hcppyines

[hcppyines]

[hcppyines]

who: inés + elif @aquarics where: black hollow, ky / extremely early morning day 5

nes had definitely heard it. they'd laid awake under the open sky, eyes fixed on the stars overhead, too exhausted to move but too wired to rest. that voice—low, rough, and unintelligible—kept looping in their head. they'd heard it the day before, a flicker of sound at the edge of comprehension when listening to the audio in the moment. but when they went back and checked it at the exact time they'd written down in their notebook… nothing. just dj cracking some dumb joke and the usual hiss and rumble of being underground. but nes didn’t let it go. they scrubbed through the file again, slower this time. nearly five minutes past the marked time, they found it—just a few seconds long, like a whisper buried in gravel. no reason it should’ve been there, no clue how the timecode was so far off. it didn’t matter. they were going to figure it out, one way or another. they stood, legs stiff from sitting too long, and quietly padded across camp to where elif had pitched her tent. the night was still and cold, humming with distant noise that might’ve been wind. "elif," they whispered, crouching beside the tent flap. "if you’re up i need to talk to you."

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who: inés + dexter @debonairswhere: black hollow, ky / morning day 1

nes bit back a grin as the old man shuffled off, muttering something in a thick appalachian drawl that may have included the word “devil” and definitely included none of what they’d asked about the mine. suffice to say, he didn't seem eager to agree to conduct an on-camera interview. “i don’t know what language that was or what the hell he said, but i’m obsessed,” they said, turning to dexter with an exaggerated nod of approval and hands on their hips. “he hated you. like, with his whole chest. aren’t you supposed to be the charming one?”

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who: inés + sonia @soniitech where: black hollow, ky / early evening day 2

nes sat with their back against a tree, legs stretched out, laptop balanced on their thighs. the buzz of the team prepping nearby faded into nothing beneath the seal of their headphones. a condenser mic hung deep down the shaft before them, trailing from the longest cord they owned, just enough to catch the cave’s breathing. caves were a nightmare; echoes ricocheted off stone like nature's personal version of static and every drip, crumble, or shift could sound like it came from a mile away or just behind your shoulder. timing and positioning would be difficult to determine precisely. their eyes stayed closed as they listened, body still, parsing the subtle layers of reverb and silence to become familiar with it all. they didn’t open them until they felt a familiar warmth settle beside them, low and grounding. their lips twitched, barely, and they slipped one ear of the headset off. “hey,” they said, head tipping back lightly against the tree as they glanced sideways at soni. “you needing my mechanical expertise again?”

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📻 , 🧿 & 🫣

📻 » if you were left behind on one stop of the trip, what kind of place would rattle you the most?

“somewhere that messes with your sense of direction,” nes says, voice low. “not like a forest or wide open space where you can still see the sky—something tighter. like a building with hallways that don’t make sense, doors that disappear when you look back. places where you start to doubt if you even walked that way in the first place. it’s the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re trapped, even if no one’s actually holding the door closed.” they pause, anxiously fiddling with a ring on their finger. “i’m not easily scared, but being lost like that—that’s different. it’s not just about being alone. it’s about not knowing where you are or how to get out. feeling like no one can find you, or even knows you’re gone. that kind of isolation sticks with me. it’s why i’m always double-checking exits and carrying something familiar with me—it’s my way of fighting the fear that i’ll disappear somewhere and no one will hear my voice.”

🧿 » do you carry a talisman, charm, or ritual that you swear by? what’s the story behind it?

“yeah. i’ve got this old analog recorder—clunky little thing my dad gave me when i was nine. i used to forget everything i wanted to say by the time we sat down for dinner, so he thought maybe recording my thoughts would help. didn’t take long before i started using it for everything else. voices, prayers, weird creaks in the walls. it’s scratched up and temperamental now, but i don’t go anywhere without it. it’s not just sentimental—it feels like it holds something. like it’s been listening longer than i have.” nes glances down, thumb brushing over the recorder clipped to their belt. sometimes i think it hears things before i do. maybe even instead of me. they’ve replaced the batteries a hundred times, dropped it down stairs, lost it under floorboards. it always finds its way back. when they hit record, there’s a sense of grounding—like no matter what’s ahead, someone’s keeping track. not protecting them, exactly, but bearing witness. that's more than a lot of people get.

🫣 » have you ever destroyed a piece of evidence — or chosen not to share it?

