Content warnings for this episode include: Abuse, Animal cruelty or animal death (Shank as usual, Cannibal the Beagle gets kicked, implied eating of a Giant Wood Louse), Violence, Kidnapping and abduction, Death + Injury, Blood, Mental illness, Needles, Transphobia / Homophobia, Strangulation/suffocation, Bugs, Body horror, Instrumentalist-flavored Gore, Religious Violence, Puppets
Intro - Curse Born
When you were born, it was as a curse. You entered a world that was already in its final stage of life; the landscape reduced to concrete and metal, the dreams that you were passed of family and livelihood and home belonged to a dying generation. You raised your hands to heaven, praying for an opportunity, and one never fell; God’s miracles were all used up by the first in line. And when the rains fell, you took refuge in the only place that gave you hope: a silver box sold by a woman who made you feel valuable. And within it you dreamt of a beautiful world, one untouched by empire and industry, one where you walked in nature and spent the night alongside strange travelers and laughed under the light of a moon in a sky free of the chemical fallout that killed the world. You had a lovely dream.
But then you woke, one day, in Box Aries. You were not supposed to wake up. And you remembered that you were not mistfoot, walker in the beautiful night; you were the same lump of a person you were before, only something horrible had happened. Even in dream, you had not escaped the world; it had found its way in to your coffin nonetheless, and unconscious you had drunk deeply of the rain. Your veins were black beneath your skin, and your legs had swelled with openings, chattering teeth that whispered the words Hello From The Hallowoods.
Theme.
Right now, I watch a rusted metal door in an alleyway of bark in the roots district of Scout City. A creature with thick green skin sits outside on a stool, arms crossed, neck folds inflating as he dreams. Years ago, he stormed into this place to raid and destroy, along with many of his froglin brethren. He is twice as tall now, and gainfully employed, and content to work security as long as he is well paid in meats and giant wood louse. The theme of tonight’s episode is Vendettas.
Story 1 - Nobody Home
Vincent descended towards the district where the warehouse, and the latest victim of the Quartet, was reported to be. His large dark overcoat, borrowed from the wardrobe of the late Mr. Greenstreet, was far too warm for the withering heat of the day. He continued through one dark twist of bark-grown street after the next, with two invisible spirits drifting behind him. Or, nearly invisible; the ghost named Ratty wore silver jewelry in its body that seemed to sail of its own accord through the air, but she was also so easily distracted, flying this way and that over the head of passersby on the street, that it was hardly an impediment to his own cover. He wore a mustache of shoebrush bristles, and a low bowler hat, and hoped they would keep the onlooking crowd from recognizing the city’s mysteriously disappeared mortician.
Truth be told, there was not much that Vincent had done publicly that would make him a threat in the eyes of the law—perhaps the worst crime he was aware of committing was the dismemberment of the late Mr. Greenstreet’s corpse during his residency at the morgue, and then patching him back together and hiding the whole affair in the Mortal Grove without telling anyone. Raj at least understood that Vincent had been under the influence of a malevolent bundle of spores inside the head of a rotting ventriloquist dummy at the time, but that was precisely the issue. Vincent was not entirely sure of what else he might have done while under Voltaire’s control. What else, if anything, might come to light that he was guilty of in half if not in whole. He could still feel Voltaire in his sinuses, deep in his ear canals, behind his eyelids, anywhere that he could not scrub away. But he could no longer hear the puppet’s voice. He sat alone in the theater of his mind, and watched a different grim picture play out.
“Bonjour,” he said, when he reached the warehouse, finding the rusted garage door closed and a guard posted outside; a tall Froglin in overalls and a little sloped cap. “Inspector-Detector Chaumont-Gateau. I am here to see ze remains.”
“Geahbatt-porot,” the Froglin said. However, since Vincent could not speak Froglin, he was forced to work from body language and tone alone, and surmised that the amphibian wished to see his identification.
