both human and unearthly natures. No explanations suffice to make sense of the grotesque events, and they are left with the knowledge that sometimes, the most terrible of stories are the ones that are never fully understood.
(Wooden Judas, Where Will You Go?(SROwen):SROwen)
[Sun Nov 19 2023]
On the dour, decrepit refuges of Boston Common
Shrouded in an almost tangible gloom, the park's sprawling expanse becomes a theater for the macabre. Moonlight, struggling through the dense canopy of ancient elms, casts a pallid, ghostly glow. Each tree, gnarled and imposing, watches over the land with eerie vigilance, their branches clawing at the sky in silent torment. The ground, blanketed in a layer of fog, seems to undulate subtly, as if breathing. This mist swirls around the feet of late-night wanderers, imbuing their steps with a sense of intrusion into a realm that is not wholly of this world.
The park's famed statues, proud during the day, now appear contorted, their features twisted in the moon?s deceitful light, as if lamenting long-forgotten tragedies. The whispering wind carries with it the faint echoes of historical whispers, a reminder of the countless souls who have traversed these grounds. The rustling leaves sound like hushed secrets, and the distant sound of the city's heartbeat does little to alleviate the sense of isolation. Here, in this spectral version of Boston Common, the line between the past and the present blurs, and one can't shake the feeling that they're being watched by unseen eyes, witnesses to centuries of silent stories etched into the very soil of this ancient place.
It is night, about 54F(12C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
Hey, Toto, we're not in Haven anymore, are we? Whether by car, path, or an exceptional foot, it's a dark sight before you now. The fall turn has changed the evening to something dark, and the sidewalks bustle with activity, but it's not a pretty view. Even Devilwood looks cheery, comparative to this setting... everything's old, but it's old enough to be falling apart. The park passes one by, looking sad even in the colorful rot of the multiple varieties of leaves, and there's the door. 1052, Old Way. It's an apartment building, some sort've a slum tenement. Windows are beaten out and boarded up in multiple variations. There's a buzzer next to it, which could only mean it's locked.
OOC: Enter as you will! No pressure to follow turn orders, I try to reply as I can where it seems most fitting, although that usually is pretty in-line.
Lanie somewhat randomly apppears in a dark alley nearby, but why she's chosen this location is anyone's guess. Maybe she's got a business meeting nearby. Who really knows with her.
Shirley emerges from behind one of the statues, her silhouette shrouded in fog. She doesn't seem too uncomfortable in the slums and only spares an occasional glance to the bums and junkies around the fire barrels. She still walks slowly and carefully, one hand hidden inside her coat, feeling something behind her belt. She pauses by the building, clicking her tongue and glances at the crumpled piece of paper with an adress writted on it.
Shirley cocks her head, noticing Lanie, who doesn't look like she's belongs to the beggar crowd.
It's frigid. That wind blows without real warning, and it blows right through bone as much as cloth. Transients huddle close in heaps, looking like few will make it through the whole of winter, but there's also a shadier melting pot of individuals on the streets making a scene of curious display as they move towards intended destinations. Odd enough is it that it's so busy at the hour, but even more peculiar is the *color* of what these people are wearing. From purple, to red, yellow, to gold- there's some of everything. It's like the Commons serve some sort've a central, unspoken purpose. A fair share of sketchy, discomforting hoods in grey sweatshirts fill in the gaps between businesses.
Whether by a List of Craig, a poster, a desperate chatroom referential, or even the Network 666, Shirley and Lanie arrive together in front of the same building somehow or another. How convenient.
Supposedly, Rich is up there on the third floor. 312, so says Shirley's note.
after a quick, wary, up and down glance at Lanie, Shirley approaches the buzzer. Tracing a finger over the grimy buttons, she presses the one labeled 312 and takes a step back, looking up at the boarded windows.
Lanie doesn't look like she belongs to the crowd there, and that's doubly so as she looks over the details of the building before Lanie and Shirley. "So, what's the objective, he owe you money? An ex that needs a kick in the cajones?" she asks as she tries to not be seen by the neighbors.
Shirley half-turns to Lanie. "Huh, who, Rob?", she slided her tongue over her teeth slowly, looking a little nervous after all. "I never met the guy, but I'm here to help him with some business. You? Here to score or something?"
Ironic as it might seem, considering the lack of visible cameras and the immediate response of the internal deadbolt, that door opens at Shirley's touch, just creaking open an inch or two. There's no knob, so maybe it's an inspired alternative. The sight beyond it is as grody as the general appearance of the trash-ridden commons, a single flickering fluorescent light placed awkwardly to the side of a central stairwell. 112 is three turns up the stairs, and 212 another four. It's a confusing, hellish sort've a setup. The floors are carpeted in a dingy taupe fluff, stained in sickening ways hard to explain but long since dry. Nothing about this building welcomes two women, especially not ones from a supernatural fanclub, or out to make a buck. Conveniently, it seems like our particular travellers have mutual motives otherwise, and nobody else is storming in to rescue Robert like a stampede. It's a good way up.
"Oh, I'm an investment broker, I'm here for a business meeting with him discussing a hot new business opportunity that he doesn't want to miss out on." Lanie explains to Shirley as she holds her hand out for a shake, "Lanie Weaver"
"Right." Shirley doesn't look that convinced that an investment broker would come to this place, alone and at night. Still, she gives Lanie's hand a quick shake as she glances toward the bowels of the dilapidated building. "Shirley. You won't mind if I come in with you? Maybe that's the business he asked me to help him with."
A dingy looking bum in a brown military coat with a broken zipper shuffles up in raggedy, rotten shoes, crumbs littering his beard. For a moment, he peers wordlessly between Lanie, Shirley, and the door, like he's considering making a break for it, but then he just shakes his head and moves on. Man, this really is the pits, eh? 312 is a long way up, but four flights of twisting staircases and a chubby nerd don't seem like that big a deal compared to this living miasma of dismay.
"That would be something-- I don't think he knows I'm here, but sure, I don't mind." Lanie agrees with Shirley, as she double up on that story, "Score? Our friend here deals?" she asks.
A sudden tumbling rumbles around from higher up in the building, barely audible. There's a screaming sound, male in nature, if a little less than outright masculine. Then the shattering echoes out. It sounded awful close to the intended destination...
Shirley gestures vaguely to the hooded crowd milling about. "If he doesn't, there's always someone. Anyway...", squinting at the stairs again. "Let's go in before the doors close? I don't want to stay here for too long.". After another up and down look over Lanie. "Nor should you. I feel their eyes on you, girl. Let's move.", she gives the door a push, stepping inside. "Um...", her hand slips back inside her coat, pulling out a handle of a small knife and speeds up, squinting in the flickering light.
"Lets uhh-- Yeah." In through the door Lanie goes, with everythng she needs on her person, from the phone in her hand to the knife she's kept in her pocket for the time. She looks the type to carry a sharp knife, she's just got one of those vibes. She doesn't seem to care about any eyes on her, she's radiates with the confidence of someone that might be an investment broker, who really knows.
