thehauntrpg-blog

[thehauntrpg-blog]

hi everyone! i know things have been a little quiet recently, and i apologize for that. with my move back home, and with everything else in my life that’s been going on, i haven’t had the time to give this group the attention it deserves. i know it’s because of this that the dash has slowed down, and i do not blame any of you for the following news. this is strictly on the admin team not being able to communicate and give you what you all deserve out of a group. 

i’m going to be closing haunt for a while, at least until i can get back to a more open and regular routine. i love this story and i’m not ready to say goodbye to it yet, so it will be back, though it will definitely be getting a major overhaul. on that note, i would really appreciate it if copy-cat rps weren’t made. i worked really hard on this story and these themes, and i want to be able to revisit them when the time comes. 

as for your characters, feel free to keep them and do with them as you wish. bring them to other oc rps, use them in your 1x1s, whatever. you fleshed them out and made them yours and you can most definitely keep using them. 

i love you all, and thank you so much for everything. from 50+ apps at opening to the beautiful spooky writing you’ve blessed us with, i really really appreciate you guys and every member that has come and gone from the rp. 

happy haunting! 

[thehauntrpg-blog]

Sallybrook lay in darkness that night. Not a light can be seen in the darkened houses lining each street, no movement from within breaking the stillness. From the sea to the east, a thick fog rolls in: slowly at first, then in a flood, shrouding the town in a mist that is at once unseasonably warm and bone-chillingly cold.

One by one, the crickets stop chirping. An owl hoots once, then never again. A lone fox, standing pensively at the edge of town, returns to its den.

In the blink of an eye, the abandoned bakery’s pastries mold and decay. At the coffee shop, the milk sours and spoils, while the coffee beans grow brittle and old. The wood of the many ships in the harbor grows soft and pliable; some vessels sink, while others barely cling to buoyancy.

As the fog thickens, so, too, does the darkness, smothering out the stars. And deep inside its depths, somehow everywhere and nowhere at once, a sinister force lurks.

Within the darkness, The Haunt waits.

The Church - Monday, Dec. 31st - 10:38 p.m.

An oppressive silence hangs over the pews in the darkened church, the only sound the distant tap-tap of a pacing chaperone. August sits unnoticed in a pew, staring sightlessly ahead, something small and red clutched in her hands, while Alice sits fretfully beside her.

From the silence issues a father’s scream.

“My daughter!” he wails, as one by one, people trickle out of their rooms to investigate the commotion. Emerging from the hallway, others follow, some annoyed, others concerned. Logan places a hand on his shoulder, but the mourning father shrugs it away.

“You!” he cries when he sees August, whose focus snaps back to the room as if waking from a dream. “You have her jacket—what have you done with her?!”

August looks down at the jacket in her hands in horror, while Alice stands in front of her protectively. Reilly emerges from the crowd just as the man tries to accost August. Jackie rushes in to pull him away. He elbows her in panic, causing her to fall backwards, nose gushing blood.

As Rosaline rushes to Jackie’s side to make sure she’s alright, Rowan peers over the scene cradling a half-empty bottle of booze. Miles observes the altercation quietly from the corner, while Will shoulders their way through the crowd. Reilly speaks a gentle word to the aggrieved father, who crumples into his arms.

August, hysterical, makes a beeline for the door, with Alice hot on her heels. It’s locked. Frantic, she spies the window beside the door. As she scrambles to get it open, Rowan inches closer to the door, with Dominik following not far behind. Though the window is locked, the wooden sill is soft with age and splinters away, allowing her to climb through.

Alice fiddles frantically with her key. Reilly notices August’s escape and heads for the door just as Alice leaves. Rowan makes a beeline for the door, but Reilly catches Rowan’s arm in a firm grip.

Rowan whips around, smashing his bottle on a pew, sending glass and liquor flying and spraying nearby Will with shards.

“Be still,” Reilly says, “God is with us.”

Rowan holds the broken bottle up to Reilly, and the two exchange a few heated words. Dominik sees his chance and strides for the door.

“Don’t come after me,” Rowan says shakily, “or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Shocked gasps and murmurs grow louder in the panicked crowd.

“It’s not worth it, Rowan,” Dominik says, laying a firm hand on his shoulder. Rowan’s gaze breaks from Reilly’s as he looks around the room, catching the frightened eyes of Sophie and Elliot, who are huddled together.

Rowan rips his arm from Reilly’s grasp and follows Dominik out the door, which slams shut behind them. As Ollie rushes for the door, the window slams shut too. Ollie throws himself at the door, but no matter what he does, it doesn’t budge.

He turns slowly to the horrified crowd.

“It won’t open,” he says. “We’re trapped.”

The Motel – Monday, Dec. 31st – 10:38 p.m.

It starts with the dreams.

Over and over the nightmare repeats, robbing sleep and sanity from the motel’s captive audience. The scent of earth—soft dirt under fingernails—muffled laughter from above—a mother’s ceaseless wail—and a thunderous rumble, a rumble so intense it shakes you to the bone.

Iris is the first to wake. She lets out a blood-curdling scream as a chunk of concrete falls just shy of her head, scratching her face and pinning her hair to the bed. As she tries desperately to free herself, Avery sees the commotion and bolts for the door. Iris rips herself free, shedding some hair in the process, and escapes the room.

Tegan is sitting outside, cradling an empty pill bottle, when the rumble starts. He springs to his feet as the ground below him vibrates with malice. Without looking back, he sprints away from the motel and down the road, leaving it far behind.

Tony, holding a bag of chips from the vending machine, spots Avery making a break for it. He stumbles as the ground shakes under his feet, then runs after them.

“Avery!” He calls, and the name seems to echo a little too far.

As Abigail swipes lipstick across her bottom lip, the shaking starts, causing her to draw a jagged red line across her face. She turns to leave the bathroom when part of the ceiling comes crashing down, blocking the door. Desperate, she claws the tiny bathroom window open and wriggles through, spraining her wrist on a bad landing.

Meanwhile, Noah and Elodie play cards, a half-empty liquor bottle between them.

“Go fish,” Elodie says flatly, and that’s when the bottle begins to rock. It tips out all over the table, soaking them. They stand to clean themselves up when the shaking intensifies, knocking them to the ground. Noah crawls to the door and opens it, and they both scramble out. As they pass by a closed door, they hear a piercing scream from Isaiah within, and Peter’s frantic protests, but the crumbling awning doesn’t allow them to investigate.

Imogen sprints down the hallway, calling frantically for everyone to evacuate the building.

Leila freezes up when the shaking starts, eyes wide and blank. Zoe hauls her to her feet and shoves her toward the door. Leila stumbles and bangs her head against the doorframe. While Leila’s head spins, Zoe drags her to safety.

Kira is writing in a journal when she hears Imogen’s calls. When dust begins to fall between the pages, she leaves the room. Pandemonium greets her outside: people covered in dust and blood, some sobbing, others pacing.

Just one door remains closed. As the crowd looks on, it creaks open slowly, revealing a startling sight. Marti and Aaron clutch eachother tightly, with not a speck of dust to be found. From the wrecked ceiling hovers a giant piece of concrete, suspended impossibly above them, with no signs of falling.

Alone behind the building, Abigail springs to her feet, nursing her throbbing wrist. She makes a break for it as fast as her shaking legs will allow. Just as she thinks she’s clear of the lot, however, she finds herself suddenly facing the motel again, on the opposite end of where she started.

“Guys,” she says, catching the attention of some of the crowd, “What the fuck is going on?”

Thus begins a week of torture for the residents of Sallybrook. While before the conditions of their confinement were bearable, they are now marred by chaos and confusion. No one may leave their lockdown location due to a mysterious impenetrable barrier that arose after the escapes.

At the Church, while the chaperones try to maintain order, widespread panic grips the populace, especially in the wake of the child’s disappearance. Some try to find a way out, certain there must be an exit somewhere, trying every window and door in the place. Others sit in their rooms and try to drown out the world and their own fears. While the Church is more habitable than the Motel, resources are dwindling fast.

At the Motel, what seems to be an earthquake has driven everyone out of their rooms. A particularly keen observer might notice the unnatural way the building collapsed in places, as if crushed like a soda can by some unseen force. Though most rooms contain some debris, one-third have been rendered uninhabitable. While the Motel is better supplied than the Church, the debris makes living there more difficult. Members of this group may go outside, but if they try to step beyond the limits of the parking lot, they find themselves on the opposite side of the lot, facing the motel once again.

