October Writing Challenge: Nightmares

[Sean *]

It's writing challenge time again. To enter, just post a ficlet (300-4000 words suggested) in this thread. When the voting for this month's OTM winners comes around, a voting poll will go up for this as well.

The Challenge: Halloween is nearly upon us, which means that we should get into the Halloween spirit. Write a story involving something that would terrify your character. It can be literal, apocalypse-like, or existential.


The rules:

• Characters must be in Hammel canon, but the ficlets are not site canon unless expressly stately. Anything that can't fit with canon is automatically considered AU.
  
• Entries must be more than 300 words.
  
• You can enter no more than three ficlets. Any ficlets posted after the original 3 will not be considered for voting. If you want to post more, however, have fun.
  
• Ficlets must be titled.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Directions

Josh didn't know how it happened, but for once he was awake well before Sean. Usually, despite the fact that his partner had insomnia, it was the other way around. Or perhaps it was because of Sean's insomnia that he awoke so early, even after staying up most of the night.

Either way, the fact that he was awake first -- and without any obligations, and thus without the help of an alarm -- was a truly momentous occasion.

He needed to mark this somehow.

While fixing his morning coffee it came to him. He could make Sean breakfast! Then, when his partner awoke, he would have something delicious and warm awaiting him. Although Josh had several years of baking under his belt now he still was a bit leery of cooking, but he could manage a little breakfast. They had blueberries in the fridge, and so he thought that he might try his hand at blueberry muffins. That was, after all, still baking and would also yield breakfast.

He preheated the oven, greased the muffin pan, and began to get out all the ingredients, setting them on the counter in a row:

Blueberries (of course), butter, eggs, vanilla, baking powder, salt, all-purpose flour, and milk. And then he rummaged through cabinet drawers for all of the measuring cups and spoons he would need.

The directions were simple enough for someone with baking experience, and he found himself getting into the rhythm with ease as he beat and mixed and stirred.

Soon the oven beeped, alerting him that it was heated and ready. He poured batter into the muffin pans and slid them onto the oven shelf.

Now it was time to wait.

Ten minutes later Sean appeared in the kitchen.

"Sean!" Josh exclaimed excitedly, handing his partner a mug, "Coffee is on, and if you wait a few more minutes there'll be blueberry muffins!"

Five more minutes passed, and the timer went off. Josh opened the oven door.

The muffins were blackened.

His face fell.

"But...I followed the recipe exactly...!" He moaned.

Sean placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly. "Let's get dressed. We can have breakfast at Ari's."

Josh mournfully deposited his burnt muffins in the trashcan, wondering where he had gone wrong.

He had followed the recipe.

[Joshua Bernstein]

Sentimentality

He was alone.

The rest of his coven were away for the night, out for a larges scale trip to one of the fetishist bars. Not true hunting by any stretch, but they had an agreement and breaking it meant death.

He was alone.

He swept regally through the halls of his manor, silent as the very shadows. He passed shining goblets and oval mirrors, but they only reflected back the corridors behind him.

Eventually he arrived at his destination: a small room dominated by an oak cabinet. The doors to the cabinet were locked; the vampire lord rustled through the keys at his belt until he found the one he needed.

click

The door swung open.

There were three wide shelves. Each shelf held a handful of paintings, but Joshua ignored those in favor of the object whose existence mattered the very most to him.

It was a doll, carved from wood with a painted face -- big blue eyes much like his own, and dark hair peeking out from a cloth tichel wrapped about her head.

He picked her up gingerly, cradling her in his arms and gazing down at her with a mixture of regret and longing. After a long moment he sighed.

"I miss you," He began, then tensed as a familiar footfall rang out from the hallway. In a flash he leaped towards the cabinet, but too late -- the doors had already swung open and there framed by the doorway stood Sean.

"Liebling," Joshua narrowed his eyes in atypical displeasure at the Hunter. "You should knock before you enter."

Sean's own expression was passive, "We have an agreement."

Which was true; part of their agreement was that Sean didn't have to knock.

Joshua hissed under his breath, wondering if he could casually shut the doll back up in the cabinet without Sean noticing.

Probably not. The Hunter's observational skills were an unfortunate match for the supernatural.

"Is that a doll?"

The vampire lord was sure that he heard amusement in the other man's voice.

"Yes." He answered tersely. They could both see that it was, so there was no use denying it. He could remember very clearly all the times he had breezily informed Sean that sentimentality was for mortals as he added, "It belonged to my sister."