Eeeerrkk. The door protests as Shirley presses as its surprisingly heavy weight, and right behind Lanie, it *clicks* shut. Then the deadbolt flips closed. That's *not* normal, at all. Maybe it's an automatic system, but it sure looks like the familiar patina of 20 year Home Depot imitation bronze. At least the homeless population isn't following them in, right?
Thunk. Thunk. Thunkthunkthunkthunk. That's a lot of steps, and they're *old* wood. Splintery, creaking, groaning... Oh no. Ulp. Lanie proves the unlucky one first, thanks mostly to those heels. It would be easy enough for her to save the effort, but there's a collapse in the termite-riddled board beneath her right foot as she goes to take a step.
For some reason, there's a louder crackle of wood, too. From 312. When the girls get halfway up their cardio venture, that single fluorescent flicker... just... dies. All that leaves is the faint haze of door-to-door lamps. It smells like cat piss in here. Must be the carpet.
Shirley mutters a curse under her breath, flicking her flashlight on. She points the beam of light at Lanie, then at the door. "You alright, there?", she asks, but her eyes are on 312.
"Should have worn sneakers I guess." Lanie admits to Shirley as she works her boot out of the stair(?) and continues on like she meant to do that. That knife handle is white knucked in her pocket as she approaches the door in question.
Lanie might be in heels, but she's *quick* and it seems like she's got the moves to make it happen. She might even give Shirley a *run* for her money despite the heels. Pun intended. 312 is faced with a doorbell and a grungy brass knob, placed between 314 and 311. 13 isn't even there. That's rather strange, isn't it? Just as they'd adjust to the lack of light, it flickers back on, allllll the way back in the top of the tower. At least that's something. A sound like heavy, half-drug bootsteps shuffles toward the door that they now stand in front of, so high up, and yet still so far from the top floor. This is their stop. Robert should be in there. This was the door on the Craigslist ad, at least. And the one Lanie knew of otherwise, too.
Shirley leans quickly against the wall, right next to the doorframe and turns her flashlight off. Looking up the stairs, color draining from her face. It's not Robert she's afraid of, that's plain to see. She looks back at Lanie, holding her breath.
Talk about suspense. It's just plain eerie up here. The source of that ammonia smell makes itself known, the uric culprit himself: an orange tabby, slap-rib skinny and staring at Shirley from a perch up the next flight of steps. There's a yawn, and he settles down. There's no food that he can see, so he doesn't have much interest in the partners in crime. He isn't very cute, anyway. Probably has fleas.
Lanie pays no mind to the feline demon, her eyes seeking the source of what frightens Shirley. This girl's built different, as she decides to yell up to the landing, "You comnig down here to talk to a couple of cute girls or what? We're cute enough, aren't we?" she asks that question and looks over to Shirley for confirmation on cuteness.
Shirley doesn't look all that cute, unless someone's into bruised, cut and recently broken-nosed girls. Her fingers wiggle, seeking reassurance from the handle of her knife. She presses a hand to the door, trying to determine if the steps are coming from behind it or somewhere else.
Crunch. A sound like a mason jar breaking echoes through the halls as Lanie yells a sort've a reverse cat-call into a door only three feet away, her back left to the railing in the effort. It's an uncomfortably cramped little spot for such a drop to be below it. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The doorknob by Shirley twists, and... that's not 312 that opened, is it? That's 313. Weird. A big bastard in a sad grey long-sleeve covered in textured squares is standing behind it. Maybe there was a typo. That's Robert. Bulbous nose, big belly, chicken legs, and circular spectacles. This guy rolled two critical fails on the hereditary lottery, but hey: this is the big leagues, right? Not many people die aware, after all. "H-h-hey, hey girls," Comes a shaky voice, deep, and un-fit for stuttering. That's really awkward. Not even like 'geeky', but 'man, that's a bad vibe'.
"Come, c-come in," Comes the huff of an overweight, below-average white male, Robert wiggling some sausage fingers Lanie's way as if to confirm that she's pretty enough without *actually* saying anything about it. He turns around to show off the slack of sweatpants following his loafers, and a closed door to what would presumably be a bathroom as he shuffles into an abode that doesn't... really look like his own. "I apologize for the mess! I had this place fixed up real *fast* after my, uhm... incident back in Haven. I'm sure you heard, right? I... I didn't do it." Shirley would know, but Lanie would only have seen the headlines, unless she's a particular sleuth for societal reports. Robert's been framed, quite convincingly, for murdering one of Haven's lovely female streetwalkers. That doesn't exactly explain why he's taking residence in a pastel-pink living cubicle, with a salt circle spread out on the floor about three people wide, and a single lamp to light the place up from an end table.
Okay, it seemed believable, until the pile of unwashed female clothing on the floor, in the corner, lazily piled up. That's just not where it's at. Red flags aren't anything special by now, but something says this one seems special. Skirts, tank tops, fuzzy socks... but where's the gal?
Lanie seems to be used to the weird vibe from Robert, as she seems to take the introduction in stride, "Hey, homes." she greets, thugging it out with the offer of a fistbump. This is her tribe, the weird, the real, the ugly degenerates from day to day, these are the people Lanie interacts with on the daily, so she seems quite comfortable with the situation, but that knife so close by doesn't hurt her confidence a bit, either.
Shirley slinks in, closely following Lanie inside this frogman's den. She quickly closes the door behind her and either bolts it or turns the key, whichever is available. "I know you didn't.", her voice is hoarse and breathy. Then she pauses, noticing the pile of clothing. She doesn't say a word as she heads straight toward it and gingerly picks up a shirt with her thumb and index finger, flashing her light against the cloth.
Hello kitty stickers on the Macintosh laptop at the tiny little roll-top desk in the corner, a futon for sleeping only half the fellow's size, in baby blue clash to the rest of the pastel palate, and white carpets. Clean white carpets, for the... most part. Both girls are pretty well perceptive, they have their wits about, and that means that they notice two things immediately. One, Shirley's shirt of choice was worn recently. Maybe even just yesterday. It's got the wrinkles of a lazy lifestyle and the lineup of The Clash on it, from back before they went ska. Additionally, Robert is... way too fatigued not to have been recently entertained somehow physically. He's trying to hide it, but his chest is heaving. He just put some work in.
More depth to inspection shows a little red line seeping out from beyond that cheap wooden slit door that the two girls passed in the foyer to the proper room of the apartment. A bathroom? It must be. Oh god. Oh... man. Maybe it's ketchup. Shirley just locked them in. "H-hah... hahahah. Really? You, you do?" Wonders out the lard-bellied otaku, a giggle slipping out. "Thanks, thanks a - it really means a whole lot. Hey, what were your names again?" A can of Morton's sea salt comes off the desk, and he starts pouring out lines into the circle. First a V shape... then a line through the middle... "You know what you're getting into, right?"
