Haunted Roads

When: Night
Where: Bar
Who: Tavin and Abby

It was dark. It was raining. It was typical Seattle weather and for being a cat, Tavin couldn’t say he minded it. He was likely one of the few that didn’t run about with an umbrella tonight. What was the point when the wind was picking up like it was? Just made you look like a fool chasing the weaving and near breaking thing about. No he simply moved quickly from location to location, never letting himself linger so long outdoors that he could be considered anything close to soaked. Course he had goods on him so letting himself get that dosed by the rain wouldn’t quite work in his favor.

That probably had something to do with why he was lingering about in this bar rather then moving on when it seemed the buyers had run dry. Always he was looking for that next deal but he wasn’t so hard up to get the goods moving that he had to rush around like a chicken with his head cut off. He was still above most others when it came to amount made. Selling was never a problem for Tavin, apparently he had a great business sense. It just wasn’t one that worked in that “real world” sort of atmosphere. Then again Tavin didn’t fit into that corporate business world mold regardless. He preferred the night hours; he didn’t do suits and ties, and just try to tell him to cover up everything that made him stand out a bit.

The bar wasn’t anything fancy; it looked like a hundred other bars he’d been to. Wood tables, stools at the bar, an older guy behind the counter and a few younger kids running around serving up drinks and wiping down tables. The lights were dimmed, the windows were a bit smoky, and radios spouted the most recent sports scores or highlight news stories that no one was really paying attention to. It was boring, plain, and not overly busy. But the few that were looking to score knew that it was one of the places Tavin could be found. At least for this week. Tavin changed locations often and never let any user know him so well that they could tell others where to find him too easily. Was a good way to have a cop show up looking to play the I swear I’m a junkie now sell me some goods game.

Tavin was good at spotting them, he’d seen them try it on others dealers enough. But they always had a heart that beat a little too fast and a look about the eyes that junkies didn’t. Humans wouldn’t notice these things, but he did.

A glass was on the table in front of him, the contents half finished but only half way considered interesting by Tavin. It wasn’t as strong as he’d like and the air was warm enough to the place that the ice melted nearly as quick as it was put in. Apparently one of the cute little waitresses with perky tits kept complaining about it being cold…so up that heater went, never mind that most of the guys in the place were damn fine with the temperature it was around here.

He itched for a smoke but this place actually kept that smoking ban in mind, most places didn’t care…that is until they got fined. Then suddenly they were smoke nazi’s. Ideally he was watching the bar, the way the people moved and listening to the conversations had that they didn’t seem to even think about someone else catching. That was the interesting thing about a bar. No matter how packed or empty everyone seemed to think that no one could hear them. Even when they were screaming to their friend over music. Tavin always heard though and sometimes he found out the most interesting things that way. If anything it was helpful in the clubs…gave him hints to who was looking to buy.

Picking up his drink he took another sip of the half watered down liquid.

Who: Abigail and Anthony
Where: 13th Floor, Old Town Towers
When: Monday night

Abigail couldn't sleep, again. The dream had come early that night, almost directly after she'd laid her head on the pillow, without even a minute of uninterrupted darkness to lull her into a false sense of security. It had seemed sharper, too - the blood darker, thicker...when she'd woken, she could have sworn she'd seen a figure hovering by her bed a moment, before her mind cleared and she realised it was just her full length mirror, reflecting shadow.

Her heart was beating too fast in her chest, and she'd been sweating, even though it was still chilly in her small apartment. After half an hour of pacing around her living room, distractedly, she'd decided it might be a good idea to get out of the house. Not a particularly rational thing to do, at just shy of midnight, but she was still groggy from sleep and dizzy with the scraps of disturbing images from her dream.

She slipped on her bathing suit, a tshirt and a pair of faded pinstripe pants, grabbed a towel, and headed out. She never went up to the pool, during the day. It made her feel awkward, parading around in barely any clothing at all, in front of an audience. She rolled her eyes, inwardly, as she stepped sleepily in to the lift. Stupid of her to think she'd ever have made a good artists model, given how uncomfortable she was with her own body. Ah well, that was certainly a lesson learned.