“yeah… i mean. who hasn’t?” nes laughs, quiet and dry, but their eyes don’t match the sound. “i’ve sat on plenty of stuff over the years. audio that didn’t feel right, images that wouldn’t stop replaying even after i shut the laptop. sometimes it’s not about being scared—it’s about what it would do to other people. you hear something once, and suddenly it won’t let go. not everyone signs up for that.” they pause, tugging on a loose thread at the cuff of their sleeve. “there was this one clip, years ago, from a case out in indiana. small-town legend, nothing we expected to actually pan out. but i left my recorder running overnight near a dry creek bed, and in the middle of the file, just before sunrise, you can hear what sounds like someone sobbing—real broken, ugly crying. but it wasn't the sound that messed me up. it was what came after. my voice—clear as day—saying, ‘stop crying. you’re already dead.’ and i swear to you, i didn’t say that. i wasn’t even awake.” they don't mention the others. the static that spelled out their childhood address, the hum that matched the exact pitch of the church bells back home even though the town hadn’t had working bells in over a decade, the voice that has followed them to location after location, whispering secrets into the ambient noise they have to sort through for the shows they've done. some things aren’t meant to be shared. some things are only for the person who caught them.

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📵 » is there a location you’d never return to — not for money, fame, or answers?

📵 » is there a location you’d never return to — not for money, fame, or answers?

“it was the church i grew up in before my mom disappeared on us. me and a couple friends went back on a tip a few years back—someone said they'd heard wings. not birds, wings. i didn’t want to go, but i didn’t say no either. the building looked the same—same cracked tile, same light flickering in the vestibule. but the moment i walked in, it felt like the air had teeth. it was heavy, thick, wrong. i didn’t hear footsteps or voices—what i heard was breathing, massive and measured, like it was just behind the altar. and under it, this… whisper. not in english. not in spanish. not in anything. just sound that was layered and flayed. it felt like being watched by something that knew everything i ever confessed. and then... there was this moment where i knew it was an angel. not the soft glowing kind from picture books. something older, sharp. something that crawled through the cracks in heaven. i left everything behind—equipment, tape, all of it. i don't talk about that case. i don't go back there. i don’t even drive down that block.”

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🕷️ » what’s one investigation you’ll never talk about again — and why?

🕷️ » what’s one investigation you’ll never talk about again — and why?

“there was this rectory out past the lake,” nes starts, their voice quieter than usual. “burned out on the top floor—place looked like it had been on the verge of crumbling to ash for decades. we weren’t supposed to be there long - a friend of mine just wanted to see if he could catch something with his new camera. i didn’t even press record on my own equipment, swear to god - the battery was low, i was tired, it felt like a throwaway site. but that night, when i plugged in the recorder, there was a file. one hour, twenty-three minutes. perfect quality, like something had sat there, waiting.” they pause, fingers curling around their mug like they need to ground themselves as ice weaves its way through their veins at the mere memory of the occurrence. “it was my name. again and again, like it was breathing through the walls. sometimes layered, sometimes backwards, sometimes just… right there, like it knew the moment i’d flinch. but it wasn’t just that. at the end, there was this sound—not quite a word, but it felt like one. like it landed in my chest and just stayed. i’ve never heard anything like it since, and i never want to. i tried to do my due diligence and copy the file, evidence is evidence, but it corrupted every time. eventually i couldn't take it and snapped the tape. haven’t driven past that place again. team doesn’t ask why. they know better.”

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lizeth selene  .  cisgender female .  they/she  .  *  |  look,  there  goes  inés guzman !  they're  the  twenty six  year  old  i  was  telling  you  about  …  you  know  the  scorpio  ?  it's  their  fifteenth case  with  the  crew  —  not  counting  the  one  where  she thought she caught a ghost breathing in a haunted motel, but it turned out to be a busted, motion-activated tickle me elmo toy vibrating under the bed whenever the floor creaked …  originally  from  chicago,  let's  hope  their  analog voice recorder  is  enough  to  protect  them  from  getting lost alone in a remote and unfamiliar location.  most  people  know  them  as  methodical  and  inquisitive,  but  don't  be  surprised  if  their  avoidant  side  slips  out  when  the  lights  flicker.  this  time  around,  they're  signed  on  as  the  audio tech,  which  makes  sense  considering  they  spend  most  of  their  time writing songs & mixing lofi tunes  like  their  life  depends  on  it.  if  you  ever  need  them,  try  whispering  nes  into  the  walkie  or  picturing  instinctively clutching at heirloom rosary beads, journaling dreams in half-asleep whispers into an old voice recorder, headphones muffling the seen and giving voice to the unseen, & music blasting out of a car speeding down a never-ending road at 3 am.  but  beware  —  if  they  don't  answer,  something  else  might. 