Lastly, there is the group of Escapees. This group consists of Tegan, Avery, Tony, Rowan, Dominik, Alice, and August. Though they start out in separate areas, finding eachother is inevitable, as the town is otherwise completely deserted. If they choose to investigate the Church or Motel, they will find that the Church cannot be entered. If they try to step onto the Motel lot, they will appear at the opposite side, having skipped over it completely. They may also try to find food among the deserted shops, but anything fresh will be molded or spoiled. Canned food and shelf-stable items remain edible. If they try to leave the town, the fog becomes so thick that they cannot breathe.

Though these circumstances last one week in-world, OOC it will last through the end of January. This event provides the perfect opportunity to explore new facets of your character. Remember that your characters do not know when—or if—they will be able to escape. Will they panic and lash out at others, focus on their own survival, or team up and try to keep everyone sane? The choice is yours. You may choose to thread about the night the barriers went up, or about anything that happens during the week that they are trapped. Additionally, as always, flashback threads are welcomed.

Finally, I spoke with most of you about how The Haunt’s active presence will affect your characters psychologically. As a reminder, the categories are dreams/hallucinations, selective hearing/seeing of those around you, repetitive/risk-taking behaviors, personality changes, and time lapses/sleepwalking. Your characters may begin to experience these symptoms after the barrier goes up. It’s up to you whether they last the whole week or only parts of it. These symptoms will only intensify as we approach February’s finale. If you have not heard from me about this, you may choose your symptoms on your own, but you are also more than welcome to consult me about them.

If you have any questions or concerns, you are more than welcome to ask me (phnx). I want to make sure everyone enjoys this event to the fullest, whether that be generating ideas with you or clearing up any confusion.

Happy Haunting!

[thehauntrpg-blog]

For failing to resume activity, or for personal reasons, the following roles have been reopened:

IMOGEN

[thehauntrpg-blog]

this is the most diverse rp ive seen in a while...i love it!

Thanks, anon! Hope you join us!

[thehauntrpg-blog]

can you see kim jisoo ( the actor ) or seo kang joon as sef? or maybe sota fukushi?

I could see Seao Kang Joon or Kim Jisoo for Sef. 

[thehauntrpg-blog]

hi! i was wondering if park haejin would be an acceptable fc for rhys? thank you!

Yes I could see him working!

[thehauntrpg-blog]

KIRA

[thehauntrpg-blog]

ELODIE

[thehauntrpg-blog]

Congratulations on your acceptance! Make sure you take a look at the checklist and send in your account within 24 hours. Welcome to The Haunt.

NEXT ACCEPTANCE IS ON MONDAY, JANUARY 10 AT 12AM EST.

Elodie Ximena Fuentes-Rivera played by A fc: Melissa Barerra 

We love your take on Elodie! With events having progressed so much since the bonfire, we’re excited to see you rejoin the dash and find your place amidst the chaos. Welcome back!

[thehauntrpg-blog]

Good evening everyone! I have a couple of things to say in this post, but all of it is important information, so please read. 

The new event is currently being written up, but we need your input. If you have not reacted to the post in the announcement channel in the ooc server, please do so by 11am est tomorrow. If you do not, an event will be chosen for you. 

We have a new admin! We’re adding Kayla to our admin team as we were in desperate need for someone to help out with keeping the main organized and tidy. So, if you have any admin related issues, you can now go to me, Jezz, phnx, or Kayla and we can help you out with whatever it is you might need. 

On that topic, from now on, if you have any plot related questions, please ask them to phnx instead of to myself, as phnx will be in charge of moving the story forward from this moment on. 

We are working on a new batch of characters, though it will be considerably smaller than previous batches. We want to keep the group small, as we already have quite a bit of work to do when it comes to making sure every character is getting attention from The Haunt. 

[thehauntrpg-blog]

For failing to resume activity, or for personal reasons, the following roles have been reopened:

SEF

CAROLINE

CONOR

RHYS

[thehauntrpg-blog]

Name: Rhys Age Range: 33 Gender: UTP Pronouns: UTP Occupation: Fisherman Status: Open

The waters of Sallybrook have always called to you, the waves a siren song to a destiny you and your forefathers have heeded for as long as anyone can remember. The seas have always been kind to you and your family, until one day that they simply weren’t. Your uncle goes missing and your whole clan almost moves out to prevent any more tragedy. Not your family, however. Your family stays and provides a roof over the now-orphaned child. The seas don’t take anymore after that and, after a while, things settle into a routine. When your missing uncle comes back, however, there is a chill that runs down your spine. Your family moves away to avoid the interloper—dead things do not rise again, after all—but you stay. The waters of Sallybrook have always been kind to you.

Miles: When it comes to friends, this is the one you always knew would be around forever. They were always there for you when you needed them, giving you a place to stay when your family would get too paranoid, helping you through deciding whether or not you wanted to continue the family tradition of a life on the sea. Recently, you’ve felt them go inside of themselves, making you feel like maybe they don’t want you around anymore. Still, you persist, like you always do.

Kira: Few people love the ocean as much as you do, and when you first met the lighthouse keeper, you were completely enthralled by everything they were. There was an instant connection there for you both, and when you’re out on the water at night, and you see the light from the lighthouse in the distance, all you can think about is them.

suggested fcs: Bang Sunghoon, Yoo Yeon Seok  

also approved: Choi Siwon, Lee Kikwang, Steven Yeun

Rhys is Sef’s cousin. FC should match at least half of their FC’s ethnicity. Please reference that skeleton and bio when writing your own.

[thehauntrpg-blog]

Name: Rosaline Delgado-Verville Age Range: 34 Gender: Female Pronouns: She/Her Occupation: Owner of Moonlight Diner Status: TAKEN by chell

Washed up. That’s what they called you. When you rolled back into town, the smell of the rehab facility still mixed in to the fibers of your clothes, when you begged your parents to let you back in again. To offer you warmth, food, and love. You promised you would make everything better for them. Promised that you would turn your life around. They let you in like they always did, and you got to work immediately. Now, almost twenty years later, and you’re the owner of the most popular restaurant in town. Still, you run from your old identity, unsure if you can really leave that part of yourself behind.

Miles: You see yourself in him. Someone lost, and alone. Someone who, despite what they say, needs company, need someone, to look over them. You know you might not be this person for them, but you know you have to try. You’ve never ignored your gut before, and you’re not about to start now. No matter how much they say they don’t want you around.

Indigo: They spend all of their time at the Diner, trying to catch the workings of the ghost in action. But you, better than anyone else, knows that the ghost will never do what you want it to. Still, you take pity of them, and have started offering them free meals out of thanks for the business their podcast brings in, and for the good company on the days they spend in the diner.

faceclaim: Astrid Berges-Frisbey

Sallybrook

0.

Look me in the eye when I’m talking to you.

You see her face.

Did you know what it was you took?

Her eyes half open, sullen red. Her face purple.

Why didn’t you tell us where you were going?!

Again, and again, and again.

You fucked up. You’re sorry. You’ve been condemned for all the mistakes you’ve made, for all the time you should have been happy but was too ungrateful to appreciate it. You’re paying for all your sins. You’re paying.

Don’t worry about me.

You fall backwards. You hit a wall.

Stay.

You feel a pat on your back, and then everything fades

The Happy years

1.

The attic is your own personal trove, and your favourite past time, treasure hunting.

You’ll always remember your favourite discovery — shoved into the corner of the large Victorian wardrobe, wrapped in dull satin, a leather case pristine in condition. Cascading over it is what looks like your mother’s old wedding dress, so you never noticed it before. Carefully, you remove the case from the wardrobe and open it with innocent curiosity. You’re not sure what you expected to see, but it wasn’t this.

What lies in the case lined with soft padding, looks like mom’s cello, except much smaller. Instantly, you know that you want it, so instead of leaving it where you found it, you decide to take it to your room, and, like much of your favourite finds, you store it under your bed. Maybe, being the good girl you are, mom will let you have it (you just assume it’s hers), and maybe, if you ask nicely, she’ll teach you how to make some music with it too.

That night, you hum quietly to yourself, smiling, falling asleep thinking about your favourite melodies of mom’s playing.

When you awake the next morning, you swear you had the strangest dream.

You look under your bed for the little cello. Still there, of course, safely in its case. Silly girl, you’re not sure what you’re thinking, but at some point last night, you swear you can hear it sing.