The thirteenth floor was, as she'd hoped, deserted. Nobody was lurking in the roof-top garden, tonight, and the pool was still and clear. One toe dipped in the water determined that it was far too cold, despite being heated. But the spa seemed inviting. She'd just slip in for a few minutes, try and relax a little, then go back downstairs. Maybe if she took the time to unwind, the dream wouldn't bother her again, tonight.

She couldn't help looking around the deserted pool area several more times before slipping off her tshirt and wriggling out of her pants. She felt exposed, in the black bikini, even with nobody watching. She slipped hurriedly in to the warm water, pressing the button and allowing a flurry of bubbles to engulf her, tipping her head back to look up at the sky, too cloudy for stars, tonight.

WHO; ABIGAIL & ANTHONY
WHEN; Tuesday 11th Feb. (evening)
WHERE: The Towers - Anthony's condo
WHAT; Abby responds to ads placed on college noticeboards. This is a bad idea.
RATING; ? M?

She didn't need money. Her Father sent her plenty, every month, but something about that just didn't sit well with her. He paid for her apartment. He paid for her university tuition. He paid her bills, paid for her groceries, her clothes...and there was always a sizable amount left over for entertainment, or incidentals. And that bothered her. It wasn't that she objected to getting a free ride, necessarily. I mean, wasn't that what everyone wanted? It was more that it felt suspiciously like her Father was trying to plug up the emotional holes in their relationship with big fat wads of cash. And that bugged her.

She'd been thinking for awhile about getting a job. Obviously, it would have to be something that wasn't terribly time consuming - she was still studying, and couldn't manage anything full time, or anything too stressful. She didn't want to work in food - what little self respect she had dictated that flipping burgers was not a viable career option. And she didn't want anything that was going to bore her to tears.

She'd been combing the paper, notice boards, online job search sites and so on, for awhile, looking for something fun, easy and well-paid. Something she could do casually, and something where the work wouldn't follow her home. Nothing had really jumped out at her. She'd briefly considered a career as an exotic dancer, and then remembered that she had two left feet, and would probably fall off the podium. Besides, the idea of old men reeking of booze sticking dollars in her thong wasn't exactly appealing. In fact, the mere idea of wearing a thong wasn't particularly appealing.

Then she'd come across it, on her way to one of her classes on Tuesday afternoon. An ad posted on one of the university message boards. Models wanted for a local photographer. She'd been hesitant, initially. After all, 'photographer' usually meant something like 'amateur porn producer', and 'artistic' generally meant 'if we don't see your parts, you're not getting paid'. But she'd actually recognised a few of the sample shots the guy had included in the ad - a few commercial shots that she'd seen whilst leafing through magazines in the doctor's office. Surely that meant he was legit? Besides, the address he gave was one of the condos in her apartment building. She could at least go along, and see what the deal was. If it all went badly, she only had to run down a few floors to the safety of her own apartment.

She still couldn't quite believe she was doing it, when she found herself in front of a highly polished wooden door, several floors above her own apartment's level. She swallowed heavily, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear, tugging awkward at the hem of her white dress. She hadn't exactly dressed up - the outfit was smart casual, maybe...innocent looking. A kid at her highschool had told her, once, that it made her look like a bride of Dracula. She figured that would do, for a striking look.

Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand to the door, and knocked, loudly.

Who: Drystan and Abigail
Where: Theatre du Macabre
When: Thursday, Late



It had been a successful night, but that was often the case. Drystan didn't give his time to ventures that didn't turn out profitable. Either it was the luck of his draw or just the fact that he had several centuries on his side to help discern what would be a success and what wouldn't be... He was far shaper than his laziness often let on. Or maybe that was part of it, he was successful in spite of his laziness. Who knew... that kind of self-analysis was certainly not something Drystan took much part in.

Instead, he spent his valuable time corrupting the innocent and wallowing in sin. It was Thursday afterall. Tomorrow would be rolling around in money and gorging on blood.

This Thursday however was not just an ordinary Thursday it was that holiday that humans seemed so prone to spend far too much time and money indulging in.... St. Valentine's day it was. Love. Wasn't it disgustingly well... just disgusting. That particular emotion had no place in Drystan's life. Well no place personally. If anyone wanted to love him.... he was more than willing to use that to his advantage. But when it came to mutual avowals of love on Valentines day... he was far more keen on focusing on the Martyrs that had given their name to the day. Blood of holy men always made his day.

