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dwntwn-strnlo · 3 months ago

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❛❛    ──── ㅤstain ㅤㅤ╂⠀⠀⠀cult leader!matt

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ☺︎︎ㅤ ㅤwarnings:  in this first chapter, you'll find religious oppression, parental control, intense interactions, and a suicide reference. please, proceed with caution.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀⠀⠀⠀▃▃⠀⠀⠀ summary: in a repressive ashwick, rune’s caged by her mother’s rules. new neighbors, including the magnetic matt, stir unease during a family dinner, hinting at a looming threat.

chapter one: the shadow of ashwick

ashwick, massachusetts, 2025, is a town that prays with its eyes open. nestled in the shadow of salem’s cursed woods, it’s a place where faith is a noose, tightening with every whispered sin.

fifty years ago, the townsfolk carved their own religion from the bones of fear—the church of the silent covenant, a doctrine of purity and punishment. its white steeple stabs the sky above main street, a reminder that god is always watching.

homes huddle close, their doors marked with iron crosses, their windows flickering with vigil candles. children murmur prayers before sleep, and the church bell tolls like a warning, heavy as guilt. the covenant’s laws are unrelenting: no dancing, no liquor, no doubts. confession is mandatory, gossip is holy, and secrets are a death sentence.

in ashwick, life is a performance. funerals are spectacles of grief, weddings are vows of submission, and newcomers are heretics until proven pure.

when someone dares move here, the town bristles—whispers slither through the grocery store’s canned goods, hiss in the church’s oak pews, and weave into pastor ellis’s sermons about “guarding the flock.”

newcomers must kneel at the covenant’s altar, tithe their wealth, and spill their pasts to be counted among the saved. until then, they’re ghosts, seen but not spoken to, their every move a spark in ashwick’s tinderbox of suspicion. here, everyone knows your name, but no one trusts your heart. and that’s just how the town likes it.

the bathroom mirror is a liar.

runa stares into it, her breath fogging the glass, her long, curly hair a wild brown tangle that spills over her shoulders like a rebellion she’ll never voice. her hazel eyes are too soft, too unguarded for ashwick’s sharp edges, catching the dim light of the single bulb overhead.

she’s the town’s perfect daughter—sweet as hymnals, kind as a saint, naive enough to believe obedience is love. her mother, clara, has spent years shaping her, pruning her like a rose until only thorns remain.

runa doesn’t fight, doesn’t question. she’s learned to smile through the ache, to bury the parts of herself that flicker in the dark. but alone, with the sink’s cold porcelain under her palms, she drifts, her reflection blurring into something she doesn’t recognize.

“stay away from that family,” clara’s voice slices from downstairs, a blade wrapped in velvet. runa’s fingers tighten, knuckles whitening.

her mother’s rules are a litany, chiseled into her bones:

no boys, only girls for friends.

no clothes that show too much skin.

no staying up past bedtime.

no curse words, ever.

no strange music.

no books that aren’t approved.

no friends i don’t bless.

no stepping out after 7 p.m.

no internet, and every tv show passes my eyes first.

clara forbids with a zealot’s fire, her commands absolute, her reasons locked away like relics.

“it’s for your protection,” she’ll murmur, her gaze skittering to the floor, but runa knows better than to ask why.

questions earn silence, or worse, sermons about hellfire and fallen daughters. clara and thomas, her father, are ashwick’s paragons—overprotective, pious, haunted by the thought of losing their only child. they’ve built a cage around runa, and she’s too tender to claw her way out. or so she tells herself, night after night, as the woods beyond her window whisper things she shouldn’t hear.

her reflection wavers, and her mind slips, unbidden, to three weeks ago: moving day. she’d been trudging home from church, her shoes scuffing the cracked sidewalk, when she saw the trucks roll into the house next door—a looming victorian, its windows dark as closed eyes. a woman stepped out, blonde and radiant, her scarlet dress a wound against ashwick’s gray. mila. she’d turned, her smile catching runa like a hook—warm, but with teeth.

let’s play, runa…

the voice slithers into her head, soft as smoke, cold as the woods at midnight.

runa’s eyes snap shut, her breath a ragged gasp. no. she shakes her head, hard, as if she could fling the sound away. i’m good now. i’m normal. i’m fine.

she’s not that girl anymore, the one who heard whispers in the dark, who saw shapes in the trees. ashwick has no room for madness, and neither does she. she forces her eyes open, pasting on the smile she’s perfected—bright, empty, a shield.

it’s lasagna saturday, a leigh family ritual, clara’s obsession with routine distilled into a bubbling dish of tomato and cheese. just the three of them, every week, pretending to be a family while the silence screams. runa smooths her modest blue dress, tucks a curl behind her ear, and steps out, the bathroom’s damp air clinging to her like regret.

downstairs, the kitchen is a haze of garlic and heat, the table set for their lonely meal. clara stands at the counter, her apron crisp as her disapproval, chopping onions with a rhythm that feels like judgment.