“Ah. Here,” said Vincent, and flashed a badge from a long-gone police department; another find from the Mortal Grove’s soil. “Now, if you will be so kind…”
“Geahbatt,” said the Froglin, and crossed its thick arms, glaring at him with two huge eyes. Vincent frowned. He did not know what geahbatt meant but it did not seem promising.
“Boo,” said Ratty, and suddenly there was a flash of light from within the Froglin’s skull, shining red and orange through the folds of his brain and eyes, and then the Froglin toppled sideways off his stool as the ghost withdrew her hand from the back of his neck.
“Ratty,” said Percy, appearing as a trace of light. “He had better not be dead.”
“Relax,” she said, peering down at the sleeping frog. “I didn’t even get physical. God these guys are fascinating. Are they people-frogs or frog-people?”
“They once, I am told, waged a war on Scout City,” said Vincent, reaching down to grab the garage door handle. “But this city has a way of adopting its enemies.”
“I’ve noticed,” said Percy, and he moved forward, passing intangibly through the surface of the rusted door. Ratty’s piercings likewise rattled under the open inch at the base of it, and Vincent sighed, wiped the sweat from his brow, and then heaved the metal door upwards a few more feet so that he could slip through, but the smell hit him already.
His morgue had been cool over the winter, and the storage room especially, and so it had been a long time since he was awash in the odor of hot, humid death. It was sweet, like artificial strawberry, a taste he still remembered. The air of the stuffy storage unit was thick with it, but some quirk of the fungus that grew in his skull made it a delicious smell rather than a nauseating one. One you could grow your roots into.
He stood in a black pool that encompassed most of the floor; it had grown tacky in the hours or days since the murder had occurred. The corpse had bloated around the cello that it clung to, as if caught in one final concerto. The body seemed young, male perhaps, the kind of boy you might see following in the shadow of one of Scout City’s shipping district families or waiting outside of clubs like the Lurch. The wires ran up along the cello as they usually would, but continued through his chin, up through his empty eye sockets, out through the back of his head to form the spiderweb of cables and the letters ‘repent’ above him, into bolts in the bark of the ceiling. The scene was lit dimly by Ratty’s silhouette, and her see-through knee-high spiky sneakers drifted a foot over the pool of blood, but it was lit much more brightly by Percy, whose shape was a white flame, casting reflections across the gleaming ground.
“Percy,” said Ratty. “Pretend to breathe, you know. Control the burn.”
“I’m way past that,” said Percy, voice shaking. Liquid flame dropped from his black eyes to sizzle in the stain. “Whoever did this… it’s just…”
“Messed up,” said Ratty.
“Diabolical,” said Vincent.
“Neither of you were there,” said Percy, looking up to Vincent, and to Ratty. “To see him. My dad. He was a monster, and he opened you up, used your body against you. Made you violent. He kept me and dozens of other ghosts caged like starving animals. He did things like this to people because he thought they were wicked, they were evil, they deserved it, they deserved anything that came to them, and they were better off dead. And whoever’s doing this… in his memory. This should have died with him. This shouldn’t be happening.”
“Well, with luck they won’t be at it for long,” said Vincent, and he knelt down beside the corpse. Three days dead, he would guess.
“I was saying before but there’s no soul,” said Ratty, gesturing as if to knock on the corpse’s forehead. “No one home. Usually, in a really nasty death like this, I’d expect him to be fighting just a bit. I know I did.”
Percy’s light changed, then, seemed colder.
“No,” he said.
Vincent winced as he unfolded his fungal eye, let the protective layers push his eyelids safely away from the delicate core of tendrils extruding into the air.
“Whoah,” said Ratty. “Gnarly.”
“Bruising, abrasions. There was an altercation,” said Vincent. “Blood under the fingernails, and traces caught in the cable here and here. They were alive, I think, on these wires at one point. Perhaps not for very long. Drowned on his own blood, I would expect. And…”
Here Vincent reached out, pulled down a blackened lip to inspect the teeth.
