Content warnings for this episode include: Eye horror / gore, Violence, Kidnapping and abduction, Death + Injury, Blood, Mental illness, Religious violence, Strangulation/suffocation, Emotional Manipulation, Fungus horror, Body horror, Puppets
The Interrogation - Another Eye
Nikignik
labored breathing
Auditor
Did the discovery that Marolmar was regenerating within the heart alter your decision?
Nikignik
Alter it. How could it not? Destroying a fragment of his work was going to be difficult enough for me, to doom his memory to die, but it was only for good intentions. The spring of his return meant cataclysm for the world on which he dwelt, although I do not expect you to understand why that would matter. But to find him dreaming, suddenly it was not the destruction of a heritage but of a life, or a life yet to rise again. What am I to do with that? Of course I loved him. But I had come to see something else in him.
Auditor
Another eye.
silence returns
Story 1 - Winning the Game
I… I… I can…
Dreamer, I do not know how much longer I will be able to do this.
I am nothing but my eyes. How much of me can I afford to lose?
I… I do not have to be here. Well, I do. I do not have to think about it.
I can think about a man. Dashiell Spade cuts a dark figure in his trenchcoat, and hat, and stands on a high deck on the control tower. He shelters his cigarette from the roar of the wind and water around him, and confronts for the first time his antagonist, rain-drenched in dark lace.
“When you threatened my daughter, I hope you know the kind of mistake you made,” he says. “That is one thing above all else that I find unforgivable.”
“Funny that a man who was willing to sacrifice so much for the good of thousands is so bent on one particular life,” replied the Duchess.
“I did my part in the Stonemaids so that she would have a better life,” he said. “So that she would be able to see sunlight again. Live in a world that was real. It was always for her. You’ve been pulling the strings, though, on this whole voyage. From start to finish. What’s the end game here? It’s more than killing a few night watchmen.”
“Witch hunters and politicians, celebrities and captains,” she said. “They all dance to my tune. I, too, fight for my family, Mr. Spade. And I assure you that I am crueler than you are. This is a great narrowing, every enemy of mine collected in one place. I cut them off here. And when I reach the shores of Europe, a new life begins for my family, free from endless persecution. Your family could survive, too, if you agree to be useful.”
“I don’t make deals with monsters,” said Dashiell.
“That’s exactly what you’re famous for,” said the Duchess. “That and your relentless pursuit of the truth, but you’ve been easily spun too.”
“How do you know about my daughter?” Dashiell grunted, and a roar of the rain extinguished his cigar. “How did you know?”
“Belladonna Spade has a reputation, you know,” said the Duchess. “You would be proud. It’s unfortunate, of course, that the people who try hardest to save the world are often the ones who end up breaking it.”
“Do you know where she’s gone?” said Dashiell.
“I’ve heard some rumors,” she said. “The Duchess of Boldt Castle has her ways.”
“If that’s the name you’re sticking to,” said Dashiell, and flipped a silver lighter, relit his cigar. “Countess.”
She shrugged, and there was a flash of a grin beneath her veil.
“Boldt Castle’s been waterlogged and empty for a decade,” she said. “But the disguise has been effective, for what I needed.”
“I’ve won,” said Dashiell. “I’ve won your little game. I’ve put it all together. Are you happy? What’s my prize?”
“Prize?” she said, and began to step towards him, and he reached for the handle of a revolver beneath his coat. “There was never a prize, Mr. Spade. I love games. Didn’t you understand my note from the start? This was never about who was the better detective. This was about putting the two people on this ship who could have stopped me at odds. And now it’s far too late.”
With that, she leapt from the deck, and the inner layers of her dress unfolded into great dark wings, and the Countess flew for the deck below, wreathed by the wind and lightning, and Dashiell dropped his cigar, and stubbed it out on the deck, and began to run to try and find Buck Silver before the slaughter began.
Story 2 - The Silent Picture
It was like sitting in a movie theater. The chairs were worn velvet, and Vincent sat in a spiffy suit with his legs crossed. Beside him sat Voltaire, with a cardboard bucket of popcorn between his wooden-shoed legs, and the ventriloquist dummy’s head poking up over the edge of the bucket. They sat together, and watched a movie, flickering in black and white reel on the silver screen.
“Voltaire?” said Vincent. “I don’t completely understand what’s going on.”
“Quiet, Vincent,” said Voltaire. “You’re not supposed to talk during a movie.”
“Right,” said Vincent, and he folded his hands, and settled into his chair, and turned his attention to the screen.
It was an unsettling picture, filmed in the first person. A hand with a stained suit sleeve was plunging a scalpel into someone’s eye. There was no sound to the picture; only the shriek of violins from a dark orchestra pit below them, and a black title card with curling white font appeared on the screen.
““A SCREAM! BLOODY MURDER!””
“Voltaire,” said Vincent.
“What now, Vincent?” said Voltaire.