He saw in Sean's eyes something worse than amusement.

He saw sympathy.

[Penelope Serrano-Blaise]

Forgotten
Word Count: 499

Long airplane rides were something Lucy Serrano had grown accustomed to. Kilometers above the ground and earbuds blocking out any surrounding noise, it hadn't made the trip any more relaxing than it usually was. It was always harder, coming home. Weeks without seeing her children, her wife; it was more than enough to make her restless, especially when only minutes remained before they landed.

Her eyes turned out the window, gazing down on the small, but familiar city. Frost had covered the ground, turning all that was a vivid green green into a less saturated version of itself. Dull and cold. Although the Australian would never quite get used to the colder weather Vermont held, she learned to bear with it. Brutal winters might have taken their toll on her, but she wouldn't change the location of their home for anything. There were too many connections here. Too much history - in no way could she uproot her family simply to be warm.

The thought shook from her mind upon landing. It wasn't particularly graceful as the cabin rocked forward while the plane slowed, but Lucy was glad to be on solid ground nonetheless. It was one step closer to being with the psychometrist who was inevitably waiting for her in the nearby building.

Everyone was eager to get off the plane, and Lucy eased her way into the row, slinging a bag over her shoulder as everyone filed off. Working through the crowd, tired steps brought her out of the terminal and to arrivals, she was faced with a wall of unfamiliar faces, all looking for someone coming home, too.

And there, in the middle of it all, was Penny Serrano-Blaise. By herself, having the children looked after by a more than supportive Carleigh. Dark eyes collided from those equally so, but only briefly. Lucy had already been stepping forward. Closer to the woman she missed so much, but concern forced her footing to stall. She lost eye contact, seeing the way her gaze had moved over the Australian. Completely unrecognized. Another face in the crowd.

As her gaze turned back around, Penny caught sight of Lucy again. Sight of her brought on immediate recognition, as it should have. As it always had been before. She was taking steps forward, and Lucy found herself moving closer, too. Familiar hands found her sides and pulled her in, kissing her despite the public place they found themselves in, and Lucy naturally reciprocated the action, her own arms wrapping around Penny's form.

“I've missed you.” Penny breathed, pressing her lips against Lucy's a second time. She with as much conviction as she always had. Words burned brightly against the Australian's skin, sinking down into her chest. There was no way the psychometrist realized her brief mistake, which only brought on new weight.

Lucy pulled her closer, arms wrapping tightly around her in an embrace. A hug, after all, was the best way to hide your face.

“Yeah, me too.”

[Dr. Sean Neville]

((OOC: Trigger warnings for suicide, death, and implied for other forms of violence and violation.))

Killer Wants to Go to College

Killer wanna go to college.
Another bullshit degree.
Tell the little town of New Paltz,
“You ain’t got nuttin’ to be a-scared about wit’ me.”

He had been the first suicide in Pilot Ridge in over five years.

Thirty-five-years-old. Perfectly healthy. A banker in Burlington, with a sensible sedan and a reasonable commute. He owned his own home and lived alone, but his family lived nearby and saw him often. He had friends, a wide social circle, and someone he’d started dating a few weeks ago. His parents said that the relationship had been going well; they were supposed to go out for brunch as a large group to meet the new SO.

Everyone the police interviewed were shocked by his death.

“He was so happy.” “He’s never been depressed.” “He wouldn’t do this.”

A thorough investigation ruled out foul play. The death had been straightforward. The death caused by hanging, the quick snap of the neck that came from the noose. The chair behind him was at the correct angle to have been knocked by his own feet. His body lacked contusions, lacked any signs of having been hanged while he was unconscious and unaware of his actions. The only DNA and fingerprints on his person and on the rope and chair belonged to him. No one else had been in the house. Nothing was missing, there were no signs of forced entry, and none of the neighbors had seen or heard anyone else around.

He left no note.

The local news – the newspaper, the radio, the public access station – all covered the death respectfully, and in such a way as to minimize potential copycats. Nobody wanted an epidemic.

The rest of Pilot Ridge had been devastated as well. Although not as tiny as some rural backwaters, playing six degrees of separation was a town pastime (and often required fewer than six people to find a connection). Many residents knew him. Others had seen him around. And everyone, friend or otherwise, could mourn the senseless loss of life.