Shirley tosses the shirt back on the pile, wiping her hand against the hem of her coat. Pointing her sharp, black karambit in Rob's direction, she hisses out. "You, sit the fuck down or we'll cut your throat before he gets to you.". The corner of her lip twitches after a glance at the toilet door. "Your work or his?"
"Oh? Another person here? I wasn't sent here for a clean-up..." Lanie supposes to Robert or Shirley, as if considering her options here. She watches the dumpling of a man with his salt, "How about you explain it to is before I decide I am here for a clean up." she's short with Robert and hit right for the point.
Lanie said 'explain it to us' but words are hard, she might have stammered a little.
Shirley nods aside to Lanie, encouraged by the woman's apparent mutual feeling towards this lump of humanity. She strides over to the door, closes her eyes, sucks in a breath and gives it a push.
"Don't move a fucking muscle, Robert. That shouldn't be hard, it's not like you fucking have any muscle, you busted can of biscuits." Lanie insults someone while letting Shirley case the place to see what the situation is. Lanie herself stands directly in front of Robert with a sharp ass hunting knife in her right hand, and she seems to be ready to use it on command,
"Don't move a fucking muscle, Robert. That shouldn't be hard, it's not like you fucking have any muscle, you busted can of biscuits." Lanie insults Robert while letting Shirley case the place to see what the situation is. Lanie herself stands directly in front of Robert with a sharp ass hunting knife in her right hand, and she seems to be ready to use it on command,
"Wh-what?!" Cawls the scared man in Shirley's direction as everything escalates... so... so fast! His eyes shake, two beads of sweat run down his oily face in simult, and he does not, actually, sit down. Oh. That's what was weighing the front of his hoodie down. It's a little... cudgel. Like a blackjack. A feeble defense against two women armed with the sharp, jagged, and pointy- but it's something. It looks an awful lot like an old school police beater. "You, you! You're supposed to be here to *help* me! What the fuck do you MEAN?" Comes bitterly spat toward Shirley, with all-too-much actual bodily fluid involved in his blithering. "Clean... clean up? Wait, you. Actually are here to help? But, wait. The... alchemy! The fireworks! It's only just begun, and it's all come together! You won't... you won't fuck it up for me now, right?"
"He *made* me do it. It's the same damn thing. My life is over anyway. What the fuck do you have to take, bitch?"
Shirley's eyes widen slightly, something finally dawning on her, something very obvious from the start. "This was her place. Jesus fuck.", her slitted gaze flits over to Robert. "How long you've been squatting here?"
"I mean, it's definitely ... hers, but I don't know if we're thinking about the same one," Notes Robert, quite simply, failing in that endeavor not to move a muscle with an effort to scratch at one of the sweat lines on his face with the little bat. "Here? Just tonight. We have a ... thing to get to, don't we? What're you here for? Do you want me to sign paperwork? Do you want *money* or something? There's none here... but there's some out there."
Shirley says, snarling, and glancing at the other woman, "Not the alley girl's but..."
"Here to help!" Lanie mimicks Robert with a bob of her head at the man, "Quit your complaining, you sound like a little bitch that needs somebody so big, so strong to come rescue them," she mocks him full on, "Are you a damsel, Robert? Is that why you have all these crusty ass women's clothes, you trying to look the part?" she asks with much disgust in her tone and demeanor. She looks like she might spit in his face at any moment-- But then he mentions money. "What do you need done?" she immediately asks.
Shirley seems very unnerved now, pointing her knife between the pile of clothes and the blood under the bathroom door. "What's with the salt? What the fuck is he doing here? What are /you/ doing here, Lanie", she demands of Lanie now. Very on edge, she looks like she'd pounce on Robert with her knife if he lifts that cudgel even an inch.
"...My room is next door. Lanie, is that your name?" Suddenly, he's not really quavering at the voice. There's a chuckle, like a laugh, and he finishes up the pentagram. That's what he was drawing with the salt, after all, eyes going up to Shirley. "I have *hundreds* of books in that hovel. You can go look, if you want. You can have my KEY, for all that! But I think - the real key, is right here."
"Do you mind?" He asks in a reversal of Lanie's final question, a twitch in some vein his forehead holds the only response given to her taunts. A gesture goes to the bathroom. "Just give me a moment. I'll be right back. Then, we... sing a little song. And... and we all. We all go home better people. Right?"
What IS the mysterious Lanie doing here, that's the question of the hour that doesn't get answered by Lanie, none of Shirley's questions get answered by the woman, either. She curls her arm with her knife in her hand, ready to hurl it at anything that comes at her.
Shirley steps quickly between Rob and the bathroom door. "Drop that cudgel, asshole. Now. And stay put.", she points her knife toward the man, something in her eyes almost daring him to disobey. "He made you do it.", she nods, her bruised face glistening with cold sweat. "How many did he made you do? And for what in return?"
Apparently whatever's behind door 1/1 is more important than getting stabbed in the chub, because Robert's daring enough to try to breach a wrist past Shirley holding him at arms length in the attempt to open the wood screen door of his bathroom. Should he succeed, the sight of red doesn't get *less* noticeable. It smells... distinct. Like iron and... wet. A hard scent to explain nonetheless. Apparently it was just a ruse: the door opens inward, and Shirley wouldn't have any backing but a slippery floor if he succeeds.
He has about a head in size, and he's at least two of Shirley in width. There's a certain shadow to that. "You've had a hard time, lately... let's just keep it moving..." Moving. He's so obsessed with some... strange... purpose. A purpose vaguely related to Ozz. "I don't get anything but time. Sometimes a day. Sometimes two." That would suggest multiple, and yet, he suggests, "Just leave, if you really ... really want," It's like he's getting ready to hit her. Go figure.
Shirley attempts to grab Robert's hand and twist it to the side, knee jerking upwards, aiming for his crotch.
She doesn't get the wrist, and that door ends up flying wide. Behind it, a sink, a little bathtub, a toilet- and a blonde girl, face smashed through so thoroughly it's hard to make sense of where her teeth used to be. The eyes bulge. Blood, is... everywhere. It's sickening. The true, genuine worst. And then there's that knee. It slams right into his pelvis, and most would keel over, but he just grits his jaw and makes a noise akin to a dying mule. There's rage, in his eyes, and they're right on Shirley. Up comes his arm, and down would it go. There's a blunt force object coming for her skull despite his pain.
Shirley steps sideways, attempting to avoid the slam of the cudgel. In that moment, her eyes shift over to Lanie, wide and pleading.
Yeah right, Lanie isn't going to let Shirley get beat up by some limpwristed manchild, is she? Hell no, and those tight quarters in the bathroom become even smaller as she inhabits it with Shirley and Robert, her hunting knife drawn and ready to stab a blubbering little bitch. And Robert's looking like his thick little neck has Lanie's crosshairs on it. She takes a stab for it - there's no real aim, it's more of a strike and see where it lands kind of stab, like she's not too picky about the cut she leaves.
