<Storyteller> The last thing Cian remembers is a concert and he feels worse than hungover, like… someone spiked the shit out of his beer hungover. The room he is in is dark and it smells of sawdust and pee.
<Cian> groans and grabs the sides of his head. “That is the last time I sneak into a fucking concert. This year.” It had taken a lot of work to get in, stealing clothes, sneaking into the Y to take a shower. He may be homeless but that shouldn’t mean he didn’t get to have fun. “So…where the fuck am I and what the shit happened.” Slowly, he stands, trying to stay stead on legs that
are still wobbly and a with a head that feels like its full of alcohol soaked cotton.
<Storyteller> There is a disturbing giggling coming from the dark, like that of a little girl, and it send chills straight down his spine. Whispering ensues as well, not making him feel any better, he can’t quite make out the words with his ears ringing but his gut tells him it’s not friendly.
<Cian> drops into a fighting stance, or tries to at least. His legs still aren’t quite cooperating, even with the adrenaline that begins to pump through him. “Oh fuck no. We are not doing this American Horror Story crazy cult bullshit. If you’re gonna kill me turn on the goddamn lights and come at me. I am not in the mood for this creepy killer vibe.” He really hopes the anger masks
the fear rising in his throat. He’d heard rumors of other homeless kids disappearing lately, more so than usual anyways. The running theory among the other urchins was a group of bored rich snobs had started a torture porn group. He had thought they were full of shit and had too much time and not enough brains, but now maybe he’d turn out to be wrong, in the worst possible way.
<Storyteller> The lights flicker on and reveal a bare room in what looks like… a log cabin maybe judging by the walls. There is no light switch in the room, had to have been done from outside. There is sawdust on the dirt floor, along with what looks like some areas of caked blood. On the door is a note.
<Cian> takes a few tentative steps forward, slowly regaining his balance and shaking the fog out of his head as the lights flicker on. “Ah shit. The dark might have been better. Swear to fuck if I hear a banjo I’ll just kill myself.” Cian forces a chuckle at his own joke and approaches the door. He glances around in the hope of an escape, but none presents itself. He sighs and takes
the note from the door.
<Storyteller> “You seem pretty tough, this should be fun. There are three of us. We are not using firearms, but you might find some between here and your escape if you try. All you have to do is make it back to town and we’ll leave you be. If we catch you, we’re gonna eat you and our friend is gonna make a doll from your skin and hair. Good luck and no hard feelings.” – It was
written in some fluffy caligraphy, hard to make out at first.
<Cian> reads the note several times just to ensure he isn’t missing something. “Fuuuuuuck me. What in the fuck assing fuck did I get myself into. This is some horror movie psycho shit.” He sighs and folds the note, sticking it in his pocket. When this was all over and he was telling this story, he was going to need some sort of proof. Or when they found his corpse. Either way. Cian
braces himself and opens the door.
<Storyteller> It is sticky and humid outside, and early in the evening. The cloud cover makes the woods that the cabin is in extremely dark. He can make out a trail leading from the house down into the woods…
<Cian> shakes his head. Everything in him screams to go running down the path as fast as he can, to get away from this cabin and the gang of psychos hunting him. He can feel the blood pounding in his ears. He takes several slow breaths to try and center himself. The path is obvious, too obvious. If they are planning on ambushing him that is the place that makes the most sense for them
to be waiting. Then again, if they weren’t lying about those weapons, it was also probably the most likely place for them, not to mention that with how dark it was becoming, there was a good chance of him getting lost. “But, being lost and alive is better than heading the right direction and dying.” He takes off into the woods, doing his best to keep the path about 20 or thirty feet off
to his right.
<Storyteller> He makes it some distance before he starts to feel an overwhelming sense of dread. As if his next step could be his last. It’s as if the air dropped twenty degrees, and the shadows take on a life of their own ahewad of him.
<Cian> freezes in place and drops into a crouch. His heart is like thunder in his ears and his breathing sounds like gale force winds. He swallows and does his best to slow his breathing. His eyes are wide with fear as he watches the shadows ahead of him dance about in ways that natural light could never cause. “What in the actual fuck!” he mutters and immediately grimaces at the
sound. Thinking it best to avoid whatever Lovecraftian hell is taking place in front of him, Cian creeps off to the right, back towards the path.
<Storyteller> A sharp giggle catches his attention after he makes it as far as the path, he can see that the gravel looks disturbed there, like something was recently buried.
<Cian> stops in his tracks at the giggling sound. Of everything about this whole messed up situation, that was creeping him out the most. He shook his head and, hoping it wasn’t some sort of trap, began digging at the disturbed ground.
<Storyteller> There is a gun in a buried shoebox, fully loaded. The giggling increases, and then goes frighteningly silent.
<Cian> breathes a sigh of relief when his digging reveals a revolver, and not a landmine or bear trap. It takes him a couple moment to figure out how to release the chamber, but he finds it fully loaded once he does. Just in case, he removes one of the rounds to ensure that they aren’t blanks then immediately rechambers the rounds and cocks the hammer as the woods grow eerily quiet.
He strains his eyes and ears at his surroundings, keeping the pistol up and ready to fire.
<Storyteller> It is so quiet all he can hear is his own breathing and heartbeat. No forest sounds, nothing.