Sean had met him a handful of times. Once at the Holiday Bash, they’d shared a drink. A couple of times they’d seen each other at other community events, or out running errands.

Despite not knowing him well, the telepath attended the wake. Although no longer religious – or even spiritual – Sean had a strong sense of community, and he wanted to support the man’s family and friends, even if he didn’t believe that there was an afterlife from which the deceased could view his wake and funeral attendance.

His lack of faith also meant that he didn’t consider suicide to be a mortal sin, for what comfort that might bring to the man’s family. At the very least, Sean didn’t judge.

Suicide was always tragic, not only for the loss of life, but because of the suffering the deceased endured, and the suffering that those left behind would face, often unaware of the original suffering in the first place.

Upon arriving, he set down the bouquet of roses he had bought, and he added his sympathy card – complete with a receipt for his donation to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention – to the pile on the table.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he told the deceased’s mother, and then his father, and then his sisters, as he found each of them. Despite not being close, he offered to listen or to serve as a shoulder on which to cry, should any of them want to, not necessarily now but at any point in the future.

Noticeably absent was the deceased’s new SO. Granted, from the obituary and the reports, they hadn’t been dating for that long in the scheme of things, but most everyone had expected an appearance. The psychiatrist attributed the absence to a combination of not knowing what place, if at all, they should play in the mourning ritual, as well as the fact that different people experienced grief in different ways.

After the wake, Sean returned home. He and Josh had a long talk about mortality, followed by an unnecessary promise that the attorney wrangled out of him, that he would never let his depressive bouts become so severe that he would act before he talked.

With the exception of their drunken escapades, the telepath had never acted without talking first. Left to his own devices, he would spend half his day talking over his feelings and opinions before taking a course of action.

The promise seemed to reassure Josh, which had been Sean’s intention in making it rather than arguing with his partner.

The funeral came and went, but Pilot Ridge remained a bit on edge from the event.

Particularly since a series of unfortunate – if not tragic – events followed over the next couple of weeks.

Stefan Spencer managed to crash his car, narrowly missing a pedestrian at the last minute. Fortunately, nobody was hurt, although he’d destroyed his favorite lamp post, and obviously had violated the terms of his parole agreement. Over Sean’s advisement, Josh had agreed to handle his case.

There had been a fire at the so-called haunted house at the edge of town. The house had been salvaged, owing mostly to the fact that not one but two weather manipulators currently worked volunteer EMS in Pilot Ridge, and, as a result of their quick action, it rained for three days afterward.

A few business downtown reported break-ins and thefts overnight: a club, a café, an antique shop. Nothing major, although the security systems had been disarmed somehow in each case, which limited the leads the police could follow. The same M.O. each time.

Maddock Hospital reported an uptick in the number of accidents coming through the E.R. Farmers with equipment, one of the mechanics had a broken foot from when a car fell off the platform during a repair job, burns here and there from kitchen fires, more than a few sprained backs from overenthusiastic movement. And a wave of unspecified illness with similar symptoms across so many residents of their tiny town: headaches, blurred vision, dizziness, blackout periods, unexplained fatigue and muscle soreness, all with sudden onset.

For Sean’s part, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach he couldn’t explain, which always set him on edge. Psychic intuition, Robert had called it, and long ago, the psychiatrist had learned to trust in it, even if he couldn’t glean direct answers. Something was obviously wrong.

However, a sinking feeling was neither a catastrophic injury nor a strange illness of unknown origin, and so Sean went about his life as usual, if also a bit on edge.

After a long day at Hammel, he stopped off at the grocery store to pick up a few things for supper, as well as another bag of sugar and a fresh can of baking powder for Josh’s baking homework. Yet, as he approached the checkout aisle, he was nearly overcome by a sudden drop in the pit of his stomach, coupled with crippling déjà vu.

This was familiar.

Horribly familiar.

His eyes flew open, and he looked at the person at the front of the line, bagging his groceries. His head was bowed, but the height and build and hair color all looked right.

No. No! It couldn’t be.

Then the man lifted his head, and Sean caught a glimpse of those familiar grey eyes. Those sinister grey eyes that hid the true depths of cruelty that man was capable of. The man noticed Sean (it was impossible for the telepath to hide in crowds given his height and build), and his brow furrowed briefly.

Gabriel Underwood.

Reflexively, Sean raised his mental shields to their maximum strength. Despite himself, the hand holding his basket twitched.

Gabriel’s lips curled into a sinister smile.