LINKS:

pinterest: xx playlist: xx google doc: wip

BASICS:

name: inés guzman age: 26 birthday: nov 5 zodiac: scorpio gender: gender fluid pronouns: they/she

PERSONAL:

parents: raul guzman (father); marisol reyes (mother - estranged) sibling: mateo guzman hometown: chicago, il career: audio tech - the echo files; waitress; lofi streamer/composer education: hs diploma languages: english (native); spanish (native) health: insomnia

APPEARANCE:

height: 5'7" build: slender hair: long, black - known to wear wigs eyes: dark brown makeup: example 1 / example 2 style: refer to pinterest scars: small one on left corner of bottom lip; long one on right thighpiercings: exampletattoos: example 1 / example 2

PERSONALITY:

positive: methodical, adventurous, empathetic negative: avoidant, blunt, stubborn favorites: nerd clusters, handwritten letters, pancakes, black coffee hates: plastic water bottles, cake frosting, public arguments, isolation perceptions: they aren't the most approachable visually and their bluntness can turn people away, but they will help anybody that needs it without question. they are more on the quiet side unless with those they are comfortable with, preferring to pipe up in all other situations with a well-time snarky remark or thoughtful observations.

HEADCANONS:

always carries their analog recorder, even if they don’t plan on using it

drives a beat-up forest green volvo named saint jude, patron saint of lost causes

smokes occasionally—only when deeply stressed or anxious

has a secret lofi music youtube channel they run anonymously

hoards audio files and ambient recordings; constantly low on phone storage

they keep handwritten letters to the people in their life in her favorite red leather notebook - they don't intend for anybody to ever read them

journals dreams and records thoughts with their recorder and phone

favorite comfort treat is black coffee and pancakes, especially late at night

keeps a shoebox full of old voicemails, cassette tapes, and letters they never sent

has a pool trophy from a local bar tournament they never talk about

has a library card and actually uses it—they always have a book in their bag

always has a bag of nerd clusters in their backpack for long stakeouts

loves swimming and outdoor runs

wears one silver ring that belonged to their dad, never takes it off

has an emotional attachment to rainy nights and the sound of tires on wet pavement

loves roadside diners—the hum of the neon, the clink of dishes, the same tired songs

calls their ghost-hunting work “recording what people ignore” and means it

they grew up heavily involved with the catholic church and though they don't consider themself a christian, some habits and superstitions have stayed with them into adulthood (including keeping their mother's rosary on them for good luck when they are on site for the echo files or their own personal paranormal investigations)

their brother, mateo, is a priest. they're very close despite their differences and he's one of the few people that believes her unconditionally

their dad is still living and working in chicago and they do their best to send him money and gifts when they can - he worries about their work with the echo files

BIOGRAPHY:

inés guzman has lived in chicago their whole life, growing up surrounded by the quiet hum of catholic churches and the constant noise of the city. they were raised in a small apartment with their older brother mateo and their single dad, raul, a hardworking guy who leaned on neighbors and their church community to help raise them. it wasn’t always easy, but there was love there. still, inés often felt a bit out of sync with the world, like they were tuned into something nobody else could hear. some of their earliest memories are full of candlelight and silence: watching dust float through stained-glass windows, hearing whispers that might’ve been prayers or something else entirely. spending so much time around the church is where their super sharp sense of hearing really started to take shape. they could catch the tiniest sounds others missed: the creak of old wood, pages flipping softly, voices folded into silence. when their dad gave them an old analog voice recorder for their ninth birthday, it turned into more than just a gift. inés began recording everything: bits of conversations, ambient noises, the low hum of streetlights. it was a way to catch pieces of the world that felt blurry or hard to hold onto. as they got older, inés found freedom in quiet moments and little bursts of adrenaline. they’d take late-night drives down empty highways, make spontaneous trips to places they’d never been, or just sit by the water where the sounds seemed different. now, working with the echo files team feels like a natural fit; always listening closely, filtering out the noise, and picking up on the things others miss. they've always been intrigued by the mystery and legend of dead air, and being able to follow along their faded footsteps has been a highlight of their life. they don’t always understand what they hear, but inés believes in ghosts, universal blips, and hidden messages—things only meant for certain ears. over time, they’ve stopped sharing most of what they pick up. most people don’t hear it, and even fewer truly want to.

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[hcppyines]