Shirley manages to get out of the way, but he's cajoling her into the small space of the bathroom without particular trouble, and the next sweep, sideways, will be much harder to avoid. Lanie could probably help, he's showing her his back. But... he doesn't even want to fight, after all. "You stand to benefit! From, from... helping me!"
Shirley gets smashed in the jaw about the same instance as Rob takes a knife to the shoulder mid-step, just near to his throat. Blood begins to geyser... everywhere. Particularly, in the direction of the salt circle. He wheezes out a surprised sound, like he'd forgotten Lanie. "But... why?" He takes no responsibility for the elephant in the room, even now. "Just... just..." What, help him? It's a bit late. That was an artery.
Shirley swivels on her feet, spitting out blood as she slams backwards against the filthy wall. Despite her injury, she holds up a hand, palm toward Lanie, shaking her head even as her other hand cups her mouth. She manages a mumble before flopping down, her face spattered with Rob's blood.
"I just wanted to hear you whine and cry one more time." Lanie remarks to Robert to answer his question of 'why?' "Do I have to give you a monologuing diatribe every time someone needs to get stabbed in the throat?" she asks him before lamenting, "I'm gonna havee to work on really expanding my vocabulary to pull that off..." Regarding that salt circle, she nudges the line of salt with her chunky boot, hoping to disperse it enough to render it useless, but then there's Shirley to contend with. "Oh shit, you okay? You need a towel?" She doesn't even have a towel, but they are in a bathroom.
"Fuck, that's good shit." Lanie murmurs to herself for some reason, as if she'd just consumed world class drugs.
Shirley gives her all to push herself up, blood dripping from her open mouth, her damp hair falling over her face. She looks like something that crawled out of a well as her shaky finger enters her mouth, feeling her teeth.
There's a grunt, savage at best, from the fat wad of a failed life, when Lanie goes back to mocking his pain. He still has... a moment, yet. Even assuming she pulled the knife back out of him, there's another thirty seconds before he goes black, and apparently he's of the mind a cornered dog might show. The baton gets launched in for Lanie, this time, but... she's probably got the upper hand. No, she does. Size gap damned.
Useless, though... is a variant affair. As it happens, it seems... more like Lanie shuffled some of the floor's growing substance puddle into the salt it was already slugging towards. The salt begins to shift and spin unnaturally, in the same moment as the house's lamp and the bathroom lights begin to flicker. On. Off. On. Off. Onoffonoffonoff... on... and... POP! Shattered glass everywhere.
Oh shit.
Well, accidental summonings happen all the time, right? Lanie has that 'oh shit' face plastered across her countentance at that very moment, and speaking of, she goes for Robert to either slam that knife deeper into his fat neck or free it for later use.
meanwhile Shirley crawls on all four toward the slumping slob, leaving bloody handprints over the floor. Her desperate eyes look through the messy curtain of her hair, at the soon to be corpse. at Lanie, then flenches at a shard of glass hits her cheekbone.
Shirley has so, so much to look at! The brain matter plugging the sink drain? The teeth mixed amongst the coagulant on the floor, cracked into the porcelain of similar stain and color? Or the broken mirror, shattered in the shape of the pretty girl's head? Well. Once-pretty. Lanie manages to lodge that thing so far into Robbie that he starts to wheeze all funny. Hah. Hahahh. Holy shit, she just pierced his lung from the top! If she lets him go, he's probably gonna stumble around until he drowns or leaks out, whichever first. Apparently he isn't particularly ... tenacious. He isn't gunning for her. He's just... confused. Sad. It failed. It all failed. But they didn't.
If there was a god? He'd be like... 'hey, check this out'
The salt swirls into a little cloud, like a tiny sandstorm, the flecks of blood mixed into it like an amalgam. Drop by drop, grain by grain. Then, like it's been magnetized to a fridge, it all SLAMS down inaudibly to the floor. What's left is a shape rather akin to a blood moon. It's a circle, a whole, filled, circle. A hand begins to reach out from within. A black hand, all shadow. Almost impossible to make out in the lack of light. Maybe Shirley's awake enough to operate a flash.
This isn't like the cartoons. There's no rabbit coming out of the hole in the floor.
Still in line with the theatrical, bone-chilling comedic display, that wrist grasping at the edge of the red spot in the floor pulls up a VERY long forearm, all boney, and all made up of an ethereal black mist, congealing and writhing in place like a trapped gas. It leads to a short little bicep, and a sharp slumped shoulder. Then comes a head, topped in spiky hair, of the same false dark matter. He has no face. He's not even real, he's... just smoke. The true uncanny valley. A wisp. He's going for Robert, who pales at the sight, beginning to slither and writhe on the floor towards the foyer door like something between a beached whale and a slithering snake. He screams. It's all he has left.
Perhaps he's more intimate with this beast than they.
Shirley gasps, her lips swollen and her jaw tilted to the side, the shape of the red circle making her stomach heave and eyes widen in panic. She touches around for her flashlight, dropped during the fight. Finding it, she flicks it on, its light dimmed by the cracked glass. She mouths something, but only a desperate croaking comes out.
"No manners, Robert. You didn't even introduce your friend." Lanie mocks the probably-dead-soon-Robert, "This is what you wanted our help with? And what's the benefit for us, Robert?"
Robert isn't in any state to be answering Lanie, if her words are even audible to him over the sound of him choking on his own blood. He skitters on his arse towards the door, but he just ends up splayed against it, ankles out, like a hung-over toddler. The 'spirit' even stops moving, just to look at Shirley. It bounces its feet, once, then opens its mouth. Like there's a 'ha' in there. Like silent laughter. Then it's stalking, dramatically and intensively, up to Robert's tubby toes. It's almost Wile-E-Coyote-esque. Then? Without any more adieu, the shadow snatches the cowering dimwit's ankle, which apparently bears no weight to the meta-physical. He starts walking back towards the hole like Robert's a sled, and just... jumps in.
The sounds of more screaming, manlier now, echo through the tiny house. Somebody's probably calling the cops, if they'll even come to the commons at this hour. It's best to get out.
The circle has to spread out a bit, to accomodate for Robert's size. It's sort've weird to see, but it 'snaps' back to the regular size when everyone's through the rabbithole. Is it... over?
The apartment itself is unsettling, sprinkled with clues of recent female occupancy amongst Robert's possessions. The place seems unfitting for someone claiming innocence. When Shirley and Lanie confront Robert with his suspicious activities, they are shocked by the discovery of a brutally murdered woman in his bathroom – her blood mixing with salt in an odd circle on the ground. Robert begs for their help with some unknown otherworldly task, hinting at dark forces at work.
