OOC
Part 1: The Harvest Season
”Her name was Sarah Rose Marcus
And they found her rotten carcass
Behind the wallpaper
With parents that hate her
Who stuffed her into the bleak darkness.” - Anonymous
”O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.” - Walt Whitman
It was a quiet night, one full of vile mischief. The town of Plymouth slumbered, while devils pranced under the black sky above, giggling and laughing at the anguish of this night, oh this quiet night. The people, ignorant, laid in their cozy homes. Some of them slept, some of them bickered, some of them laughed, some of them drank, and some of them sat in thought. But all of them were oblivious to what lay outside their boundaries, what was waiting from them with eager contempt, a beast of men. The prancing devils chortled and guffawed in the dead of night, while villains carried out misdeeds. All under Him. All for Him. Him.
What was He? Nobody was certain; other than it was Him. And they loved Him. They adored Him. The devils loved Him, the Him that provided them with their entertainment in the silence of the night, the Him that gave them the nourishment of bloodlust they so needed. And those who loved Him were active tonight, and this was why the devils were prancing and singing and holding hands and laughing and drinking and partying. Because it was Him who fed them, and it was Him who birthed them.
This was the reason they loved Him.
Part 1: The Harvest Season
”Her name was Sarah Rose Marcus
And they found her rotten carcass
Behind the wallpaper
With parents that hate her
Who stuffed her into the bleak darkness.” - Anonymous
”O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.” - Walt Whitman
It was a quiet night, one full of vile mischief. The town of Plymouth slumbered, while devils pranced under the black sky above, giggling and laughing at the anguish of this night, oh this quiet night. The people, ignorant, laid in their cozy homes. Some of them slept, some of them bickered, some of them laughed, some of them drank, and some of them sat in thought. But all of them were oblivious to what lay outside their boundaries, what was waiting from them with eager contempt, a beast of men. The prancing devils chortled and guffawed in the dead of night, while villains carried out misdeeds. All under Him. All for Him. Him.
What was He? Nobody was certain; other than it was Him. And they loved Him. They adored Him. The devils loved Him, the Him that provided them with their entertainment in the silence of the night, the Him that gave them the nourishment of bloodlust they so needed. And those who loved Him were active tonight, and this was why the devils were prancing and singing and holding hands and laughing and drinking and partying. Because it was Him who fed them, and it was Him who birthed them.
This was the reason they loved Him.
Chapter 1 - At the Break of Dawn
They had found the body in the wee hours of the morning. Eddie Tucker and his boyfriend Josh Doris stood by at close attention, said founders shivering in the Massachusetts morning. It was the 28th of September, 2016, and the body was sprawled out over a blanket of yellow polyester, or what was once the body recovery system used to recover the bloated cadaver. The Massachusetts State SCUBA team had pulled the body out of the water maybe fifteen minutes ago, and they were off to the side fiddling with their masks and tanks and giant flippers covering their feet. The body of the John Doe sat staring up into the dawning sky; rather, it would be if it had eyes.
The gray skin of the man (made obvious by the parts flopping between its legs) gleamed in the rising sun, patches of flesh gone from his body in randomly picked spots. A lot of his belly was gone, revealing bone and organs liquefying on the inside. One of the divers mentioned seeing a fish swim out of the gore, making his own stomach go topsy turvy. The man’s eyes had been picked out by sea life, fingers snipped and chewed upon by crabs. His toes were almost entirely gone, chewed on by some fish now roaming the sea with their bellies filled.
His ears were chomped off too, and there was quite the dent in the back of his head. Most of his lips and cheeks were gone, and his rotten teeth protruded from the gashes. The man was around fifty pounds overweight. He was middle aged, maybe 40 or 50, and he had no hair. Whether this was from prolonged decomposition or the man being balding was uncertain. One thing that was certain was that the man’s face was entirely unrecognizable. And one more thing about his mouth; his tongue had been separated by something a long time ago. Not a fish’s lips, nor a lobster’s pincers, but rather something had cut his tongue out.
The man was entirely naked, save for a wet and ragged pair of socks stuck to his feet, the toes of the socks missing respectively with the toes of the wearer. The crime scene photographers were just finishing up, fishing over the photos they had grabbed on the corpse sitting on the beach. Thus left the detectives. It was likely the two lovebirds would require some counseling… but not before a few questions. A few locals looked over the barricade and police tape, some of the officers on the scene ushering them away. One of them had been let through, however. An older man with gray hair and a Brixton snap cap stood, looking around with impatience. He looked at the detectives, eyes inviting at least one of them towards him.
