Motel California

Alex had been pretty quiet since his adventures in the tunnels. SPending his days out dancing across the fence, or sleeping in late. He had seemed to give up on his search for answers to who he was and what happened to his family.

He was making his way across the large courtyard with of all things a trashcan lid. As he treked across making his way to one of the hills he was humming to himself again through a cigarette. His usual cloud of smoke. He planned to sled even if it meant improvising. With nothing better to do in his mind than be a big kid.

She hasn't felt like this in a while. This out of control, this pulled by her abilities. Not since before her sister started showing up for her back in Massachusetts. When she was trying so hard to avoid her powers completely and try to be normal. It just caused them to spiral completely out of control.

But as similar to that as this feels, it's still different. It's guided. It's directed. She knows what happens at the end of her fugue state. She's aware enough to know that even as she pads her way down the stairs, the chill down her spine grows stronger. The whispers grow louder. And the scream is already building up in her throat.

It's been a while since her last dead body. A very long time, even. Since she carried Stiles out of the tunnels and found Scott crying over her best friend's lifeless body.

All the other times, she managed to just call the police with an anonymous tip before actually stumbling upon a possible body, or, with Dahlia's help, she managed to actually help a couple of people before it was too late.

Like tonight. It's too late and she knows it. And in this place, there's no police for her to call. All she can do it scream. All she can do is warn the others that there has been a death, to mourn the life that has been taken. While selfishly hoping that it's not a familiar face that she finds staring back at her this time.

Lydia makes her way to the bottom of the stairs. Her footsteps are silent since she's wearing socks along with her pajamas and a robe. Her face is pale as she makes her way through the darkened lobby. Her hair is down, covering some of her face, which is barely visible since the only source of light is the moonlight shining in through the windows and front door.

Still, she sees it. The white, knee-high socks, the black dress, the apron. And the blood. It's glistering in the moonlight and the voices are screaming at Lydia now. So loud. This is it. It's the source. It's what she had to find. There's a knife sticking out of her chest and her lifeless, pale face is turned away from her. Her eyes are wide open and with the way she's laying down, it almost looks like she's watching the moonlight by the fireplace. Even though the fire is no longer burning.

Lydia's hands are shaking and she kneels next to her. She recognizes her, of course. She never spoke to her before, but she's seen the woman coming in and out of rooms. The maid. She never knew her name.

And now she has to scream for her. Even though she doesn't want to. Her eyes are tearing up and her heart is beating fast. She wants to reach out, to feel her pulse, to shake the other woman awake. But it's pointless. And with every passing second, the voices get louder. And it hurts. Her head feels like it's about to explode. There's a pressure building up inside, bubbling it's way up her throat. She knows she won't be able to hold back.

With a deep breath, she clutches at her ears, closing her eyes tightly before she lets it go and screams. A banshee scream. Powerful. Strong. Firm. A wail. Mourning, but also a warning for those who are still breathing. There's danger. And she can feel it. Death isn't just around the body in front of her, it's all around this room. This was a murder and the murderer is still out there.