The performance put on by his cast of supernatural actors had been specifically driven to fit the holiday. Star crossed lovers, torn apart, quite literally by their families. Symbolism at it's most literal best. If that were truly a possible thing. The current director had put together a story that contained the sort of love that could only be fulfilled in death. Which was exactly the kind of happy ending that Drystan enjoyed. A Romeo and Juliet type story that had fulfilled every horrific fantasy that William Shakespeare could have possibly intended and a great deal more no doubt. What set this theater apart from all the previous steps into the macabre world... was simply the fact that his actors didn't suffer from the limitations of most humans. The blood shed was all too often real, no need for stage effects. Pain, lust and anguish that people felt on a normal basis was always blown up to epic proportions on his stage. A connection that often appealed to people despite their better judgments.

Such as it was tonight, the lovers meeting their end in a wash of blood that pricked Drystan's nose from where he sat in his personal balcony. For a romance which was rarely to his tastes... it had been done well. Never say that Drystan didn't know how to cater to his customers. But he couldn't say that he'd been watching the entire thing. No, a red dress had caught his eye. He had purchased it after all. The human was curious, endearingly curious. Though likely it would only lead her to trouble. But that was a lesson best learned the hard way.

As the curtain fell and the applause began, Drystan made his way from balcony, leaving strict instructions for the guard at the door to go and collect his guest and bring her to his... office. A red rose that matched the color of her dress was plucked from an arrangement decorating his balcony and passed off. Yes, that was to be given as well. If he had her pegged as he thought he did... she wouldn't be able to stop herself from taking that next step. How well could he read people after all these years.

Clad in an all black ensemble Drystan took the path through the corridors that led from the ground floor of the stage to a level just below. Not so far down as to touch the establishment below but far from the prying eyes of theater goer's. He had a touch for the dramatic, it was well known. Lights along the way were lit with a more natural form of light, gas flames. A touch of the old too, he didn't think that would surprise his little guest when she arrived.

Now just to see how curious the girl was...

When: Thursday Feb. 14th, Early evening
Where: The Towers, apt. C5
Who: Abigail (Narrative)
What: Abby gets a package, and does some research.

Thursdays were usually rather dull. No classes, no commitments...generally, Abby used to time to finish assignments, read, catch up on housework or errands, and just generally veg out. Today had been not exception. She'd spent most of the morning dithering around the apartment, half-heartedly cleaning up, but in reality spending the majority of her time combing the usual paranormal forums and message boards she frequented on-line. That had proved rather boring. Same old, same old - no new stories, mostly just thirteen year old girls spinning bullshit stories about an encounter with bloody mary, or a post that featured the same tired 'ghost photo' from thirty years ago that had been consistently debunked ever since.

Around lunchtime, out of boredom and hunger, she'd headed out, spending a few hours downtown, growing increasingly annoyed by all the pink hearts and teddy bears holding roses or banners that proclaimed 'I <3 you'. She'd grabbed something to eat, done some grocery shopping, and spent an indecisive half hour in the lingerie section of Nordstorm, for no apparent reason. Eventually, after much deliberating, she'd purchased a black bra and panty set. She blamed the marketing, really. It was bloody ridiculous to spend so much money on something that, quite likely, nobody would see. Certainly not tonight.

It was early evening by the time she'd returned home, her arms aching from carrying three bags of groceries five blocks. Next time she spoke to her father - if she ever spoke to him again, that is - she'd have to drop severe hints about requiring a car. She could drive, after all...and she knew he had the money for it. It wasn't really safe for someone like her to be wandering about the streets at night, as she so often did. Not that she cared, particularly. But he might. It might work, as leverage.

She'd been surprised, to say the least, to find a package propped up outside her door. She'd thought, initially (and with more emotion than she liked to admit), that it might have been from her father, but the contents put that to rest rapidly. It had only taken her a few minutes to figure out who it was from. She'd run a quick google search of the name on the card the stranger had given her, the other night, and had been surprised to find out what he did for a living. She'd heard of the Theatre. It got discussed, occasionally, on some of the boards she posted on - not seriously, of course - just as a recommendation for a night out, to those who were in to 'that sort of thing'. It was supposed to be pretty creepy. A throwback to some of those dodgy Victorian theatres, like the Grand Guignol in Paris. The original slasher movies, only on stage, rather than on screen. She'd always been rather interested in going, but it was pricey, and she hadn't really fancied going alone.