2.

Mom and dad never liked it when you ask to leave the house, they didn’t like it when you ask why either. These kinds of confrontation always go the same way, no one ever gets mad at you, no one ever raises their voice in this house, because no one ever really talks, ever. And that’s okay, you’re not a child with probing questions anyway, and your parents are willing to give you almost everything you want. You are happy, as far as you are concerned.

You are happy, and you are loved.

After some time, you learn not to ask questions, you learn to take what you have. You learn that your inner world is just as worth exploring as the one outside, and you learn that in this house, love is expressed through accommodating silence, tolerance, through gentle caresses on the cheek, handmade desserts and music, ah yes, the music.

You like it when music replaces the hollow silence.

Your mom is a musician, and she used to perform professionally on stage, around Europe, she tells you.

You wonder how she ended up here, a small New England town frozen in time. She tells you she wonders the same too.

3.

You met your grandma for the first time when you were three, you were told that she could no longer see. You didn’t quite understand what that means.

The rare occasions where you would leave town is usually to visit her in a home. There, you and grandma would talk for hours, stories and conversations filling you to the brim with light-hearted joy. (Sometimes she would call you Ameline, you wonder why’s that.) You often argue with your parents to bring grandma home, our home, where the family belongs. At home, you can play music for grandma every day, you say. She laughs. You love your grandma, you adore her with all your heart. The love you share with her is something tangible, something that sustains you through nights where you feel small and cold and scared.

That kind of love, even a child like you could understand, felt like magic.

4.

“That’s a violin.” After a short pause, mother tells you, she doesn’t look particularly impressed, or happy, for that matter.

She’s sombre. You feel as though you just showed her a picture of a dead relative.

“Maybe if you really want to,” she then says, “I can help you start learning”. Your face lights up with joy, and you nod eagerly. You want to bring more love to this household too, you want to say, you hope to bring a smile to your mother’s face.

You want to do something that will make your family proud.

5.

When word came out of your exceeding talent, you were asked if you would be willing to play your violin for the church.

In a sense, you have groomed yourself for this day. The approval, the recognition of effort, things a shy and sensitive grade schooler like you could never openly seek out. So you begin cultivating your reputation, a girl who is composed and mature for her age, with academic excellence under her belt and the prestige of being a child prodigy. And of course, the townspeople love her, the old and the small. They love the girl with the perfect posture, elegance exuding from every movement of her slender frame. They congratulate you, speak of your endless potential, but outside of church, or after your performances, no one ever spare you a glance.

Maybe you’re not perfect enough.

6.

You think you know why now, why your parents barely took you shopping for new clothes, why they seem so prepared for children-raising, why there were some toys among the treasures you found in the attic.

It should have been obvious.

You planned with your grandma during your visit last month. On what should have been your sister’s eighteenth birthday, you two are going to hold a small concert in her memory. Grandma may not be able to see anymore, but she can still command a piano, she says. On that day, donning a light blue sundress with floral patterns all over —Ameline’s signature outfit — you put on the greatest performance you have given to this day.

Your father would never let anyone see him cry, you know that, and you start playing.

You keep playing while your mother chokes on silent tears.

The Downward Spiral

7.

The only thing cutting deeper than guilt is shame.

“I’ve been told, by quite a few girls, that you cheated on your exam, Miss Verville.”

You nod, tears welling up in your eyes. That is true, you cheated, it doesn’t matter that you weren’t the one who initially wanted to cheat — you participated in the act, you benefitted from it, you are guilty as charged. You are guilty.

Ms. Adams looks at you in disbelief, something that only heightens your self-consciousness. Your hands start trembling, and you’re spending every ounce of your energy trying to stop the torrent of tears trying to wrestle away your dignity. You wish so hard to explain to her, explain that you weren’t the one that came up with the elaborate cheating protocol, but you swear that the moment you open your mouth to say something, you’re going to start bawling and beg for forgiveness because you’ve never known this kind of chastisement. So you keep your mouth shut, you don’t want to contort your image any further. Maybe Ms. Adams will forgive you, just a little bit, because you’ve always been so good. A good girl, top student, child prodigy, St. Peter’s pride, isn’t that what they called you? Have some faith now, you think to yourself, and this time you really mean it, the mercy of God and all.

“Miss Vervil— Rosaline, please, look me in the eye when I’m talking to you.”

You comply.

“I trust that you understand the seriousness of your misconduct, but I’m willing to give you another chance.”

You’re listening.

8.

School was a simple deal for you, at least in the beginning. You were seven when you first stepped into the halls of St. Peters as a sort of celebrity student, but that stardom was never sustained by anyone other than adults who love themselves a prodigy that can get them off the hook from raising ordinary children.

All that time you thought they really loved you because you were an ideal, all that time you thought to yourself that you must live up to your specialness if you wanted to be seen.

So you strive for an image of perfection like you owe it to the world.

A few years in school also fostered your desire for a place to fit in, you didn’t just want people to love you, you wanted each of them to like you personally too. And you found out that the kids, do not, in fact, like the perfect girl all that much.

This is when your first major conflict began. You pitted the desire for your social success against the promises you made to your parents, as if one could not be sustained without sacrificing the other. There was this girl Ada and her rock bands, there was Mike and Vivian and their comic books, this other girl Christie and her legion of gossip girls, this boy Stefan and the contrabands he stole from his brother, and this other group of pious kids whose parents used to make them look up to you like you were one of God’s angel sent from heaven to bless them.

One day, this will all seem nonsensical to you, something you will come to deeply regret. But you did, in fact, decided that the approval of your peers and to be seen as one of them was more important than your curfews and boundaries. You started wearing band t-shirts, drawing comic book characters, hanging out with the girls, partying, and even pretended to hold faith in your heart. You started practicing your music less and less, you started blurring the lines between slightly upsetting your parents with a small mishap and really, deeply hurting them.

Somehow, you’ve convinced yourself that the leap you took from being your old self, a carefully sculpted caricature of an ideal child to your current self really wasn’t that significant. After all, you still got top grades.

There were days when you sneaked out when you were grounded, there were days where you would come home covered in the scent of nicotine, there were days where you didn’t even come home at all, simply forgetting to tell your parents you’re staying over at another kid’s place, that kid was usually Ada.

You have worried your parents to death, you remember coming home one night seeing your father red-faced and on the verge of a breakdown, while your mother sobbed desperately by the telephone. You remember being too stubborn to even apologise, you remember making a scene about themoverreacting. What you didn’t remember, however, was that that was the same night your friend Ada went missing and was never seen again.

But they always forgive you, they always let you back in.

9.

The condition Ms. Adams gave you is that you must maintain excellent school marks until the end of the year, to prove that you did not in fact, cheat your way through all of your exams until now. Christie, the main reason you got into the whole dishonest business to begin with, seems the most eager to find out what you and Ms. Adams discussed in the office, naturally, so you repeat her words verbatim.

When you finished, she almost seemed relieved, but that doesn’t make sense, she wasn’t a good student like you, she wouldn’t have been granted the same mercy as you have—

And then you remember Ms. Adams’ exact words.

I’ve been told,by quite a few girls—

And all this time you thought it was your fault for getting yourself caught.

10.

You are going to get expelled. There will be no mercy this time, no second chances. You’re lucky the police aren’t getting involved.

When you had a nervous breakdown in the hallway the other day, someone had the idea to make the teachers do a forced inspection of all your belongings. You knew what they would find, and you knew that you could either accept all the blame or sell out your last remaining friend that actually wanted to help you. The choice was obvious, you are good girl, a good friend.

But that barely lessens the shame when the door behind you opens and both of your parents step into the headmaster’s office. At least grandma isn’t here.

You tell them you stole the Adderall from Richard Foster (who knows you are lying but you trust that he would stay quiet as he very much like the money he gets to keep) and got everything else from a guy you would meet sometimes in the theatre, and that you don’t know his name.

A perfect girl, a weak girl, a crazy girl. You are a fake girl, who has no place in the school, and she does not deserve friends.

A constellation of misery

11.

Your nose hurts. Your heartbeat screams of defiance. You are sitting in a police station, but you aren’t there. Not quite.

“Ms. Verville, do you know what it was you took?” You don’t. But you know better than to ask what happened.

You smell of vomit.

12.

If sending you to public school was supposed to help you correct your behaviour, then you are sorry to announce that no poorer judgments could have been made. For a vulnerable teen in your mental state, you reason, what you need is a stronger system of support instead of chastisement.