The confrontation becomes violent when Robert tries to attack. Lanie fights back viciously, stabbing him and disrupting the mysterious salt circle accidentally. As the lights flicker and burst, a chilling entity emerges from the blood-soaked salt circle – a shape made of shadow, silencing Robert's pleas. The entity snatches Robert, dragging him through the supernatural portal as his blood mixes with the salt, concluding his tragic tale.
Shirley, injured in the scuffle, yet lucid enough to witness the horror, and Lanie, quick with her knife, are left in a place where the borders between worlds blur, urging them to flee before law enforcement arrives. The scene they leave behind is one of chaos – a testament to the cruelty of both human and unearthly natures. No explanations suffice to make sense of the grotesque events, and they are left with the knowledge that sometimes, the most terrible of stories are the ones that are never fully understood.
(Wooden Judas, Where Will You Go?(SROwen):SROwen)
[Sun Nov 19 2023]
On the dour, decrepit refuges of Boston Common
Shrouded in an almost tangible gloom, the park's sprawling expanse becomes a theater for the macabre. Moonlight, struggling through the dense canopy of ancient elms, casts a pallid, ghostly glow. Each tree, gnarled and imposing, watches over the land with eerie vigilance, their branches clawing at the sky in silent torment. The ground, blanketed in a layer of fog, seems to undulate subtly, as if breathing. This mist swirls around the feet of late-night wanderers, imbuing their steps with a sense of intrusion into a realm that is not wholly of this world.
The park's famed statues, proud during the day, now appear contorted, their features twisted in the moon?s deceitful light, as if lamenting long-forgotten tragedies. The whispering wind carries with it the faint echoes of historical whispers, a reminder of the countless souls who have traversed these grounds. The rustling leaves sound like hushed secrets, and the distant sound of the city's heartbeat does little to alleviate the sense of isolation. Here, in this spectral version of Boston Common, the line between the past and the present blurs, and one can't shake the feeling that they're being watched by unseen eyes, witnesses to centuries of silent stories etched into the very soil of this ancient place.
It is night, about 54F(12C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
Hey, Toto, we're not in Haven anymore, are we? Whether by car, path, or an exceptional foot, it's a dark sight before you now. The fall turn has changed the evening to something dark, and the sidewalks bustle with activity, but it's not a pretty view. Even Devilwood looks cheery, comparative to this setting... everything's old, but it's old enough to be falling apart. The park passes one by, looking sad even in the colorful rot of the multiple varieties of leaves, and there's the door. 1052, Old Way. It's an apartment building, some sort've a slum tenement. Windows are beaten out and boarded up in multiple variations. There's a buzzer next to it, which could only mean it's locked.
OOC: Enter as you will! No pressure to follow turn orders, I try to reply as I can where it seems most fitting, although that usually is pretty in-line.
Lanie somewhat randomly apppears in a dark alley nearby, but why she's chosen this location is anyone's guess. Maybe she's got a business meeting nearby. Who really knows with her.
Shirley emerges from behind one of the statues, her silhouette shrouded in fog. She doesn't seem too uncomfortable in the slums and only spares an occasional glance to the bums and junkies around the fire barrels. She still walks slowly and carefully, one hand hidden inside her coat, feeling something behind her belt. She pauses by the building, clicking her tongue and glances at the crumpled piece of paper with an adress writted on it.
Shirley cocks her head, noticing Lanie, who doesn't look like she's belongs to the beggar crowd.
It's frigid. That wind blows without real warning, and it blows right through bone as much as cloth. Transients huddle close in heaps, looking like few will make it through the whole of winter, but there's also a shadier melting pot of individuals on the streets making a scene of curious display as they move towards intended destinations. Odd enough is it that it's so busy at the hour, but even more peculiar is the *color* of what these people are wearing. From purple, to red, yellow, to gold- there's some of everything. It's like the Commons serve some sort've a central, unspoken purpose. A fair share of sketchy, discomforting hoods in grey sweatshirts fill in the gaps between businesses.
Whether by a List of Craig, a poster, a desperate chatroom referential, or even the Network 666, Shirley and Lanie arrive together in front of the same building somehow or another. How convenient.
Supposedly, Rich is up there on the third floor. 312, so says Shirley's note.
after a quick, wary, up and down glance at Lanie, Shirley approaches the buzzer. Tracing a finger over the grimy buttons, she presses the one labeled 312 and takes a step back, looking up at the boarded windows.
Lanie doesn't look like she belongs to the crowd there, and that's doubly so as she looks over the details of the building before Lanie and Shirley. "So, what's the objective, he owe you money? An ex that needs a kick in the cajones?" she asks as she tries to not be seen by the neighbors.
Shirley half-turns to Lanie. "Huh, who, Rob?", she slided her tongue over her teeth slowly, looking a little nervous after all. "I never met the guy, but I'm here to help him with some business. You? Here to score or something?"
Ironic as it might seem, considering the lack of visible cameras and the immediate response of the internal deadbolt, that door opens at Shirley's touch, just creaking open an inch or two. There's no knob, so maybe it's an inspired alternative. The sight beyond it is as grody as the general appearance of the trash-ridden commons, a single flickering fluorescent light placed awkwardly to the side of a central stairwell. 112 is three turns up the stairs, and 212 another four. It's a confusing, hellish sort've a setup. The floors are carpeted in a dingy taupe fluff, stained in sickening ways hard to explain but long since dry. Nothing about this building welcomes two women, especially not ones from a supernatural fanclub, or out to make a buck. Conveniently, it seems like our particular travellers have mutual motives otherwise, and nobody else is storming in to rescue Robert like a stampede. It's a good way up.
"Oh, I'm an investment broker, I'm here for a business meeting with him discussing a hot new business opportunity that he doesn't want to miss out on." Lanie explains to Shirley as she holds her hand out for a shake, "Lanie Weaver"
"Right." Shirley doesn't look that convinced that an investment broker would come to this place, alone and at night. Still, she gives Lanie's hand a quick shake as she glances toward the bowels of the dilapidated building. "Shirley. You won't mind if I come in with you? Maybe that's the business he asked me to help him with."
A dingy looking bum in a brown military coat with a broken zipper shuffles up in raggedy, rotten shoes, crumbs littering his beard. For a moment, he peers wordlessly between Lanie, Shirley, and the door, like he's considering making a break for it, but then he just shakes his head and moves on. Man, this really is the pits, eh? 312 is a long way up, but four flights of twisting staircases and a chubby nerd don't seem like that big a deal compared to this living miasma of dismay.
"That would be something-- I don't think he knows I'm here, but sure, I don't mind." Lanie agrees with Shirley, as she double up on that story, "Score? Our friend here deals?" she asks.
A sudden tumbling rumbles around from higher up in the building, barely audible. There's a screaming sound, male in nature, if a little less than outright masculine. Then the shattering echoes out. It sounded awful close to the intended destination...