“We’re missing teeth,” he said.
“We need to find the others,” Percy said. “I’ve remembered something.”
“Do elaborate, Mr. Reed,” said Vincent, switching views—surfaces of skin in a state of decomposition, strands of hair. The bruises of a powerful grip on the neck, the upper arm. A hickey.
“My father was working on a huge project,” Percy said. “A church organ. He was going to attach a whole crowd of people he’d killed to it.”
“It is my understanding that your father’s property and all his instruments were either burned or consumed by the forest overnight,” said Vincent.
“It wasn’t on his property,” said Percy. “It was in the old chapel, at a place called the Church of the Hallowed Name. And we need to make sure it’s gone for good.”
Interlude 1 - Regional Conflicts
Scout City has come to earn its share of grudges. Initially, from the Instrumentalist and the Church of the Hallowed Name for their harboring of individuals deemed as sinful degenerates by their religion, and promoting a wide swathe of contradictory cultural values over enforcing a single righteous decree.
By Fort Freedom, for their laughably feeble generosity and harboring of the weak. By the rising army of Froglinkind for clashing with Froglin territory, although in time Froglinkind itself was divided into those loyal to their queen and those loyal to their disgusting mud goddess, and those sects have differing attitudes about Scout City’s presence today. Scout City very briefly suffered in diplomacy from their distant neighbor, Webequie First Nation, for being a host of outsiders moving without permission into treatied land, although the Ojibway members of the city’s management such as Bern Keene have been successful in easing these concerns in time.
The city has been plagued by monsters; barkbeetles, and greater plaguemoths, and in recent memory a murderous man wearing the head of a pig. One might think there would even be a light grudge from the forest itself, but the Hallowoods barely notice now a small group of humankind lingering among the trees a few years past their time. No, the largest grudge held against Scout City is the one in the hearts of its own people, wishing it could be different, wishing it could be remade.
We go now to one who does not let go easily.
Story 2 - Hand-Me-Downs
Shelby stepped over the back of the chair at Stitchery’s desk and sat down; Diggory and Riot came to sit on a lounge sofa within the black market tailor’s abode. It was strange to see Riot wearing a blank Scout City yellow jacket instead of Clementine’s one with the loose threads of ripped patches. One more way that the ugly garden of Clementine’s spirit had been stripped of weed and vine alike, and was now a blank bed of dirt waiting for rain. Shelby tried not to prophesy what would grow there, for who knew what seeds had been planted. The room was filled with shelves and jutting rolls of fabric, long rows of sharp silver tools, and in the back, seven mannequins were dressed in patched red band uniforms. Stitchery Pins themself remained standing, pacing near the mannequins on the far end of the room.
“You’ve kept Solomon’s uniforms,” said Diggory, from the sofa. “Although I do not understand why there would be one for me.”
“I made it, just in case, although it was never worn,” said Stitchery. Shelby didn’t like the way that their long black needle-fingers tip-tapped at their sides. She didn’t like when a creature made of a half-dozen people that could flip a rootcrawler without breaking a stitch was nervous.
“And they are preserved now,” Diggory remarked.
“Yes,” said Stitchery, coming to stop in front of the row of mannequins, surveying them as if they were a small army standing to attention. “Heirlooms of the past. And memories of a strange time. Working under the Instrumentalist’s employ was… grim work. But we were together. Aligned for a purpose. Waiting for you to wake.”
“I have happier memories of all of us than that,” said Diggory. “In the days before I departed on the journey to California, for instance.”
“But then you were about to leave,” said Stitchery. “Not for the last time, either.”
“When was the last time you all reunited?” said Diggory. “I have seen Leyland tending to pruning on the outside of Scout City’s trunk, hundreds of feet up. Cookery manages food for half of Scout City in the community kitchens. Townsend makes their deliveries out to the Stumps in a rootcrawler. They are not far away. But none seem to have heard from you in some time.”