You start finding it more and more difficult to focus on anything, and while you still ached for approval and inclusion, you find yourself increasingly inclined to withdraw from people who would get close to you for no obvious reasons. And despite your better judgment, you never stopped using drugs. You’re careful with it now, you keep telling yourself, you’ve learned your lesson. You are serious, this is not substance abuse, it’s called self-medication, and you are indeed in need of it. You got your stimulants and occasional psychedelic, under your circumstances, separating your mental reality and your physical one is quite often desirable. You slowly start to believe that you are feeling more at ease with yourself, that you are acquiring higher function that is otherwise unattainable. The mistake you are about to make though, is that you are not going to notice how increasingly reckless you are going to become. When the climb up hill is gradual enough, you won’t realise how high you are until you reached a cliff.

You are about to throw yourself off a waterfall.

13.

You just turned sixteen, and this is the first time you’re partying out of town.

You exhale, dumbfounded by the sheer energy and passion for life you can feel reverberating through your entire body. An hour ago, when you got onto your ride, you took a tab of acid, and now this, this is nothing like your little house parties back in Sallybrook, this is the real thing. Everyone, everything looks more alive, sounds more beautiful, your environment breathed to life along the flashing lights and lively music. Passionately compelled, you begin talking to people, dancing, cheering. It’s like your whole programmed script has been flipped upside down, you no longer care of anyone’s approval, you can see yourself now, a tiny glint inside a whole universe, it seemed like nothing should matter, then, but in that moment, you felt profound. These strangers you’re connecting with, you feel for them so instantly, so adoringly, and they too, seem to return the same affection, not caring for one single moment of your shame, of your baggage. You’re all just stories to be told, the madder the wilder the better. Who wants to be good all the time? Boring. You want life to feel this way, you want people to feel this way, you want to feel this way about yourself, forever, you don’t want to stop, and then you hear the sound of a violin, you jolt.

Someone, it seems, brought an electric violin with them. You don’t seem to completely register that, however, and so the tension in your body starts feeding on itself. You begin to see familiar faces everywhere. And oh god, did you just tell your mom about that time you stole some cash from her out of desperation when you miscalculated your drug savings?

This can’t go on, you have to stop going there, get back on track, back to the party. You need more—

Someone patted you on the back, you turn around, your face ripping into a grotesque smile but who cares, no one notices anymore. You hear someone talking to you about how this and this are not the big deal people make it out to be, and you admit you’re not listening, you’re still trying to remember what exactly you told your parents this morning about coming to this party…

You feel someone grabbing onto your hand, and you remember nodding, laughing, hugging, snorting. You remember telling yourself that now is not the time to be thinking about your family, that you need to cure yourself first before you can be good for them, that you must give in completely to whatever emotion you want to feel, and.

You just want to be happy.

14.

You learn that, while you were unconscious, your parents admitted you to rehab and sorted all the police things out for you. In a dazed state you became a scared little girl again and did everything that you were told without saying a word in protest.

You dropped out of your school soon after, and without a proper apology or goodbye, you find yourself on your way to a rehab facility hours away from everything you have ever known. This can’t be that bad, right? Now you’re going to get the real help and support you supposed you were denied. So this can’t be that bad, right?

15.

Introduction day:

Besides you, there’s another new comer named Chloe. You two are only two years apart, with eerily similar stories to tell (though probably like you, she left out quite a lot of details), so naturally, you gravitate towards each other.

The next few weeks you spent together you got to experience some of the most genuine human connection in your entire life. It was Chloe who opened up to you first, and from there, all pretenses and barriers dissolved, you became real, heart to heart, friends. You supported each other, you held her hand through her withdrawal, and you’d even talk about future plans together, though that inevitably made you sad again. But she understands, she always understands.

You like her, you really like her. If your sister hadn’t been taken, and if she wasn’t so much older than you, would your relationship with her be something like this? Or was this bond you shared something more akin to another kind of love. Silly, silly girl you are, you’ve known each other for how long now, there’s no way there could be anything between you, once you finish your program you will be out of here and back to Sallybrook, you are bound to that place, you know that, everyone there knows that, somehow, but why?

One day you find Chloe being friendly with this guy, Dan. You remember him from group therapy— babyface, a snarky grin, and honestly not too bad looking. Dan greets you immediately, his voice warm and charming, and he surprisingly remembered a lot about you. Hesitant at first, you employ the ol’ smile and nod method of ladylike social etiquette, because something about his charm felt standoffish, too manufactured. Chloe seem to like him though, so maybe it’s just you. You were told that you are terrible at accepting kindness.

16.

Nearly two months into your program, you decide to send a letter home.

Some selected excerpts:

[…] A lot has happened since we last spoke, when was the last time we actually spoke, though, can you remember? I know I don’t, the past few years, I haven’t been there, and there are just no excuses for that. I should have lost the privilege to your forgiveness, but please don’t see me as a lost cause, please don’t give up on me. I’ve been working really hard the past few weeks, I am still here, not all that you have known is lost, I promise, and when I’m back, I will show you that I really have changed, if people can change for the better than so can I, I am already feeling it.

I have dreams of home, mama, papa. I miss you both. I miss you both, and grandma, and the music, so much. Do you remember when we used to play the strings together? I tried so hard to look happy back then, to look perfect, I thought that’s all you wanted, now I know that it is not true. I have oceans of regrets concerning choices I’ve made, but there’s nothing I regret more for not trusting you, and your love for me. […]

[…] I think there are good things to be drawn out of this whole ordeal too. I’ve made two friends during my time here, Chloe and Dan. I know what you might think, or maybe not, but kids that find their into a rehab centre probably aren’t the most upright kind by default aren’t they? That’s not down to me to decide, I guess, but I really think you would like these two, in the past weeks we’ve been through a lot together, and we probably know more about each other than we ever bargained for. Dan is really sweet, supportive, and smart. Apparently he is a volunteer now at the centre, once we got to know each other I have really come to see him as a big brother. And Chloe, she has a similar situation to me, but her family is a lot more complicated, and she just recently found out that her dad is really, really sick. So arguably, I think she, as a functioning person, is a lot better than me, ha. I really admire her, actually. Where I lost my self-esteem to shame and decided the best remedy to that is to avoid any kind of introspection, she never once lost faith in herself, or her integrity, no matter how many horrible things she had to go through. I think I’m a little bit in love with her, even, please don’t take that too seriously, I just… kind of feel like confessing it to someone. She’s someone I want to stay friends with though, I think she feels the same. […]

[…] So, I think I am really starting to feel hope again. I am getting better, real better this time, though this statement may be of little consolation to you, I still want you to have this reassurance. I know I have not been the best daughter, honestly that may be an understatement, but even though I don’t think I deserve forgiveness anymore, please, allow me to ask for it. I’m sorry, mother. I’m sorry, father. I never want to hurt you again. I can get things done through my efforts now, and I have at last, plans drawn for the future. It will be hard, I have made it so myself, but I am ready to start the next chapter in my life, and this is probably worth more to you than another apology from me, but yes, I mean it. Soon, I’ll be ready to come home, I’ll be ready to live again.

I hope to see you soon, I think of home.

Please say hi to grandmother for me, tell her I love her, so much.

With all my heart,

Rosaline

17.

You wake up from a nightmare. This haven’t happened in a long time, you note to yourself.

Sweating cold and your heart pounding so hard you can hear it without even trying to, you assessed that you’re probably best off not going back to sleep. You lie down, steadying your breath, but your pulse doesn’t seem to slow down. You close your eyes and wait, and you think that you hear something, something undistinguishable but somehow familiar.

You turn to your side, and heard a crunch near your pillow. The sound of paper.

You shot up, you don’t know why, only that your gut tells you that this is important. You pick up the small, ripped, crumbled piece of note. And on it, in Chloe’s distinct handwriting were the words “Don’t worry about me, stay” The sentence seemed to be cut off.

Instant panic. You try to remember your last conversation, and the last time you saw her, or the last time anything unusual happened that would warrant such a vague and insincere note.

Don’t worry. How the fuck could you not. Stay. How the fuck could you do that when she is gone?

18.

You recalled, the last few times you spoke with Chloe before the nightmare and the note, in addition to any other significant interactions you had with others.