“I’m not sure I like this picture,” said Vincent. “It’s awfully violent.”
“Vincent, you cut up bodies for a living,” said Voltaire.
“I know,” said Vincent. “But that’s a different thing, a little. This is… graphic. Uncomfortable. I think I would like to get some air.”
“There’s nowhere else to go,” said Voltaire. His unblinking eyes never left the screen.
Vincent stretched up from his seat, put his arm over the back of the chair. Sure enough, there were no glowing signs that said ‘exit’, no doors that he could see. The four walls of the room were dark and curtained with crimson, and above was the flickering light of the projector from some small window.
“Well that’s impossible,” said Vincent. “We must have come in somehow.”
“Vincent,” said Voltaire. “I’m trying to enjoy the movie.”
“I’m sorry,” said Vincent, and shrunk down again, watched. The camera spun now, and looked up from the earth at two pairs of feet, walking across mushroom-encrusted soil. Black specks of earth clung to the screen. “What is it about, Voltaire? I’ve quite blanked on the plot. Is it all more of this… gory business?”
“It’s not about the violence,” said Voltaire. “It’s about a friend, getting his other friend back. These people, they’re trying to steal the best friend away. And our protagonist, well, he can’t let that happen.”
The camera panned up, and Vincent was struck by the familiarity of the faces—a girl with a missing eye and a pale face, a cut of lanky hair. A man with dark skin and a neutral expression, something intense and burning hidden beneath his calm exterior.
““RAJ GREENSTREET: I’M SORRY, VINCENT. IT’S NOT PERSONAL””
“Voltaire, that’s my name,” said Vincent. “He’s talking to me.”
“For the last time, Vincent,” said Voltaire.
“No, no, something isn’t quite right,” said Vincent, and he rose suddenly from his seat, went climbing aisle over aisle. “None of this is right.”
He clambered up towards the little glass window, where the bright white light of the picture flickered. He pounded on the glass, and pressed his face against it, and then gave a shriek.
There was no operator behind the camera. Or rather, in the chair in that dark little office, behind the spinning reels of film and the bright light of the camera, there was a skeleton in a grey suit much like Vincent’s. Its head was stretched back, and from its eyes and gaping mouth had grown a fungus, blooming black and green and drifting spores. The arms were tightly wrapped around a grinning wooden puppet.
“Vincent,” said Voltaire, and he looked behind him to the picture, where the scalpel was rising on the side of the screen again. “I’d like you to see what happens next.”
The Tapes - Completely Alone
Clem
You’re going to feel alone, a lot of the time. It’s by necessity. You can’t have other people interfering with your…
Shelby
Hey. Dinner’s ready. Stew, nothing fancy, but the beef was perfect and those tubers softened up nice. I think I’ve outdone myself. Where stew is concerned.
Clem
Oh. I’m… just finishing this up, Shelbs.
Shelby
Doing your tapes?
Clem
Yeah. Doing my tapes.
Shelby
Well. Get it while it’s warm, okay?
Clem
I will. Be there in a minute.
…I forget what I was talking about.
Story 2, Continued - The Silent Picture
“Kill them,” said Voltaire. “Kill them both.”
Vincent knelt in the front aisle, in front of the picture, watched it all around him. And in it, he was running, towards Clementine and Raj, and she was wounded and Raj was dragging her along, and they were both so vulnerable to a sharp nick in the right place, places he was well-read on…
“Please, Voltaire,” said Vincent. “He’s been nothing but kind to me…”
“You don’t see it,” said Voltaire, over his popcorn bucket. “To think after all this time, you still don’t see when people are trying to take us apart. I’m your best friend, Vincent. No one else. That’s what this picture is about. Taking back what’s mine.”
Vincent stood up, cast a shadow on the flickering light of the picture, and the shadow grew as he walked up the center of the aisle, stepping over the chairs, blotting out the picture with his own body.
“Hey move,” said Voltaire. “I can’t see the show.”
“There is no show,” said Vincent. He passed Voltaire, and pressed his hands up to the glass window; he could see his own bones through the glowing red flesh of his palms, but no picture at all flickered on the screen now.
“No fair!” said Voltaire. “You’re ruining it.”
“This is my picture,” said Vincent. “I am the star of the show. And I control what happens.”
“It doesn’t matter if I can’t see,” said Voltaire, from his little seat. “You wanna know what you’re doing now? You put the scalpel in the girl, and then when Raj swings at you again with that golf club, you’re grabbing it out of his hands, twisting it away from his wrists, and then you’re holding it, and he falls back on the ground, and you hold that metal club high. You’re gonna golf the side of his head in, Vincent. Then you’ll really know what’s on his mind. Ha!”
“No,” said Vincent, quietly. “I think in my film, I don’t do that. I take the club, and I swing it down, hard, on a head, and it is your filthy little skull.”