<Cian> takes a few steps backwards, scanning the woods. It is far too quiet, something is definitely wrong. No bugs, no birds, no squirrels? Even with a group of people out hunting him he’d still expect to hear the usual background noise. There is something seriously off about this entire situation. “Standing around here isn’t going to accomplish anything. Move your ass Cian.” He
starts off down the path, staying closes to the treeline and even cutting through the brush from time to time. With any luck he might throw off his pursuers, but he feels its a bit much to hope for. He does his best to move quietly, even when he isn’t on the trail, not only to perhaps excape their notice, but also to make it easier to hear if they begin closing in.
<Storyteller> Up ahead in the path he sees a girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen in a pretty victorian-style dress. She has blonde curls hanging down past her shoulders, a violin in one hand, and a scar on her face on the left side that looks like she should have lost the eye there but it seems fine. In fact, quite fine as she stares at Cian.
<Cian> levels his gun at the girl and takes aim. “OH. HELL. NO. Could this whole thing be any more of a horror movie? Who the fuck are you people? You’ve got three seconds to answer and then I’m putting one right through your chest.” He keeps his aim dead center on the girl’s chest, finger on the trigger and pulling slowly in. In truth, he only hasn’t fired on the off chance that she
is another victim of this game, and if the first thing she does isn’t to beg for help he won’t hesitate to shoot.
<Storyteller> She smiles at him, waiting and just watching him. There comes a giggle from behind him on the path and a soft shuffle of gravel.
<Cian> is startled by the noise behind him and fires, more out of suprise than anything else, then spins around without bothering to see if his shot lands. He keeps the gun pointed in front of him and immediately looks for a new target.
<Storyteller> The first girl scoffs as she is shot and the bullet just drops onto the gravel. She picks the violin up to her shoulder and begind to play a funeral dirge. As he spins around there is a second girl in the path behind him. A pale little thing, maybe nine years old with stringy dark hair and a doll in her arms that looks like it has leathery skin and bright blonde
<Cian> fires again, for a moment not registering what the violin music actually means. After the echoes of the shots have faded away and the music still plays it dawns on him that the other girl must still be standing. “What in the actual fuck is going on he…!” His voice cracks and eyes go wide as the girl he just shot is not only still standing, but is pissed. Pissed in a feral,
primal way that he has only ever seen in rabid animals.
<Storyteller> The playing stops abruptly. “Sara!”, the other girl’s voice picks up from behind him. “Don’t do it, little sister. Lets… take our time with him instead.” She somehow manages to move so fast he didn’t hear her move and she is at his side, he can see this close up that she has one green eye and one blue. She’s also dropped the violin in favor of a pair of small
knives. Oddly, despite she feral growls coming from the insanely creepy girl with the doll, she doesn’t move forward on him just yet.
<Cian> shakes his head and takes a step back. He keeps the gun pointed at the feral child but turns his head to the other girl. “What the shit are you two? Because clearly ‘human’ is not the answer.” His voice is more level than he expected, curiousity is keeping some, though nowhere near all, of his fear at bay.
<Cian> glances back for a brief moment at where the girl had been standing just a brief moment ago and shakes his head. He has no idea how she moved so fast, but if she’s capable of that, as well as shrugging off bullets, he knows he has no chance here. The best he can hope for is to maybe get a half assed explanation of what is about to kill him, and to make them work for his death.
<Storyteller> The feral girl’s wounds start to seal up before his eyes as she growls and takes just a half a step forward, holding that little doll ever closer. The girl in the victorian getup grins at him, revealing a set of sharp fangs. “Three. There’s three of us, remember?”
<Cian> frowns at her for a moment before his eyes go wide “Oh FUCK!” he points the gun at her chest and prepares to fire, knowing it likely won’t do any good, but refusing to go down without a fight.
<Storyteller> The girl seems to move faster than the gun can fire, leaving him missing completely as she passes by him. Pain in his shoulders gets his attention and reveals the third one of them, it feels like knives going into his arms before he realizes they are claws holding someone small and light on his back, growling against the back of his neck.
<Cian> lets out a yelp of pain. He tries to hold onto the gun, but with his arms pinned by claws there’s no possible way for him to aim at anything. He fires again in frustration and tries to fight against the thrid attackers grip, but he can feel the claws tearing the muscles in his arms as he does and lets out another agonized yell.
<Storyteller> At the yelp, the creepy girl giggles/snarls, either way the sound is highly disturbing. Jimmy hangs tightly onto him, riding him around and laughing. “This is actually kind of fun! Can’t believe you shot Eliza! And Sara, well, she was giving you the creepy eyes.”
<Cian> tries to slam his attacker into a tree and snarls “Glad I could be entertaining, asshole!” He swings his arm around and fires the last round in the gun wildly. “SHITTING FUCK!” he screams as jimmy’s claws tear at his arms again. Cian drops the pistol and stumbles. He can feel the blood running down his arms. “Alright alright…how bout you hop off and at least let me really
fight for my last moments of life…” the words come out as a growl of anger and pain.
<Storyteller> The three of them seem to look between each other, something unspoken certainly going on between them. Jimmy whispers at him as he sees Sara approaching him with a scalpel now in her other hand, the feralness gone but pure malice replaing it. “Hmmm, I think we are gonna hold you and let Sara take a piece for shooting her. After that… we’ll let you fight. We’ll
let you fight all you want.”, he says before they close in on him. Luckily for him he passes out shortly after Sara begins taking the little rusty blade to his face.
<Cian> screams as the blade carves into him, his vision fades and even the echoes of his own pain seem far away. All he can think as he fades into blackness is that the concert was really NOT worth this bullshit.