There was Geneviève, your main counsellor. You talked to her about Chloe, but nothing that she wouldn’t be able to observe herself, even that sappy letter you wrote to your parents two weeks ago had more sensitive information in it regarding you and her. So no, she probably wouldn’t know anything then. Speaking of the letter, you haven’t heard from your parents since, and honestly, the more you think about it the more you secretly hope the letter was accidentally lost somewhere and burned.

There was Helen, from the same town as Chloe, this town you’re in. No, not her. Margaret? Sean? Bobby? Dan?

Right, you and Dan did talk a few times, but really not so much lately… Though he did ask you about your relationship with Chloe, and now that you think about it, it didn’t really come out as a question driven by curiosity…

And Chloe herself, right, her father is dying.

19.

You decide to go out and find Chloe. You know that around 5am people would start waking up, so you used morning jogging as an excuse to sneak out of the building, looking for possible clues that Chloe may have escaped. You two have joked about this before, have whipped up tv like stories and even went so far as to actually hypothesise a scenario for yourselves. And then you find it, a hole in the fence.

You sneak out, then begged people on the street for some coins so you can use the payphone. This is a long shot, but you dial Chloe’s cell, no answers. So you went to all the nearby hospitals, since there weren’t that much of them, and asked about Chloe, if someone called Chloe Blaine came to visit. You aren’t thinking clear, what are you doing, you keep saying to yourself. Chloe is fine, she didn’t run away, now get back to the centre quickly before they find out that you actually escaped!

You are torn, but with morning reflection sessions approaching, your fear of getting caught led you to run back to the facility. What you see then, was just about the last scene you wanted to see.

Red and blue lights flashed, glaring at your eyes. From short exchanges you overhear, you gathered that they seem to be asking for the person you know as Dan, but they used a different name, interchanging. You are not trained to go around unnoticed, and quite frankly, that’s not the smartest thing to do here right now. You walk towards the front door, but as the police are about to drive you away, a few staffs notices you and hushes you inside. They are not pleased with you, but there are more pressing concerns at the moment.

You suddenly have a bad feeling in your gut, a very bad feeling, when you hear someone mention Chloe’s name. It suddenly strikes you then, and you break into a frenzy, you started running, ignoring people calling out to you and you just kept running and running towards that largely abandoned bathroom in a half closed down building that you, Chloe and Dan would sometimes sneak to for shameful cigarettes.

You shout her name, you kick down doors.

And then.

20.

You fall backwards.

You hit the wall.

The best of times, the worst of times

21.

Sallybrook looks the same as when you left it four months ago, except maybe even more bleak than it was before, how is that even possible?

Your stay at the facility was extended largely due to your own volition. After Chloe’s death, you felt like so much of your personal progress was undone just like that, with the flip of a switch. Waves of depression and paranoia hit you, as if you were crashing, and nights after nights you relived the same nightmare that you would forget the instant you wake up and come to your senses. You feel lost again, and you’ve never been so lonely.

Finally standing at the doorstep to your home, your determination to hold still your expression wanes by the second. You want to play it cool, you want to keep your composure so, so bad. Since that letter you sent, you only talked to your parents once, and that was two weeks after what happened, when you were capable of holding normal conversations again. Of course, your parents were informed of what happened, the official version anyway, which was also the version you were given. None of it made any sense, none of it made any fucking sense.

The door opens, and you want to be the first to say something. Say something that won’t lead you to break out immediately into tears, but of course that won’t happen. Your dad was the one to open the door, and the moment he did you launched yourself into him. You begged for forgiveness, begged for love, you begged and cried and begged and mumbled, but you still can’t shake the feeling that you don’t deserve to be accepted back into the family, even as your dad folds his arms around you and stood there, with you.

You feel warm. You want grandma.

22.

Grandma’s funeral is arranged privately by the retirement home she stayed in the past few decades. You stayed with her, all day and all night, for a few days before she passed away peacefully in her sleep. Her last words to you, “I know,” accompanied with that loving, knowing smile, not one bit changed in the last two decades of your remembrance.

You delivered the eulogy. But contrary to what you had imagined and feared your whole life, this wasn’t difficult, this wasn’t difficult at all.

Of all the relationship you have on this mortal realm, there was only one that remained untainted, only one where you were able to achieve closure, had nothing to forgive, only one where you got to say goodbye, where you were both, ready to let the other go. Where you both, loved deeply, loved unconditionally, and never let anything get in your way. That kind of love. You’re happy you were ever able to experience it at all.

It felt like magic. And that night, you fell asleep sweet and sound.

23.

Everyone knows it’s hard to establish a career, especially if you’re a high school drop out with a long history of underage substance abuse.

Being at loss is nothing new now, but what’s more frustrating than not having the motivation to do anything is to have the motivation, but nothing to do. Broadly speaking though, you knew that you didn’t want to go back to school, not immediately at least, and if you do you probably would opt for community college instead. So for now, you want to start working, luckily, your dad has a few strings to pull so you were able to gather some experiences bagging groceries and sitting at gas stations before you finally secure a permanent position at the local diner.

You wonder if this is enough to repair the damage you’ve done to your family.

24.

During a casual conversation, you learn for the first time that your dad used to co-own the Moonlight Diner with its current owner. That can explain why he wanted so much to give you the regular well-meaning pep talk and career advice. In particular, he often urged you to follow through with your plan to go to community college, and at the very least acquire a legitimate degree.

“Even if you want to be a waitress forever, it’s still better to be a waitress with a degree.” And he laughs, telling you about all the wonderfully unpractical and amusingly specific studies you can go into. Nothing is stopping you, Rosa, go get that Art History degree if you want. And somehow, that’s the most encouraging thing anyone has ever said to you in years.

“Or music,” he adds, “do you still play the violin?”

25.

It took you nearly five years since getting out of rehab to finally feel rehabilitated. And another two to be able to talk about what happened during those years to another person without omitting the uglier parts that you wish to forget.

You enrolled in community college when you turned twenty years old, and for the first time since your expulsion from St. Peters, you felt like a normal, functioning person of society again. You became that quiet, perfectionist once more, but not with the same spirits you once held. Maybe you have finally grown up, maybe everyone goes through phases like this, but you know and understand now, that all these identities and personas you adopted over the years, the child prodigy, the mindless follower, the uncaring teenager, the decadent junkie, the over-zealous perfectionist, the washed up daughter of a small New England town, they are all an acceptable part of you, a part of you that can be, and deserves to be loved all the same.

It’s when you learned that, that you were able to start keeping friends, start building relationships based on mutual love. And like the classic American cliché, you shuffled through all these revelations in the last few years of your college career, alongside your boyfriend Raphael.

But if you think that you’re going to earn yourself a happy closure here, you couldn’t be more wrong.

The Ghosts back home

26.

Remember what guilt felt like?

“I saw her again, Chloe.”

You are in Raphael’s arms, your conscious fading in and out, you mutter scattered phrases like you’re in a waking dream. You hear his voice telling you that you are fine, and that you will be ok. This is not a relapse, you swear. And sure it wasn’t, you two both know what you are doing, you both agreed that there are times where your mind may need a little push for you to reposition yourself in your trauma. You are about to graduate soon, soon you will be returning to Sallybrook, a town stifled with fractured souls and stolen future, so you decided that before you go back, you want to come clean.

“I don’t think I deserve a college degree,” you drawl, “I don’t think it mean anything.”

Raphael doesn’t reply, “and I think Chloe forgives me.”

You don’t feel like you deserved this either.

27.

You know what Raphael wanted, you have always known.  

He cannot move in with you to Sallybrook, you know he won’t want to, and you know you won’t let him either way. Growing up, you thought the haunted nature of your town was just another unfortunate, but normal, condition of this world. Because you knew that bad things happen to everyone, no matter where they come from, and who they are. You knew that everyone has ghosts from their past that haunts them, shame and guilt that would sneak up on them at anytime and curse them with the desire to cause more pain. But Sallybrook is different, Sallybrook, you believed, despite reeking of death, is a living entity, vicious and unrelenting. And if there’s one thing you want to do right by Rapahel, is to not let the ghosts that shackle you, sink their claws into him.

So when your father got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and your mother disappeared under mysterious circumstances, it was almost a relief in this respect, that you won’t have to shoulder the guilt of choosing to be loyal to one person over the other.

When that conversation came, you’ve long been ready for it.

“If you want to stay here, then we’ll have to end this”

You gave him your answer, so you don’t have to hear his.

Sallybrook

28.

Years went by like falling leaves.