Shirley gestures vaguely to the hooded crowd milling about. "If he doesn't, there's always someone. Anyway...", squinting at the stairs again. "Let's go in before the doors close? I don't want to stay here for too long.". After another up and down look over Lanie. "Nor should you. I feel their eyes on you, girl. Let's move.", she gives the door a push, stepping inside. "Um...", her hand slips back inside her coat, pulling out a handle of a small knife and speeds up, squinting in the flickering light.
"Lets uhh-- Yeah." In through the door Lanie goes, with everythng she needs on her person, from the phone in her hand to the knife she's kept in her pocket for the time. She looks the type to carry a sharp knife, she's just got one of those vibes. She doesn't seem to care about any eyes on her, she's radiates with the confidence of someone that might be an investment broker, who really knows.
Eeeerrkk. The door protests as Shirley presses as its surprisingly heavy weight, and right behind Lanie, it *clicks* shut. Then the deadbolt flips closed. That's *not* normal, at all. Maybe it's an automatic system, but it sure looks like the familiar patina of 20 year Home Depot imitation bronze. At least the homeless population isn't following them in, right?
Thunk. Thunk. Thunkthunkthunkthunk. That's a lot of steps, and they're *old* wood. Splintery, creaking, groaning... Oh no. Ulp. Lanie proves the unlucky one first, thanks mostly to those heels. It would be easy enough for her to save the effort, but there's a collapse in the termite-riddled board beneath her right foot as she goes to take a step.
For some reason, there's a louder crackle of wood, too. From 312. When the girls get halfway up their cardio venture, that single fluorescent flicker... just... dies. All that leaves is the faint haze of door-to-door lamps. It smells like cat piss in here. Must be the carpet.
Shirley mutters a curse under her breath, flicking her flashlight on. She points the beam of light at Lanie, then at the door. "You alright, there?", she asks, but her eyes are on 312.
"Should have worn sneakers I guess." Lanie admits to Shirley as she works her boot out of the stair(?) and continues on like she meant to do that. That knife handle is white knucked in her pocket as she approaches the door in question.
Lanie might be in heels, but she's *quick* and it seems like she's got the moves to make it happen. She might even give Shirley a *run* for her money despite the heels. Pun intended. 312 is faced with a doorbell and a grungy brass knob, placed between 314 and 311. 13 isn't even there. That's rather strange, isn't it? Just as they'd adjust to the lack of light, it flickers back on, allllll the way back in the top of the tower. At least that's something. A sound like heavy, half-drug bootsteps shuffles toward the door that they now stand in front of, so high up, and yet still so far from the top floor. This is their stop. Robert should be in there. This was the door on the Craigslist ad, at least. And the one Lanie knew of otherwise, too.
Shirley leans quickly against the wall, right next to the doorframe and turns her flashlight off. Looking up the stairs, color draining from her face. It's not Robert she's afraid of, that's plain to see. She looks back at Lanie, holding her breath.
Talk about suspense. It's just plain eerie up here. The source of that ammonia smell makes itself known, the uric culprit himself: an orange tabby, slap-rib skinny and staring at Shirley from a perch up the next flight of steps. There's a yawn, and he settles down. There's no food that he can see, so he doesn't have much interest in the partners in crime. He isn't very cute, anyway. Probably has fleas.
Lanie pays no mind to the feline demon, her eyes seeking the source of what frightens Shirley. This girl's built different, as she decides to yell up to the landing, "You comnig down here to talk to a couple of cute girls or what? We're cute enough, aren't we?" she asks that question and looks over to Shirley for confirmation on cuteness.
Shirley doesn't look all that cute, unless someone's into bruised, cut and recently broken-nosed girls. Her fingers wiggle, seeking reassurance from the handle of her knife. She presses a hand to the door, trying to determine if the steps are coming from behind it or somewhere else.
Crunch. A sound like a mason jar breaking echoes through the halls as Lanie yells a sort've a reverse cat-call into a door only three feet away, her back left to the railing in the effort. It's an uncomfortably cramped little spot for such a drop to be below it. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The doorknob by Shirley twists, and... that's not 312 that opened, is it? That's 313. Weird. A big bastard in a sad grey long-sleeve covered in textured squares is standing behind it. Maybe there was a typo. That's Robert. Bulbous nose, big belly, chicken legs, and circular spectacles. This guy rolled two critical fails on the hereditary lottery, but hey: this is the big leagues, right? Not many people die aware, after all. "H-h-hey, hey girls," Comes a shaky voice, deep, and un-fit for stuttering. That's really awkward. Not even like 'geeky', but 'man, that's a bad vibe'.
"Come, c-come in," Comes the huff of an overweight, below-average white male, Robert wiggling some sausage fingers Lanie's way as if to confirm that she's pretty enough without *actually* saying anything about it. He turns around to show off the slack of sweatpants following his loafers, and a closed door to what would presumably be a bathroom as he shuffles into an abode that doesn't... really look like his own. "I apologize for the mess! I had this place fixed up real *fast* after my, uhm... incident back in Haven. I'm sure you heard, right? I... I didn't do it." Shirley would know, but Lanie would only have seen the headlines, unless she's a particular sleuth for societal reports. Robert's been framed, quite convincingly, for murdering one of Haven's lovely female streetwalkers. That doesn't exactly explain why he's taking residence in a pastel-pink living cubicle, with a salt circle spread out on the floor about three people wide, and a single lamp to light the place up from an end table.
Okay, it seemed believable, until the pile of unwashed female clothing on the floor, in the corner, lazily piled up. That's just not where it's at. Red flags aren't anything special by now, but something says this one seems special. Skirts, tank tops, fuzzy socks... but where's the gal?
Lanie seems to be used to the weird vibe from Robert, as she seems to take the introduction in stride, "Hey, homes." she greets, thugging it out with the offer of a fistbump. This is her tribe, the weird, the real, the ugly degenerates from day to day, these are the people Lanie interacts with on the daily, so she seems quite comfortable with the situation, but that knife so close by doesn't hurt her confidence a bit, either.
Shirley slinks in, closely following Lanie inside this frogman's den. She quickly closes the door behind her and either bolts it or turns the key, whichever is available. "I know you didn't.", her voice is hoarse and breathy. Then she pauses, noticing the pile of clothing. She doesn't say a word as she heads straight toward it and gingerly picks up a shirt with her thumb and index finger, flashing her light against the cloth.
Hello kitty stickers on the Macintosh laptop at the tiny little roll-top desk in the corner, a futon for sleeping only half the fellow's size, in baby blue clash to the rest of the pastel palate, and white carpets. Clean white carpets, for the... most part. Both girls are pretty well perceptive, they have their wits about, and that means that they notice two things immediately. One, Shirley's shirt of choice was worn recently. Maybe even just yesterday. It's got the wrinkles of a lazy lifestyle and the lineup of The Clash on it, from back before they went ska. Additionally, Robert is... way too fatigued not to have been recently entertained somehow physically. He's trying to hide it, but his chest is heaving. He just put some work in.