“It has not been the same since your disappearance,” said Stitchery. “We have dealt with it… separately. Not all of us were confident that you would return to us. And there is the complexity of trying to perform the duties we were made to in a city whose needs are ever-changing.”
“What do you know about the Quartet,” said Shelby; her stump twinged with pain and she shifted the way that the straps of the bone saw sat on it. Not all remade bodies could be as elegant as Stitchery and Diggory’s.
“Ah yes, the purpose of your visit,” said Stitchery. “You are not the first to ask me about murders lately.”
“If you mean Vincent, yeah, he’s the one who gave us directions,” said Riot. “Listen. The interactions I had with the Instrumentalist were… usually brief and violent. But you lived with him for years. You knew him more closely than almost anyone. Do you see any resemblance between what he did and the Instrumentalist killers here?”
“I have been rather removed from the killings,” said Stitchery. “But from what I have heard… yes. Solomon’s killing was part of a practiced craft. To maximize the amount of pain that the dying were subjected to, to make for strong ghosts. Whatever the Scoutpost discovered of his work, it was irrelevant. But these gruesome displays… they are made to be found. It is intentional that they are photographed, documented, shared. Each time a killing makes a headline, it is exactly what the Quartet wants. Their power does not lie in an army of spirits, but in the fear that the Instrumentalist’s memory exerts over this city.”
“I found a warehouse where they’d been storing supplies,” said Shelby. “I found this there… have you seen one like it? Anywhere in Scout City?”
She held the button up, and Stitchery paced over to pluck it carefully from her fingertips. Stitchery held it up to the air, twisting it in their grasp.
“Old country,” they said. “Wooden, but manufactured. If it were undecorated, it could be from thousands of garments in Scout City. But the flower in the center. I do remember a green blouse, canvas material, with buttons like these. It was worn by Mrs. McGowan, nearly fifteen years ago.”
Images were in Shelby’s mind, then, and she could see it; the shirt that had been bulky on Mrs. McGowan straining under its hand-me-down owner’s size. A line of those buttons between the folds of a Scout City deputy’s jacket.
“Hand me downs,” said Shelby. “Everything a McGowan has is passed down. Heather wears that shirt. Which means either, she’d been in there to investigate and knows a lot more than we thought… or.”
“Or she’s killing people in Scout City storage units,” said Riot.
“Or that,” said Shelby. “Either way, that presents us with a question… where do you start with arresting a deputy?”
Marketing - The Lady Ethel Touch
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Our overhauled memory reconstruction system more perfectly captures the essence of being in a place, and is more resistant to interference from tangents. When you only see the world through our rose-colored glasses, we want it to be as lovely as it can. Get lost in a new era of wonder and delight. All of this is completely free with the Botco lifetime subscription you signed up for years ago. And if you enjoy this update, all we ask is that you spread the word. Tell everyone, everywhere, what you think of the Lady Ethel touch.
Story 2, Continued - Hand-Me-Downs
Please. If you know a friend who likes to spend all day dreaming, tell them that Lady Ethel Mallory has a brand new formula she’s dreamed up over fifteen years exiled in a junkheap with no safety features or inhibitions of any kind. Hurry, the offer is a limited time only—until the consequences inevitably arrive.
We return now to Shelby Allen.
“What I don’t understand is why you’d harbor Shank inside the city,” said Riot, who huffed to keep up with Shelby’s walking pace. “Memories I have of him? Not pleasant. What I know of him through you? Less so. Didn’t he kill people?”
“He certainly has killed people,” said Diggory, following in long footsteps behind.
“He wants the Quartet dead, I want the Quartet dead, and if we work together then I can make sure he doesn’t just kill whoever looks at him wrong,” said Shelby, grimly. She could not have ever predicted that the being that had killed her parents would become her partner in crime; it was a secret even from Mulder, who would never understand why she had to do it. And why she wanted to.
She came to a stop a block from 116 Fisher Lane. Many of the buildings on this street were grown of large tree stumps, and the ones that were not had been built up of the timber felled from the others.