It didn't seem that she had much of an option, now. She bit her lip as she surveyed the package, and its contents, her arms folded across her chest. It wasn't everyday a hot guy she'd met once sent her an expensive (not to mention sexy) dress and theatre tickets. On Valentine's day. That was the problem, really. Somehow, it seemed...off. Maybe she was just too cynical.

She snapped out of it momentarily when she tasted something metallic in her mouth, and realised she'd made her lip bleed from worrying it so much.

"Oh, come on." she said to herself, out loud. You're being really cynical. It's a nice gesture. And you have always wanted to go. Catch a cab down there, take money so you can catch one back...what's the worst that can happen? You'll be in a crowded theatre with a bunch of other people. Well lit, public. Besides, he seemed nice. He didn't try to murder you last time, did he? And he could have. You're just self-sabotaging, again.

It was a convincing argument.

She put the groceries away, and headed to the bathroom to have a shower.

When: Night
Where: Various hallways of the Old Town Towers
Who: Mab and Anyone

Idly Mab was humming as she floated up and down the halls of the Towers. Today was a slow day; no one was around to play with. Where had everyone gone? It was no fun when they halls were empty and people didn’t want to notice her little antics. Made for a bored Mab which was never a good thing. Made her want to do something big! Something that lots of people would notice. Sure it would make her tired afterwards but when was that not worth it for Mab? So long as she got a giggle out of it and someone screamed in fright like a little girl! Made her snicker even now thinking about it.

She’d scared one already today. Some man that had been rushing up the stairs with flowers in his hand. From what Mab could tell he was trying to find a place to hide them so his whoever wouldn’t find them till tomorrow. Mab thought it was a perfect opportunity to try out one of her ugly faces! Make her eyes look hollow and her skin all peely. It wasn’t easy to do and she couldn’t for long but it was always a blast!

Around the corner the man had dashed, only to run right through her. He felt the cold, he turned around and Mab’s face was right there. All gross and freaky, he’d screamed so loud that a few residents peaked their heads out their doors to see what was going on. Of course they didn’t see anything! Nope by then Mab was all gone and the man just looked like a nutcase screaming in the hallways with his flowers all scattered around him. A few were even trampled on in his rush away!

Had almost been entertaining enough to make Mab’s day. It would have been plenty if she had others to watch later, others to idly annoy or confuse. But no one else came through the hallways today and no one had visited the gardens where Mab loved to linger. It was pretty there…

Pretty and she could stare out the big windows at the city that she couldn’t go play in anymore. But sometimes when she got really lucky she’d catch a car crash or a murder and get all giddy! If only she could go play in the blood and find all the little missing parts of the person’s brain! Sometimes being dead really was no fun at all. But it was better then being really dead. The whole not here anymore moved on go towards the light sort of dead.

Did Mab get a light sort of dead? Huh….she wasn’t sure. Oh well. Mab wasn’t looking to follow the light and go on home. She was home! Even if her room at the Towers had long ago been rented out to someone…if she could only remember the room, she’d haunt it all the time then!

But sometimes things got a little hazy in her memory after so long. Little stuff ran away, unimportant stuff. Or at least Mab was pretty sure it was.

With an audible huff Mab circled around and around, too bad she couldn’t get dizzy anymore! She’d lingered too long to this floor though, no one was home or no one fun. So she moved through the door to the stairs, following them around and around to another floor to go watch. Maybe someone interesting would be there…

WHO; ABIGAIL & CECILY
WHEN; Monday 10th Feb. (afternoon)
WHERE: The Towers - first floor near the mailboxes
WHAT; Checking the mail and having a nice chat :)
RATING; G - PG?

Abigail sighed as she pulled the key out of the padlock on her mailbox, un-hooking the metal lock and opening the little wooden door. A flurry of letters gushed out on to the floor, making her feel (momentarily) rather loved (if a little exasperated). She bent down to sit cross-legged on the marble floor, plunking her bag down next to her, to sift through the pile of mail on the floor with increasing distaste.