For nearly a decade now, your life has been monotonous and sober. You are by most definitions, well adjusted, and in this town that was such an anomaly that your unaccomplished life could almost disguise itself as a triumphant one.

Here’s a rundown of the events that happened after you graduated college.

Your dad is dead now, he passed away in 2016. And in those last few years you and him exchanged more words than in your entire life time. In the end, due to his greatly reduced brain function, you were able to save him from the horrors and pain that continues to plague our town. He never even knew that your mom was never found. You learned to play the cello, it didn’t take you so long. And through the deep treble tones you were able to connect a weak old man with his lost wife. He passed away believing that both his wife and his daughter were by his side, at peace.

And yes, you mom was never found. But you do have a text message from her telling you that she was contacted by an old friend. She was not the type of person to run away, and she’s most likely long dead by now, you can only hope that she is at peace.

Another death, the Moonlight diner was handed over to you and you became its new owner. You were left with a

You’re a washed-up former drug addict, child prodigy, now running a diner in a secluded, haunted town. You don’t know if you are right now is who you are fine being for the rest of your life, and now that you have very little mortal ties, maybe you could

But as of now, you’re doing fine. Sometimes you would dim the lights of your diner at night so you can see the stars.

You pick up your violin.

[thehauntrpg-blog]

MARTI

[thehauntrpg-blog]

Name: Noah Simon Bishop Age Range: 27 Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him Occupation: Unemployed Status: TAKEN by tabi

You’ve always known there’s something that your family was hiding from you and your siblings. Your parents didn’t appreciate your inquisitive nature and your mouth that asked far too many questions, so they tried to shut you up when you wouldn’t listen. Their anger only served to fuel the fire burning within you and your search made you scour the entire archives of Sallybrook and then some, listening to outlandish old wives’ folk tales and conspiracy theories, still thinking they were all worth the time of day. You figure out the truth when you least expect it and what you learn makes you leave Sallybrook with no intention of coming back; but the town has spread its hold on you. Your family forces you back in against your will, unwilling to let go of an uncertain factor, unwilling to let knowledge such as yours walk freely out in the world.

August: They’re the only one who has seen what your parents are like when no one else is around. One summer day when you were a kid, standing by the rocks at the cove, you saw them looking right at you as your parents yelled at you about the legacy you had to uphold. You wanted to reach out after that, but you never did. They never said anything, and neither did you. When they disappeared, you thought your secret had gone with them.

Indigo: Of course news of your running away spread across town, your sister not helping that fact. And you can feel, just by the way Indigo talks to you, that they want to know why. More than anyone, maybe even more than Caroline. You don’t trust them, afraid of their very public and well known podcast, but even more afraid of opening up to a stranger who wouldn’t have your best interest at heart.

faceclaim: Alexander Calvert

tw: loss of a sibling

For however much seasickness Noah sometimes encounters whenever he goes out sailing, never in the history of the world has there ever been a boy more in love with ships, with the blue on blue cascadence, the way the water blends with the sky and spreads out forever, the universe seemingly forgetting that any other kaleidoscope set of colors exist expect shades of azure. His bedroom is full of paraphernalia for it, an in-house shipyard, a prayer to the gods of oceans, the leviathan painted across one wall, and he pours himself like rain over books about seafaring travel, teaching his little sister everything he can from the square-rigged masts to bowsprits, and when their little brother is born, he teaches him about them too.

Noah is always teaching them things, always at the foreground, always at the bow, the navigator of their simple, young lives, captaining their chaos with wide smiles and prepubescent fingers, the tone of his father always, always echoing in his ear: “you’re the oldest, you have to look after them.” Caroline with her clipped words and introspection, and Caleb with his loud laugh and huge, warm eyes– they are a family together, a crew together, and despite usually being the one to take the blame, to take his parents’ anger at whatever mischief they’d managed, he always unfailingly volunteers to read the bedtimes stories at night and cook pancakes on Fridays, put band-aids on scraped knees and build little paper boats with secret, silly messages on them, hidden ruefully inside their rooms to garner whatever giggles he can coax from them.

It’s difficult for a child to understand what’s wrong with the world, to understand the way the sky darkens every winter in a uniquely Sallybrook style, the way ghost ships haunt their shorelines, the way adults cry silently into their pillows on Christmas eve, hollowed from a loss long in their pasts. Noah never realizes the grey set of December, never realizes the way his mother grips them all so tightly every year, begging for them all to sleep in one room together, just for a few nights, just to ease her nightmares. “Everyone has nightmares,” she tells him in a whisper with shadows in her eyes, and he acquiesces to that because he does as well. He only begins to realize what it means when they wake up one morning and Caleb’s room is empty and the light and color drain from the house, the sounds of the waves rushing in on the sand shifts to them rushing out, and out, and out.

And he changes from a boy to a battleship, the anger simmering, growing in him like kindling coal, from loss, from questions unanswered, from information sitting on the backs of tongues, locked behind their teeth, behind their eyes. They know more than they’re willing to spit out for him, and that’s what drives him mad, that’s what spurs on his quest, his newfound enemy waters. He fights more with his parents now, the usual good-natured pressure they wrap on his shoulders (“you’re the oldest, you have to be strong”) stabbing into him like cannon balls against his hull, the wood of him creaking, patches blocked over, and he snaps and snarls at them, reloads and fires back. Their battles get worse and more bitter with every strike, the empty bedroom at the end of the hall gets bluer and bluer, as though the walls blend with the water, blend with the sky, and Noah can no longer walk inside it without sinking.

There have always been stories and rumors in town, silly games kids would play, silly fortunes they’d get told, urban myths and legends– and that’s what Noah had always assumed they were, that’s what he’s always attributed them to, until Caleb’s disappearance, until everyone’s blind acceptance that he’d just never see his brother again. Until the hole is struck so fiercely in the crew he thought he’d always have with him, then suddenly every story is a lead, every house is a harbor, every speculation is a storm to wade through. His adolescence is spent swimming and reaching for the nearest shore, as though he could hear Caleb calling for him in the rushing waves, in the white noise, and each year more understanding of everyone’s haunted looks seeps into his marrow a little deeper, a little colder, one child after the next, after the next, after the next, the tide rushing out, and out, and out.

When he stumbles on a piece of the puzzle, information he hadn’t even been looking for, hitting him from a sideways angle, unexpected as a riptide, a secret so haunting and confining, he can’t stay here. The battleship becomes a submarine, ducking out of that monochrome monstrosity of a house, no degrees to his education, no proper setup waiting for him, no future aspirations to look for, just the coastline in his view and the taste of salt on his tongue. He travels southward, heading to nowhere, hoping for nothing, picking up awful jobs where he can, spending time in awful places when he must, as lonesome and derelict as floating driftwood, but he stays near the Atlantic’s edge, unable to pull too far away from it for fear of getting too land-crazy that long in port.

He loses too much money on the beach in Connecticut, gives his heart to a girl in Virginia, doesn’t stay long in either of the Carolinas, too reminded of the sister he never said goodbye to, hates Florida for its sunny skies and useless palm trees. He finds he can only breathe well enough above the surface of his nightmares as long as he keeps moving, keeps disappearing, keeps avoiding anything too serious, too solid.

The world shifts again around him when the motel room television cuts from cheap infomercials to white noise suddenly, startling him awake at midnight, his brows furrowing, eyes flashing, heart beat thundering, and a voice reaches out to his ears; his brother. His name. Two syllables whispered in the fuzzy mess of pinpricks, and the moment is gone so quickly he almost wonders if he’d imagined it. And then his phone buzzes, the phone no one from home is supposed to know about, the phone no one from his family is supposed to have access to, his life unclaimable, untamable, as wild as the ocean, beeps with a text message.

“Noah this is your mother. Come home.”

So he does.

He arrives on the edge of Sallybrook in a beat-up old pickup truck, looking about as horrid as he had when he’d left, staring at the green welcome sign for a long moment, the engine just idling on the side of the road, and wishes he had another name, wished he lived another life, wishes he had both a sister and a brother. He wishes he hadn’t managed to break both bonds so recklessly, so completely. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to any of them, what he’s going to do, how he’s going to pick up the pieces of his life here, convince his parents, his old friends, his sister to avoid him, to look away. He doesn’t want them to see him as he is now; nothing but a shipwreck, smashed to bits against the waves.