“Bad news,” she said. “The department’s here.”
“Where?” said Riot. Shelby frowned. Clementine would have noticed them even earlier than Shelby had. Clementine would have smelled them.
She had been utterly prepared to love Clementine no matter what face she had. But now the face remained, it was just a stranger in it. A stranger who was just close enough, in a glance, a smile, a laugh, to tear the scab off Shelby’s wounds and leave her raw again every time she lost her train of thought…
“Chances are they’re just waiting to see if you return,” said Riot. “You were in the paper with Shank, after all. They might not know where he is yet—just that you’ll be bound to return there sometime soon.”
“Perhaps I can go and distract them,” said Diggory. “I have no issues with them, after all. And that might allow you a closer look.”
“Sure,” Shelby said, although Riot gave a concerned glance. “Be my guest.”
Diggory walked down the lane, and Riot hesitantly followed them, and Shelby clambered up to a flat second-story rooftop, and made one or two quick lunges across them, careful to avoid drawing too much noise or attention as she worked her way closer. The deputies were down on the ground, in the shadows, but began to emerge as Diggory and Riot worked their way down the street. But Shelby did not need much more than a glance, from here, to size up the situation.
Her front door was splintered outwards, not in.
Shank was loose in Scout City.
Again.
Interlude 2 - Summons
It turns out there was a sort of summoning call. Or a bell, I suppose. I linger here, a moment, at the gates. All the silent centuries, the revolutions of the universe that transpired while I sat here. Guarding. Watching. What would the old Nikignik think of the one who drifts here now, I wonder?
I’d tell him to keep his thoughts to himself. I would ask him to trust me. But he would wonder, as I do now, whether I can trust myself.
Summons. We go now to one who does not come when called.
Story 3 - Run, Piggy Piggy
Shank walked in the dark, but to him it was crimson red, and he couldn’t tell colors but he could tell everything else just fine. The beagle bounded ahead on her three legs. He’d been right to leave her in that bear trap. Probably if he’d tried to pull her out he just woulda pulled her little legs off. Now that woulda been sad. He walked, and did not stop walking; one slow step at a time was how you got places. The trick was, he never got tired, and everything else did eventually. It was someplace down low in the roots, a big room with boxes and bags all stacked up high in every direction. He had seen those black robes, those masks, ducking around the corner. But he said nothing, just picked up a crowbar from a pile of crates, and walked.
Walked until he turned around to look down the aisle of crates he’d just come down, and found the first one there, standing in a black robe, a mask of shiny instrument bits. The one in the shiny mask was breathing hard, watching him.
“Ya made a mistake,” said Shank. “Coming after me.”
“Your day was come, pig,” said the mask. “No hard feelings.”
“Heh,” said Shank, and grinned, so that even the rigid mouth of the pig smiled a little. “No hard feelings.”
Then Shank whipped the crowbar through the air, and it whistled towards the mask, but the wearer tilted back, allowed the crowbar to pass by him and bury itself in a big sack at the end of the lane; grain spilled out through the hole in it across the floor. But the stranger in the mask was in motion too, then, ducking suddenly sideways through a gap in the crates. Shank sighed, and continued walking in that direction, until he could see a stranger in a black cloak standing on the other side of the gap, almost within reach, leering at him from behind a mask of splintery black and white keys.
“Who was your favorite one to kill?” said the piano faced one. “Was it the Wicker? You saved him for last, didn’t you?”
Shank could not quite fit through the gap in the crates to reach piano-face, so he put a hand up to each stack and pushed, and both palettes toppled, sending trunks and goods scattering across the ground. Piano mask was gone, then, but there was a twist that he registered more than felt as the crowbar he had thrown found purchase in his own back.
“Or the Allens,” said the fiddle. “You butchered them like animals. But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
“I don’t ask their names,” Shank grunted, and spun around to find only a whisper of a smooth wooden mask and a black cloak fleeing back into the winding line of boxes; now he could not see any of the strangers again. He reached behind his back and wrenched the crowbar free, squeezed the handle until it bent and flexed in his grasp. He studied each direction, shifted around, waiting for another underhanded strike.