Vincent screamed, undignified, feral cries, swung the metal bar down again and again, spattering the fungal soil of the Mortal Grove. And Voltaire’s wooden head splintered. An eye first, and then half of his face cracked away, and there was something deeply foul within—a mushroom of deep black and green curling furls, like a brain. It pulsed with life, and spores from it seeped through the cracks in Voltaire’s skull, and Vincent’s vision spasmed a thousand sickly colors.
“You’ll never be able to get rid of me, Vincent,” said Voltaire. “When you die I will be there. After you die I will be there. Best friends forever. That’s what you promised.”
“We’re not friends anymore,” Vincent said, and brought the club down into the wet pulp of the mushroom. He felt it grip his mind, his nerves, overwhelm his senses, and still he swung, blind, dizzy, on the brink of consciousness. If you are killing me, Vincent thought, I will take us both together. Fin. Starring Vincent, as played by Voltaire. Starring Voltaire, as played by Vincent. Filmed in technicolor.
Story 3 - The Quartet
Clementine watched, managed to find her footing at Raj’s side, as Vincent smashed Voltaire to pieces. The puppet splintered, pieces of wood flying up with the fungal soil as one iron drive after the next connected with its structure, and the mound of spores within its head was scattered too, in a black cloud that drifted in the night breeze across the Mortal Grove.
And then Vincent stood, breathing heavily, and pushed his thinning hair back, and leaned on the golf club as he turned to look back at Clem and Raj.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”
“Never been better,” Clementine said, although every part of her felt shaky, as though at any moment she might collapse like a tower of twigs.
“Vincent?” said Raj. “Is it over?”
“Yes,” said Vincent, and tossed down the golf club, and fell to his knees. “It’s quiet. Oh god, it’s so quiet. But unfortunately I’ve made quite a mess of things.”
“I can walk,” said Clem, shaking off Raj’s support. “Let’s go.”
“No, I don’t think I want to leave him,” said Raj. “Look at him. He’s pitiful.”
“You believe him?” said Clem.
“I’ve been watching him for a day,” said Raj. “Yes. This is different. I can make sure he doesn’t go anywhere if you want to go get help. Let them know where we are. How on earth are you still upright?”
“Guess I’m special that way,” said Clem, and wiped her cheek with her sleeve, tried not to wonder what internal fluids were oozing out of her skull. “I’ll be back. It’s like ten minutes to the Stumps. The deputies will be out on patrol. Just stay put, alright?”
“Of course,” said Raj, and he went walking slowly towards Vincent, knelt beside the weeping man, put a hand on his shoulder.
Alright, Clementine thought. Just a little farther to go then. She stumbled away, feeling frail, every part of her straining to function, out the doorway of the Mortal Grove.
I’m glad I didn’t die here, she thought. Not without Shelby.
The minutes took her through a few passing trees, until she could see the dim shapes of the Stumps, larger buildings on the fringe of Scout City, and lights in the distance. She smiled, and carried on until she caught sight of a resident, stepping out from an alley.
“Miss Maidstone,” said the stranger, in a cloak and hood. “What’s wrong? You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine thanks,” Clementine said. “I need help. As you can probably see. There’s…”
She paused; caught a better glance at the stranger standing in the middle of the road between the trees. They had a mask; it seemed to be made of the pieces of a violin’s shell, curling slits for eyes, no mouth to be seen. She wiped gore from her cheek, and spat into the soil.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.”
“You knew this day would come,” said the stranger. “You knew when you began chasing me.”
“So this is what it comes down to, huh?” Clem said, and put a broken hand on her hip. “You got tired of the game too quickly. You’re supposed to wait until I find you. I’m almost disappointed.”
“The soul of this city is no game,” the voice said. “And our era is just beginning. Yours, though, is at its end.”
The stranger was getting too close, and she swung her broken fist, tried to create some distance between them; immediately, though, there was a hand on her arm. A very strong hand indeed, wrapped in a huge black glove, and she looked up. Towering over her there was a large figure, masked with the pale round face of a drum, strainers and tension rods stretching back across their helmet.
“Be gentle,” said the fiddle. “We don’t want to break her too early.”
The drum’s grip on her arm did not relax, and Clem tried to swing a fist into its mask, but found that hand caught too by a third masked stranger; the curling metal forms of a shattered saxophone, eye holes concealed in an array of buttons and keys. She had no strength to pull against them; watched as a fourth appeared from the darkness, with a mask of splintered piano keys arranged in the shape of a grinning maw, white and black fragments like teeth.
And then the Quartet closed in for the kill.
The Conversation - The Plan
Marolmar
…But it would not be the end. After that, I would ask you to…
Nikignik
…I cannot. You know I cannot.
Marolmar
You must.
The bonus story that goes with this episode is called 'File 28: Vincent Loren', and is available on Patreon.com/hallowoods. Because Hello From The Hallowoods is created without advertising or sponsors, we rely on patronage to make this show possible!
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