More depth to inspection shows a little red line seeping out from beyond that cheap wooden slit door that the two girls passed in the foyer to the proper room of the apartment. A bathroom? It must be. Oh god. Oh... man. Maybe it's ketchup. Shirley just locked them in. "H-hah... hahahah. Really? You, you do?" Wonders out the lard-bellied otaku, a giggle slipping out. "Thanks, thanks a - it really means a whole lot. Hey, what were your names again?" A can of Morton's sea salt comes off the desk, and he starts pouring out lines into the circle. First a V shape... then a line through the middle... "You know what you're getting into, right?"
Shirley tosses the shirt back on the pile, wiping her hand against the hem of her coat. Pointing her sharp, black karambit in Rob's direction, she hisses out. "You, sit the fuck down or we'll cut your throat before he gets to you.". The corner of her lip twitches after a glance at the toilet door. "Your work or his?"
"Oh? Another person here? I wasn't sent here for a clean-up..." Lanie supposes to Robert or Shirley, as if considering her options here. She watches the dumpling of a man with his salt, "How about you explain it to is before I decide I am here for a clean up." she's short with Robert and hit right for the point.
Lanie said 'explain it to us' but words are hard, she might have stammered a little.
Shirley nods aside to Lanie, encouraged by the woman's apparent mutual feeling towards this lump of humanity. She strides over to the door, closes her eyes, sucks in a breath and gives it a push.
"Don't move a fucking muscle, Robert. That shouldn't be hard, it's not like you fucking have any muscle, you busted can of biscuits." Lanie insults someone while letting Shirley case the place to see what the situation is. Lanie herself stands directly in front of Robert with a sharp ass hunting knife in her right hand, and she seems to be ready to use it on command,
"Don't move a fucking muscle, Robert. That shouldn't be hard, it's not like you fucking have any muscle, you busted can of biscuits." Lanie insults Robert while letting Shirley case the place to see what the situation is. Lanie herself stands directly in front of Robert with a sharp ass hunting knife in her right hand, and she seems to be ready to use it on command,
"Wh-what?!" Cawls the scared man in Shirley's direction as everything escalates... so... so fast! His eyes shake, two beads of sweat run down his oily face in simult, and he does not, actually, sit down. Oh. That's what was weighing the front of his hoodie down. It's a little... cudgel. Like a blackjack. A feeble defense against two women armed with the sharp, jagged, and pointy- but it's something. It looks an awful lot like an old school police beater. "You, you! You're supposed to be here to *help* me! What the fuck do you MEAN?" Comes bitterly spat toward Shirley, with all-too-much actual bodily fluid involved in his blithering. "Clean... clean up? Wait, you. Actually are here to help? But, wait. The... alchemy! The fireworks! It's only just begun, and it's all come together! You won't... you won't fuck it up for me now, right?"
"He *made* me do it. It's the same damn thing. My life is over anyway. What the fuck do you have to take, bitch?"
Shirley's eyes widen slightly, something finally dawning on her, something very obvious from the start. "This was her place. Jesus fuck.", her slitted gaze flits over to Robert. "How long you've been squatting here?"
"I mean, it's definitely ... hers, but I don't know if we're thinking about the same one," Notes Robert, quite simply, failing in that endeavor not to move a muscle with an effort to scratch at one of the sweat lines on his face with the little bat. "Here? Just tonight. We have a ... thing to get to, don't we? What're you here for? Do you want me to sign paperwork? Do you want *money* or something? There's none here... but there's some out there."
Shirley says, snarling, and glancing at the other woman, "Not the alley girl's but..."
"Here to help!" Lanie mimicks Robert with a bob of her head at the man, "Quit your complaining, you sound like a little bitch that needs somebody so big, so strong to come rescue them," she mocks him full on, "Are you a damsel, Robert? Is that why you have all these crusty ass women's clothes, you trying to look the part?" she asks with much disgust in her tone and demeanor. She looks like she might spit in his face at any moment-- But then he mentions money. "What do you need done?" she immediately asks.
Shirley seems very unnerved now, pointing her knife between the pile of clothes and the blood under the bathroom door. "What's with the salt? What the fuck is he doing here? What are /you/ doing here, Lanie", she demands of Lanie now. Very on edge, she looks like she'd pounce on Robert with her knife if he lifts that cudgel even an inch.
"...My room is next door. Lanie, is that your name?" Suddenly, he's not really quavering at the voice. There's a chuckle, like a laugh, and he finishes up the pentagram. That's what he was drawing with the salt, after all, eyes going up to Shirley. "I have *hundreds* of books in that hovel. You can go look, if you want. You can have my KEY, for all that! But I think - the real key, is right here."
"Do you mind?" He asks in a reversal of Lanie's final question, a twitch in some vein his forehead holds the only response given to her taunts. A gesture goes to the bathroom. "Just give me a moment. I'll be right back. Then, we... sing a little song. And... and we all. We all go home better people. Right?"
What IS the mysterious Lanie doing here, that's the question of the hour that doesn't get answered by Lanie, none of Shirley's questions get answered by the woman, either. She curls her arm with her knife in her hand, ready to hurl it at anything that comes at her.
Shirley steps quickly between Rob and the bathroom door. "Drop that cudgel, asshole. Now. And stay put.", she points her knife toward the man, something in her eyes almost daring him to disobey. "He made you do it.", she nods, her bruised face glistening with cold sweat. "How many did he made you do? And for what in return?"
Apparently whatever's behind door 1/1 is more important than getting stabbed in the chub, because Robert's daring enough to try to breach a wrist past Shirley holding him at arms length in the attempt to open the wood screen door of his bathroom. Should he succeed, the sight of red doesn't get *less* noticeable. It smells... distinct. Like iron and... wet. A hard scent to explain nonetheless. Apparently it was just a ruse: the door opens inward, and Shirley wouldn't have any backing but a slippery floor if he succeeds.
He has about a head in size, and he's at least two of Shirley in width. There's a certain shadow to that. "You've had a hard time, lately... let's just keep it moving..." Moving. He's so obsessed with some... strange... purpose. A purpose vaguely related to Ozz. "I don't get anything but time. Sometimes a day. Sometimes two." That would suggest multiple, and yet, he suggests, "Just leave, if you really ... really want," It's like he's getting ready to hit her. Go figure.
Shirley attempts to grab Robert's hand and twist it to the side, knee jerking upwards, aiming for his crotch.
She doesn't get the wrist, and that door ends up flying wide. Behind it, a sink, a little bathtub, a toilet- and a blonde girl, face smashed through so thoroughly it's hard to make sense of where her teeth used to be. The eyes bulge. Blood, is... everywhere. It's sickening. The true, genuine worst. And then there's that knee. It slams right into his pelvis, and most would keel over, but he just grits his jaw and makes a noise akin to a dying mule. There's rage, in his eyes, and they're right on Shirley. Up comes his arm, and down would it go. There's a blunt force object coming for her skull despite his pain.