"Junk, bill, junk, bill, junk...postcard?" she raised an eyebrow dubiously, turning over the colour picture of Tokyo by night to see that it was, in fact, incorrectly addressed to a 'Mr. Henry Singh'.

"Typical..." she sighed heavily, continuing to sort the mail in to two piles - one for junk and mistaken postcards, the other for bills. The first she scooped up, getting awkwardly to her feet and wandering over to a trash can not too far away, depositing them in to it. She felt momentarily guilty for trashing Mr. Singh's postcard...but then again, it was his own fault for not bothering to get his mail forwarded. It wasn't her job to play Good Citizen and ensure it got to him. She had her own shit to worry about.

She returned to her stack of bills, kneeling down again and picking them up, stuffing them in to her black and pink striped messenger bag. It was starting to depress her - the lack of contact with the outside world. Or...well...anyone, really. The occasional letter - a real, proper letter - wouldn't be unwelcome. But she knew the only person who was aware of her address would never even consider writing. Her Father just...wasn't a people person.

She sighed for a third time, hefting the bag back on to her shoulder and spinning around, barreling straight in to someone...

WHO: ABIGAIL and DRYSTAN
WHERE: A few blocks from the Towers
WHAT: Abigail walks home alone, and contemplates whether or not she might be insane.
RATING: TBA


It had been late, when she'd woken up. If it hadn't have been for the suppressed giggles of other students, she might have continued to doze, drooling on her copy of Plato's Republic all night. She knew she'd been too tired to head to the library after her lecture finished. She was always too tired, these days. But an evening of pumping her small body full of caffeine and pouring over Ancient Greek philosophy had seemed preferable, to her, than another sleepless night (or worse: another sleepful night) in her apartment.

She hadn't dreamed, in the library. She didn't even really feel like she'd slept, at all - one moment she was reading, glanced at the clock - ten past seven - and the next she jolted awake, and it was eight thirty, and the kids were laughing at her. They stopped, when she snapped her head around to stare at them, expressionless, her eyes still cloudy with sleep. They pretended to be talking about Kafka. As if. Nobody talked about Kafka of their own free will. Certainly not students.

The bus jolted to a stop, pulling her out of her thoughts, for a moment, as she scrambled to find her bag. She thanked the driver, absently, not even sure if she'd made a sound, and stepped out in to the night.

Fuck, it was freezing. Two moments in the cold and already she felt as though her fingers might be turning blue. She wrapped the ends of her coat around them, like she used to do when she was a child, reminding herself for the thousandth time that she really ought to buy some mittens, and set off down the darkened sidewalk. It was probably wasn't safe to walk home alone. Not in a big city like this. But she found herself curiously ambivalent about it all...after all, what was the worst that could happen? Somehow, even the most gruesome scenarios didn't seem to bother her...though she knew that at the first sign of footsteps behind her she'd be wetting herself, praying to God that whoever it was walked on past, without a word.

Recklessness, her father would have called it. If he'd known. Or noticed. But she barely spoke to her Father. At least they both had an excuse for that, now that he was living in New York.

She shrugged her coat in closer to her body as a gust of wind found its way to her neck, sending a light shiver down her spine. Something about it...the feeling, or the way she'd moved, reminded her of last nights assault from her subconscious. She didn't remember it, entirely. She'd fallen asleep watching television, and woken up in a cold sweat, in her bed, confused and dazed. She'd been sleepwalking again, perhaps. She'd have to make an appointment with Doctor Clark, tomorrow - get another prescription. But it wasn't her change in location that bothered her. She shivered again, involuntarily, as she thought back to the dream. Flashes of red that made her throat tighten. A shadowy hand running white fingers down her chest.

Maybe she ought to have studied psychology, instead of philosophy. It bothered her that she was even entertaining the fact that these nightmares (if that's what you'd call them. She wondered, sometimes...because it was only after the fact that they perturbed her. She tried her best not to admit it to herself, but occasionally she almost...enjoyed them) might be caused by something other than her own damaged mind. Everyone had nightmares, surely? And the sleepwalking...well, that wasn't so peculiar, either.

She chewed on her bottom lip, absently, pouring over what she could remember of the dream. She couldn't help but feel that there was some important detail that she was forgetting. Something that was evading her. She rounded the corner, barely looking where she was going, lost inside the dark passageways of her own mind.