“they haven’t joined the covenant,” she says, her voice low, as if the walls might eavesdrop. “until they’re one of us, they’re nothing.” runa nods, her throat tight, but her mother’s words are a spark in her chest. the new family—next door, of all places—has set ashwick ablaze with whispers.

they don’t belong, with their strange clothes and stranger ways. at the store, runa caught mrs. harrow muttering, “they’re unholy.”

at church, pastor ellis railed against “wolves in sheep’s clothing,” his eyes flicking to the empty pews. newcomers always stir trouble, but this family feels like a crack in the town’s foundation, and runa can’t shake the thrill of it.

the doorbell cuts through the night, sharp as a scream. runa freezes, her heart lurching. it’s too late for visitors—ashwick locks its doors at dusk, fear of the woods and the world beyond sealing them tight. clara’s knife pauses, her lips thinning to a blade.

“who’s that?” she hisses, tossing her towel aside. runa follows her mother to the door, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears. clara yanks it open, and the night spills in, carrying them.

mila, glowing like a flame under the porch’s weak light, her blonde hair catching the moon. beside her is a man, tall and sharp-featured, his eyes heavy with something unspoken—valter, she’ll learn. mila holds a strawberry cake, its pink frosting a blasphemy in ashwick’s faded world.

“good evening,” mila says, her voice honey and velvet, her smile a lure. “i’m mila, and this is valter. we’re your neighbors now. we brought a little something to say hello.”

valter dips his head, his calm a contrast to mila’s warmth. “apologies for the hour,” he says, smooth as a lawyer’s plea. “we’ve been settling in.”

clara stands like a sentinel, arms crossed, her face a fortress. “clara,” she says, her tone frostbitten. “this is my daughter, runa.” her eyes scour mila and valter, hunting for cracks. runa steps closer, drawn by a curiosity she can’t name.

“hi,” she whispers, her voice a thread in the dark.

mila’s gaze finds hers, that smile sharpening, like she sees the parts of runa locked away. valter’s look is softer, almost weary, as if he’s used to mending what others break.

“thank you for the cake,” clara says, snatching it with barely veiled contempt. “it’s late. we’re preparing for lasagna saturday.”

“of course,” mila says, her poise unshaken. “we won’t keep you. we just thought—”

laughter rips through the night, jagged and wild, from the shadows beyond the porch. mila’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes gleam.

“my children,” she says, turning to the darkness. three figures slink into the light, and the air shifts, heavy with something runa can’t name.

two are teenagers, a boy and girl with pale eyes and sly, mirrored grins—maia and ray, twins dressed in thrift-store patchwork, vibrant against the night. and then there’s him. matt.

he’s a blade of a boy, tall and lean, his dark hair falling into eyes that burn like stars gone wrong. he chews gum, slow and deliberate, each pop a taunt. his black jacket hangs open, a white shirt stark as bone beneath, and a cracked black-stone ring weighs his finger, pulsing with secrets.

his gaze locks on runa, and it’s a physical thing—cold, invasive, alive.

her breath catches, her skin prickling as if he’s touched her. his stare isn’t kind, isn’t safe. it’s a knife, peeling back her layers, exposing the girl she’s buried under smiles and silence. she wants to look away, but she can’t.

mila gestures, her voice bright but edged. “my children,” she says. “kaia, ray, and matt, our eldest.”

kaia and ray nod, their smiles too sharp, like they’re laughing at a joke runa will never hear. matt steps forward, his eyes still on her, unblinking.

“mrs. clara,” he says to clara, his voice low, smooth, laced with amusement. “nice to meet you.”

clara’s nod is curt, her fingers white around the cake. matt’s gaze slides to runa, his lips twitching, not a smile but a challenge.

“and runa,” he says, his gum popping loud in the quiet. “what’s with the silence? you always this quiet, or am i special?”

the words are teasing, but they’re a hook, tugging at something deep in her chest. her mouth opens, but clara’s rules strangle her: don’t speak out of turn. don’t draw attention.

“matt,” mila says, her tone a gentle whip, but her eyes dance with mischief. “let’s not overstay.”

“we should go,” valter adds, his voice firm, cutting through the tension. “thank you, mrs. clara. runa.”

mila’s smile lingers, a promise and a threat. “we’re just next door,” she says, her warmth a siren’s call.

the family turns, melting into the night, but matt pauses, his gaze holding runa’s for one last, searing moment. then he’s gone, his footsteps silent, as if the dark claimed him. clara slams the door, her face a storm.

“stay away from them,” she spits, her voice trembling with something deeper than anger. “they’re trouble.”

runa nods, but her blood hums, her skin alive where matt’s eyes grazed her. she’s supposed to be good, perfect, caged. but something in her—something reckless—wants to burn. clara knew their arrival would fracture ashwick’s brittle peace. she’d seen newcomers before, their strangeness a stain on the covenant’s purity.

but this family, with their bright defiance and fearless gazes, was no mere disruption. they were a plague, and for runa, her fragile, perfect daughter, they were a temptation clara couldn’t chain.

she was right to fear them.

because it all began with a suicide.

🏷 ◞ taglist 𒁍 @sturniolohohoho @zenithsturniolo @courta13 @pizzapocketpocketpizza @izzylovesmatt

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