Shirley steps sideways, attempting to avoid the slam of the cudgel. In that moment, her eyes shift over to Lanie, wide and pleading.
Yeah right, Lanie isn't going to let Shirley get beat up by some limpwristed manchild, is she? Hell no, and those tight quarters in the bathroom become even smaller as she inhabits it with Shirley and Robert, her hunting knife drawn and ready to stab a blubbering little bitch. And Robert's looking like his thick little neck has Lanie's crosshairs on it. She takes a stab for it - there's no real aim, it's more of a strike and see where it lands kind of stab, like she's not too picky about the cut she leaves.
Shirley manages to get out of the way, but he's cajoling her into the small space of the bathroom without particular trouble, and the next sweep, sideways, will be much harder to avoid. Lanie could probably help, he's showing her his back. But... he doesn't even want to fight, after all. "You stand to benefit! From, from... helping me!"
Shirley gets smashed in the jaw about the same instance as Rob takes a knife to the shoulder mid-step, just near to his throat. Blood begins to geyser... everywhere. Particularly, in the direction of the salt circle. He wheezes out a surprised sound, like he'd forgotten Lanie. "But... why?" He takes no responsibility for the elephant in the room, even now. "Just... just..." What, help him? It's a bit late. That was an artery.
Shirley swivels on her feet, spitting out blood as she slams backwards against the filthy wall. Despite her injury, she holds up a hand, palm toward Lanie, shaking her head even as her other hand cups her mouth. She manages a mumble before flopping down, her face spattered with Rob's blood.
"I just wanted to hear you whine and cry one more time." Lanie remarks to Robert to answer his question of 'why?' "Do I have to give you a monologuing diatribe every time someone needs to get stabbed in the throat?" she asks him before lamenting, "I'm gonna havee to work on really expanding my vocabulary to pull that off..." Regarding that salt circle, she nudges the line of salt with her chunky boot, hoping to disperse it enough to render it useless, but then there's Shirley to contend with. "Oh shit, you okay? You need a towel?" She doesn't even have a towel, but they are in a bathroom.
"Fuck, that's good shit." Lanie murmurs to herself for some reason, as if she'd just consumed world class drugs.
Shirley gives her all to push herself up, blood dripping from her open mouth, her damp hair falling over her face. She looks like something that crawled out of a well as her shaky finger enters her mouth, feeling her teeth.
There's a grunt, savage at best, from the fat wad of a failed life, when Lanie goes back to mocking his pain. He still has... a moment, yet. Even assuming she pulled the knife back out of him, there's another thirty seconds before he goes black, and apparently he's of the mind a cornered dog might show. The baton gets launched in for Lanie, this time, but... she's probably got the upper hand. No, she does. Size gap damned.
Useless, though... is a variant affair. As it happens, it seems... more like Lanie shuffled some of the floor's growing substance puddle into the salt it was already slugging towards. The salt begins to shift and spin unnaturally, in the same moment as the house's lamp and the bathroom lights begin to flicker. On. Off. On. Off. Onoffonoffonoff... on... and... POP! Shattered glass everywhere.
Oh shit.
Well, accidental summonings happen all the time, right? Lanie has that 'oh shit' face plastered across her countentance at that very moment, and speaking of, she goes for Robert to either slam that knife deeper into his fat neck or free it for later use.
meanwhile Shirley crawls on all four toward the slumping slob, leaving bloody handprints over the floor. Her desperate eyes look through the messy curtain of her hair, at the soon to be corpse. at Lanie, then flenches at a shard of glass hits her cheekbone.
Shirley has so, so much to look at! The brain matter plugging the sink drain? The teeth mixed amongst the coagulant on the floor, cracked into the porcelain of similar stain and color? Or the broken mirror, shattered in the shape of the pretty girl's head? Well. Once-pretty. Lanie manages to lodge that thing so far into Robbie that he starts to wheeze all funny. Hah. Hahahh. Holy shit, she just pierced his lung from the top! If she lets him go, he's probably gonna stumble around until he drowns or leaks out, whichever first. Apparently he isn't particularly ... tenacious. He isn't gunning for her. He's just... confused. Sad. It failed. It all failed. But they didn't.
If there was a god? He'd be like... 'hey, check this out'
The salt swirls into a little cloud, like a tiny sandstorm, the flecks of blood mixed into it like an amalgam. Drop by drop, grain by grain. Then, like it's been magnetized to a fridge, it all SLAMS down inaudibly to the floor. What's left is a shape rather akin to a blood moon. It's a circle, a whole, filled, circle. A hand begins to reach out from within. A black hand, all shadow. Almost impossible to make out in the lack of light. Maybe Shirley's awake enough to operate a flash.
This isn't like the cartoons. There's no rabbit coming out of the hole in the floor.
Still in line with the theatrical, bone-chilling comedic display, that wrist grasping at the edge of the red spot in the floor pulls up a VERY long forearm, all boney, and all made up of an ethereal black mist, congealing and writhing in place like a trapped gas. It leads to a short little bicep, and a sharp slumped shoulder. Then comes a head, topped in spiky hair, of the same false dark matter. He has no face. He's not even real, he's... just smoke. The true uncanny valley. A wisp. He's going for Robert, who pales at the sight, beginning to slither and writhe on the floor towards the foyer door like something between a beached whale and a slithering snake. He screams. It's all he has left.
Perhaps he's more intimate with this beast than they.
Shirley gasps, her lips swollen and her jaw tilted to the side, the shape of the red circle making her stomach heave and eyes widen in panic. She touches around for her flashlight, dropped during the fight. Finding it, she flicks it on, its light dimmed by the cracked glass. She mouths something, but only a desperate croaking comes out.
"No manners, Robert. You didn't even introduce your friend." Lanie mocks the probably-dead-soon-Robert, "This is what you wanted our help with? And what's the benefit for us, Robert?"
Robert isn't in any state to be answering Lanie, if her words are even audible to him over the sound of him choking on his own blood. He skitters on his arse towards the door, but he just ends up splayed against it, ankles out, like a hung-over toddler. The 'spirit' even stops moving, just to look at Shirley. It bounces its feet, once, then opens its mouth. Like there's a 'ha' in there. Like silent laughter. Then it's stalking, dramatically and intensively, up to Robert's tubby toes. It's almost Wile-E-Coyote-esque. Then? Without any more adieu, the shadow snatches the cowering dimwit's ankle, which apparently bears no weight to the meta-physical. He starts walking back towards the hole like Robert's a sled, and just... jumps in.
The sounds of more screaming, manlier now, echo through the tiny house. Somebody's probably calling the cops, if they'll even come to the commons at this hour. It's best to get out.
The circle has to spread out a bit, to accomodate for Robert's size. It's sort've weird to see, but it 'snaps' back to the regular size when everyone's through the rabbithole. Is it... over?