[thehauntrpg-blog]

Name: Kira Lavandre Age: 29 Gender: Female Pronouns: She/Her Occupation: Lighthouse Keeper Status: TAKEN by kass

It has always been your dream to work on the lighthouse at the end of the cove, finding it more magical and intriguing than anywhere else in Sallybrook. You got to know the old lighthouse keeper well, going there often to keep him company, as no one else seemed to want to be around him. He gave you a key when you turned sixteen, and you started to help him take care of things when he got too old to. When he died, you inherited the lighthouse. Now, you live alone in the little shack by your favorite place, though you wish you didn’t have to live so close to where the children had been fabled to go missing. At night, sometimes, you think you can hear their screams, calling out to you for help.

Imogen: You remember seeing them in church when your parents used to take you. Up until you turned sixteen, this was the one thing that made the hour long Sunday service worth it. When you stopped going, they kind of disappeared from every other aspect of your life, though you often find yourself wondering where they are, if they’re doing okay.

Rhys: You met by the docks, when you were on your way back home from your daily walk. Since then, you’ve been inseparable. There are few people who love the ocean as much as you do, and they are one of them. Though you find yourself worried about their safety, about how long they’ll be in your life, knowing how unpredictable and dark the waters of Sallybrook tend to be. Every night, before bed, you pray to them and hope that someone hears you.

faceclaim: Tashi Rodriguez

                                                                                              like my mother, give wings to a stone

It was only her and her mother for a long time. The house was small, run down, but it was all they needed. Kira was raised surrounded by love and acceptance, and when her father had decided he would prefer another family, she didn’t mourn him for long. She followed along behind her mother like she was her entire world, doing exactly as she did, taking up the same hobbies, ignoring making friends outside of her because she didn’t want her to be alone. It was her mother who taught her to love the sea, in the summer taking her to the cove ever day, in the winter spending special occasions there. It was something that she cherished. 

One day, when her mom was reading a book and hardly paying attention to her, Kira decided to set out for the lighthouse that called to her. She told her mom she would be right back, and her mom paid no mind. It was there that she met the lighthouse keeper, tending to the garden that resided there. They took to each other immediately, and Kira spent the entire day in that garden with him, where he showed her everything about caring for the plants he had there. He was old, and he seemed to be like her. Alone. A ghost in Sallybrook. Someone people paid no mind to. 

                                                 lost through time and that's all I need

Her days from then on were always the same. She would go to school, come home, do her homework, then go visit the lighthouse keeper. She would go grocery shopping for him, take care of the things he was getting too old to do, make sure he could spend his days in his garden or in the lighthouse instead of caring for his house. In return, he taught her all he knew about herbalism, about the ocean, and about Sallybrook. It was interesting to see how the town had stayed the same and changed, how it seemed to be stuck in time compared to everywhere else. But Kira liked that about it. 

In the summers, she began writing about her experiences by the lighthouse, climbing up to the top and filling her notebooks with poetry and drawings about the sea, about her life, about how grateful she was for everything she had. It was there, high up on the lighthouse, that she first saw Mr. Suzuki collapse in his garden. She climbed down immediately, tried to help him back up, but he said something had broken. He was in the hospital for two weeks before he passed, Kira at his side, holding his hand. He told her he had always considered her his daughter, that he would leave everything he owned to her, and that she could start her own life by the lighthouse then. 

She told him he was being ridiculous, that he was getting better, that soon he would be able to go back to his home on the cove. To that he only smiled, and told her that he knew he would be leaving her soon. And so he did. After complications from the surgery he had had on his hip, Mr. Suzuki passed away, leaving Kira with everything he owned. Including the lighthouse. Including his home. 

                                               so much love, then one day buried                                            hope you're safe, 'cause I lay you leaves                                                    is there more than we can see? 

Kira moved in within the next few months. Cleaning everything out, making it her own, but keeping some of his most prized belongings to remember him, to continue feeling his spirit. Her mother came to visit often, afraid of what it would mean for her girl to be there alone, or anywhere alone, when she was in such bad spirits after his death. For that, she was grateful, and put aside a room for her mother to stay over on nights when she couldn’t bare to be alone in that house. On nights when the wind outside sounded too much like screams, when the history of the town started to weigh down on her a bit more than usual. 

[thehauntrpg-blog]

Name: Miles Lee Hargrove / Andrew Nasir Koury Age Range: 33 Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him Occupation: Church Groundskeeper Status: TAKEN by jules

Lone wolf is what they call you. Seeing you is treated almost like seeing a ghost, the kids daring each other to come to the small hut you live in at the church grounds. You have grown weary of this town but you have never been able to leave, and so you opted to make an island out of yourself instead, isolating yourself from everyone. You like it better this way, you think. The peace and quiet calms you and the solitude protects you from being hurt once more by loss and the trauma of grief. You have had enough of both to last for a lifetime.

Rhys: Few people have stuck around in your life, most of them usually getting tired of you, throwing you off to the side and acting like you were never really there. This has caused you to prefer your own company, as that’s the only thing you can really trust. But you’ve found that no matter what you’ve done, no matter who you hurt, Rhys was always there with you. They’re fiercely loyal, more so than anyone else in Sallybrook, and you are confident that they will never leave your side.

Rosaline: You can tell they feel bad for you, that they pity you, that by some respect, they see themself in you. And you hate it more than anything. You don’t need their pity, their sympathy, and you certainly don’t need their company. You haven’t snapped at them yet about forcing themselves into your life, but you know it won’t be long until you do.  

faceclaim: Rami Malek

tw: parent death, parent suicide, child death, kidnapping

“DID YOU EVER SUSPECT?”

This is what you consider your first ‘real’ memory; the first thing you can remember that wasn’t based on lies, constructed on foundations of a false reality. The social worker who asked you that was a prim woman, proper and professional, who’d gone through most of the interview with pursed lips and a pitiful, saccharine tone. This question, though, was different. She seemed… almost nervous, but too overwhelmed with curiosity to stop herself from asking. And this was the start — of you as a freakshow, a living ghost story. Not so much a real boy as a campfire tale, told by teenagers around a fire to scare one another. What if your whole life was a lie?

Quite frankly, there’s not much to be said about it.

You wouldn’t meet her eyes when she asked, staring at one of the bland motivational posters on the wall instead; “HANG IN THERE, BABY!” It seemed like a cruel joke — hang in there indeed. You chuckled, though, the macabre humour speaking to your fifteen-year-old tastes; the first hint of emotion you’d showed since you’d called the police that morning. You think it scared her a little, because when you said no, of course not, she never asked for you to elaborate. It was a lie, but what wasn’t? Everything in your life was a lie, from the greeting your father offered you every morning to the last goodbye you’d ever got from him:

“MILES, I LOVE YOU. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. NEVER FORGET THAT, SON… MY SON. MY SON.”

You found his body just before the sun rose. He was hanging from your favourite spindly tree in the backyard, the one you spent countless summer days climbing through your childhood. You gripped his feet — they were all you could reach, him dangling, you crumpled on the ground — with your knees sunk deep in the December snow. Your thin, flannel pajama pants were soaked through, but you didn’t care. You didn’t even feel it. You sat for an hour, sobbing until there were no tears left, only leaving when the sun blinded your eyes and you remembered this couldn’t go on forever. You called the police, and they came quickly.

When they cut him down, his body dropped into the powdery snow, and all you could think of was the summer after you turned seven. You were in that tree, and you climbed way too high — higher than you should’ve, higher than you could. You sat in that tree, clinging onto its bony limbs with your own, a childish, fearful desperation keeping you up there for an hour. Eventually, you called out for your dad, a sob in your voice as you felt your grip slipping. He sprinted out as soon as he heard you, panic in his wild eyes. He coaxed you down, with the same gentle, kind voice that was the soundtrack to your childhood, and when you finally let go, you dropped down — but he caught you. He caught you.

He would never catch you again.

You wanted to stay ‘til the coroner came to take him away, but soaked to the bone, they wouldn’t let you. Instead, the paramedics hauled you away, small and frozen and shivering uncontrollably, soundless sobs indistinguishable from your shaking. They took you to the hospital and warmed you up, a cop kind enough to bring you a change of clothes. He pulled one of your father’s flannels from the closet, and you wrapped it around you like a safety blanket, breathing in the scent of Old Spice and mothballs like it was all the air left in the world. When they knew you weren’t going to die of hypothermia, they released you to a social worker, who took you back to the local CPS office. You sat in that bland office room, papered with those stupid posters, for hours, while they tried to find someone to take you. They looked for next-of-kin, but instead, they found something else — they found out that there was no you.