***
Cecil S. Lyle stood at the bottom of the lighthouse, feet resting on the rocking boat that was docked to the Duxbury Pier Light. He had taken the detectives out on his Boston Whaler, a boat he had cherished ever since he bought it about four years back. He had saved up a shit ton of money for the lass; and sometimes, when in his darkest moments, he had brief consideration of having sex with his boat. Only in his darkest moments, however. In his lightest ones, he would buy it a drink before he fucked it.
He scratched at his greasy, unwashed beard down below. Old Cecil had a near heart attack when he walked through the lighthouse. He had noticed a slippery trail swerving and careening around the living quarters and watchroom, both of which hung over the water cistern below. He paid no attention to anything the detectives might find useful; he was too dim and too unaware to follow anything but this trail. It reach it’s natural ending point in the lantern room, where he found the dead body.
A naked woman, propped over the railing of the lantern room as if she were admiring the view. She would admire no more views however; as evident by the smell, the gray skin, and the flies buzzing about her, the woman was dead. Her ankles and wrists were bound, and strangely all of her hair was gone. Rather, it had been replaced by rolls of gauze after rolls of gauze, covering her entire head and face up entirely. She seemed otherwise perfectly content with staying in her fixed position for the rest of eternity.
***
“Oh gosh, I hope Ms. Speece is alright, oh wow.” Martha Speece’s landlord whimpered as he fumbled with the keys in her doorknob. He was a small man; frail, short, and pale. His hair was plain brown and his teeth were plain white. His hands shook, still not working quite right after his bout with adrenaline and his lack of coffee that morning. He had been awoken with a start by the police, who had since informed him of two figures seen rummaging in Martha’s rental home. Martin Davis, that was the landlord’s name, had immediately shook and acted apologetic for this. He spoke of Speece, repeating that he hoped she was okay with an anxious aura.
Finally, he unlocked the door, and it gave way to a multitude of objects.
The hallway was filled to the brim with dressers and cardboard boxes. Teddy bears with button eyes and glass dolls with frilly dresses glared at the doorway. It was almost impossible to get through to the living room, where a sickening stench was made apparent. Martin gagged. He took a hand and rested on a oak dressed, taking a moment to regain himself. He threw his shirt up over his mouth, glancing down.
In the living room, a similar state of clutter had been made. More boxes and bottles and pinwheels and model cars and assorted garbage thrown about. The couch was covered in scrapbooks and jewelry. The drawers of some of the dressers had been left open; some empty, some full of earrings and golden Rolex watches. There were several closed doors leading out of the living room and out of the hallway as well, plain white and unchanged since Speece had moved in. The wallpaper in the living room and hallway were the same shabby chic damask wallpaper. The living room was dimly lit by a single lamp, still turned on.
On the walls were family photos. Some of young infants in wooden frames, some of black and white bald men with big noses and round glasses. Some of the photos of young teenagers, and some of young adults, were turned upside down. In fact, even some of the black and white photos of frail old women were upside down. Why, it was seemingly random in the choice of which ones to turn right side up.
Martin noted the three rooms from the living room; the first one being to the master bedroom, the second to the first guest room, and the third leading into the kitchen. Nearing the kitchen door, Martin noticed the smell only grew stronger. He backed away from it, legs quaking in fear. He noted the two rooms in the hallway as leading into the second guest room and the bathroom. The intruders could be hiding out there, if they hadn’t skedaddled already.
***
Sitting in front of Chiltonville Congregational Church was Katherine “Kate” Sparks’ used 2011 Acura, painted red and shining in the morning sun. It was dusty, as she hadn’t quite washed it in a while. It sat abandoned in a ditch, where a patrol car had stumbled across it early in the morn. Every door to the inside was open, left that way from when the patrolman had found it. He had shone a light inside, finding absolutely no sign of a person.
The trunk was open too; inside there was nothing noticeable. The road was due for an investigation as well, as some officers seemed to be crowding around one spot by the asphalt. Another thing to notice was that the car’s fender had a huge dent in it; whether this was recent or from some past fender bender remained up for debate. All that anyone knew was that Kate Sparks was missing. And so were all of her things.