No birth certificate, no social security number, no nothing. Miles Hargrove didn’t exist.

“WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?”

Nobody knew.

Joe Hargrove, your father (or the man that raised you, anyways), did have a son, but everyone knew what happened to him. Six years old, he vanished during the Haunt. His name was Emmett. Joe had taken him ice-fishing down at the lake by your property, and turned around for just a moment to find a drill. When he looked back, Emmett was gone. That was in 1979. In 1980, Joe’s wife left him — ran off with the postman, never heard from again. He became a hermit, retreating into himself, mourning his lost son, like so many other fathers in the town. Five years later, he disappeared the night before Christmas. On New Year’s Day, he came back with you.

People didn’t ask questions. He didn’t give them much of a chance to, keeping to himself when he could, rarely taking you out — homeschooling you, restricting you both to his expansive country property — but when he did, and people asked, Joe always had answers. You were his sister’s baby, and she died in childbirth. He had a fling with some random woman passing through, and found you on his doorstep nine months later. The answers were never the same, but they were always good enough. He’s a good father and a good man, let him be. He went through the unimaginable.

But when he died, he left you without any answers at all. No record of you having existed let to all sorts of questions, and you had nothing to offer back to them. If you didn’t exist, then what could they do with you? They sold off the house, but without an SSN, couldn’t even open a bank account to give you the money. It was a fight to enroll you into a regular school, and any foster family that could take you only kept you for so long before they realized they couldn’t collect regular child support cheques from the government. And that were only the boring, practical issues.

After all, you had to come from somewhere: where was that?

You never really looked like Joe. You didn’t sound like him, your skin was a different shade entirely, with different eyes and curly, black locks that didn’t come close to resembling his fine, blond hair. It never bothered you, you never thought much about it, but it became clear that there was no biological relation there. And without any adoption records, it left the police and social services with one dreadful conclusion: he took you.

“WHAT DO WE DO? I MEAN, THIS IS A LIVING JOHN DOE. WE’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THIS BEFORE IN STATE HISTORY.”

This is what you heard them whisper, just outside the door of the little office you were cordonned into. Living John Doe. Face, but no name — no history, no family to speak of. That’s what they decided you were. They combed through missing persons databases, searching for anyone who matched your specifics — someone had to be looking for a missing infant, right? Nobody just lets their baby disappear without caring, right? Oh, this poor boy, this poor, unwanted soul — but there was no one. Nobody had reported a missing infant in 1984 or 1985 that fit you. No one in Massachusetts, no one in any surrounding state, no one in the country. There were no records of Joe leaving the States in either of these years, so it seemed impossible for you to have come from somewhere else. They plucked your hair, swabbed your mouth, took fingerprints and footprints, but nothing matched any missing persons report anywhere. The police and the National Centre for Missing and Exploited Children issued statements begging for information: “If anyone knows of any woman who was pregnant in 1984, but never came home with the child, please contact the Sallybrook Police Department at XXX-XXX-XXXX. If you wish to remain anonymous, we urge you to call Crimestoppers. We have a child here who has a family, who must be missed, and we want to bring him home.”

They didn’t understand. You had a home.

They pitied you without listening to anything you had to say, and before long, you stopped trying to speak at all, but — you had a family. You had your dad, and that was all you’d ever needed. Regardless of your origins, Joe was the man who raised you, and despite any hurt you fostered from the falsehoods, you loved him. And you were never allowed to mourn. He was a criminal, a bad man, who stole an infant from a presumably loving family, and raised you in isolation to hide his own misdeeds.

But he was also your dad. He may have taken you, but clearly, your biological family wasn’t looking. He raised you with kindness and compassion, and you grew up knowing you were loved, unconditionally. You may have been taken to replace another stolen child, but you had your own home in his heart. They didn’t know about the afternoons you spent fishing and hunting in the thick Massachusetts woods, the gleam of pride in his eyes when you took down your first buck. They didn’t see him read to you, and patiently listen as you read back, from Dr. Seuss to Hunter S. Thompson. You weren’t a prisoner. You were his son. And now, you were fatherless, and it was like that didn’t matter at all.

You were there, in Sallybrook, but they couldn’t find you, and that meant you had few options. Your survival was at the hands of charitable people, being taken in and carted from home to home, becoming less and less of an ideal foster child as you went. Eventually, when nobody wanted you anymore, you were taken in to a group home for orphaned boys, run by the church. You and your father had never been religious; he was a staunch atheist, sure that no God would allow what had happened to him to happen, and you’d never cared either way, but lacked a fundamental capacity to believe because of your upbringing. Still, you kept your head down, did as you were asked, and by nature of being less rebellious than your fellow foster children, became a favourite in the home. Other boys aged out of the system and moved on, able to access state resources, like FAFSA and housing subsidies. You had nothing but pity.

Your only bit of luck, perhaps, was that the pity that you got managed to keep you alive.

“YOU CAN STAY HERE. ALL WE CAN OFFER YOU IS ROOM AND BOARD, AND A LITTLE SPENDING MONEY, BUT WE’D HATE TO SEE YOU OUT ON THE STREET, MILES. YOU’RE SUCH A NICE YOUNG MAN.”

And just like that, at eighteen, you became a groundskeeper. It was really your only option. Despite achieving high grades through the time you spent in mainstream high school, without money, there was no chance you’d be able to attend university. You were far too embroiled in the system to falsify a SSN to register anyways. You couldn’t get a regular job, so you wouldn’t be able to afford renting a home, meaning you’d be out on the street once you left the church’s care, so they offered you an alternative: you care for the church.

You took to the job easily. It wasn’t particularly intellectually stimulating, nor was it any kind of luxury — no, it was hard work, hard labour, cleaning and keeping the grounds, ensuring things were in tip-top shape, but as disappointed as you were at the world for letting you slip through the cracks, you didn’t want to disappoint the only people other than your father that offered you any kind of kindness. You can’t remember if you ever dreamed of a life bigger than this, of getting out of this nowhere town, of doing things, of being someone — maybe when you were younger. Any kind of dreamed ended when you were fifteen; all your memories before that were hazy. The courts and the government decided you were nobody when you were fifteen years old, and that’s how you stayed.

“DO YOU WANT TO CHANGE THAT? DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?”

You’d never forget the voice of that pursed-lip social worker, who asked you if you ever suspected all those years ago. You never expected to hear from her again, though — especially not through a cold call, late into the evening. You’re still listed in the phonebooks, as though anybody reads them, still as Miles Hargrove, but nobody’s ever bothered calling you before. She did. You never forget her, and it seems she couldn’t forget you. Not often you find a boy who someone loved, who, at the same time, isn’t anyone.

She called you with only one question, asked through a cool, raspy voice: “Do you want to know? Who you are?”

Major developments were being made in the field of genealogical DNA testing. As she explained, scientists and genealogists took samples of a John or Jane Doe’s DNA, and ran it through ancestral databases, until they find a common ancestor. When they find one, they trace family trees until they find a close relative, and from there, they can make an identification. She had been petitioning for your case to be looked at again, and one of the non-profits doing this research offered to take you on: maybe, just maybe, they’d be able to find your biological family; as she put it, they’d give you your real name, your real identity.

Flatly, you said no, that your name was Miles Hargrove, your father was Joe Hargrove, and that’s how you’d like to keep it. She told you the offer would remain open, and that’s when you hung up the phone.

Years and years ago, she’d asked you if you ever suspected that your father wasn’t really your father. You said no. That was a lie. Of course you’d suspected — when you’re a little brown boy and your father was white, that raised eyebrows, raised questions. He homeschooled you, kept you fairly isolated all your life — and you didn’t know much about how the rest of the world decided to operate, but you knew enough to know that wasn’t exactly normal. You avoided hospitals at all costs, to the point where your dad had set the arm you broke when you were twelve at home, a paper-mache cast and a lifelong survivalist’s knowledge all he needed, but there was always that why, just begging to be asked.

Nobody seemed to understand that you never really wanted to ask it. You loved your father, and more than your identity, a chance at a life, when he died and they took you away, they tried to take your love for him, too. That’s the only thing you held onto, all these years.

But it’s hard. The isolation is hard. The loneliness is hard. The stares, the whispers, the snickers are hard. And you’ve never been strong, not really — you can only take so much.

How much?

How much more can you stand?