“What’s the matter, Shank?” said the trumpet, although he could not see where that one was hiding. The voice was close, leading him on, and Shank took a step across the crate alley towards the other side. “What are you afraid of?”
“Ain’t scared’a nothin’,” said Shank. There was a snap of wire cable; he looked down to find that a wire, razor thin, had whipped around his stout ankle; he’d walked right into it. Crates tumbled down from stacks as he twisted his foot, adding more splintering debris to the warehouse floor and choking up passages.
“Everyone’s scared of something,” said a big voice, and he looked up to find one with a white drum face perched on the stack of crates ahead of him. “How about this, freak?”
With a gesture from drum face, the world went from deep red to white-hot; fire surged up suddenly all around him, and he stumbled back from the crate wall, shaking his head. Drum face watched him from the other side of the circle of flame, head tilted.
“Fire is holy,” said trumpet face, stepping into view on Shank’s right.
“Burns away evil,” said fiddle face, stepping into view on Shank’s left.
“Makes animals run,” said piano face, and Shank twisted to find that one sneaking up behind him, although not crossing the flames they’d lit on the floor just yet. “Run, piggy piggy piggy. Run, piggy piggy.”
Shank dropped the crowbar, and put his hands up to his head; images came wheeling back, of being chased, being ground down, fed up, small and hurt and just a kid. Chain clatter, hot poker, pig scream.
Barking brought him back. Something barking raced in, suddenly; it was Cannibal, dashing through the rubble to howl at piano face. Piano face in turn kicked hard, caught Cannibal in the head. Cannibal snapped back, latching hard onto the ankle of piano face. Piano face shrieked, and blood stained the boards in a hot flash. And then piano face kicked, and flung the beagle back a few feet; Cannibal rolled a few paces and then lay, whimpering, on the ground. Piano face looked back up to him.
“Now you really gone and made me lose my patience,” said Shank. He surged ahead towards piano face, pretending the flame wasn’t there; he felt a hard line cut into the flesh of his neck as he pulled a wire noose tight, he hadn’t noticed it come on, and his feet flipped out from under him. He cracked the floor as he fell, and then was rolling, trying to make sure the flame didn’t get too close, didn’t burn him again. And the four members of the Quartet closed in, long curved knives in hand, as he writhed and tried to get up to his feet, found himself increasingly entangled—the wires they used weren’t hard for him to break, but hard to see.
“Dinner’s ready. Who wants the first slice,” said fiddle face.
“I’ll do it,” said piano face, and lunged out from behind the flame, dragged a sharp edge through his knee, along his shin, and shrieked with laughter as he kicked at her, dodged away. Then a second knife came soaring in for his shoulder from drum face, and he took the full length of it, felt black blood spatter hot over his chest, and then wrenched his shoulder in such a way that it caught the knife edge. Drum face struggled to pull it free; she was strong, almost as strong as he was. But she lunged forward through the fire, and he shot a hand upwards, caught the stupid mask and the chin beneath it, and then rolled. Her momentum was already off balance; big, but not very coordinated. And he introduced her face to the floor of splintered rubble. Hard.
The others were on him, then, long thin slices carving into his neck and shoulders, but he kept a hand wrapped around drum face’s throat, joined it with a second. His thumbs found the important tubes beneath the skin and pulverized. He stood now, wreathed by fire on all sides, ignoring the kicking and stabbing from the other three, and drum face wrapped her hands around his wrists—big, but still not big enough—and flexed. Her arms grew bigger, chest expanded, inches of height gained touched her toes to the floor, and she strained against him stronger than a full grown bull.
“We will break you,” said drum face.
“See who breaks first,” said Shank, and twisted, spun so that drum face’s feet came off the ground entirely and whipped her body like a sack of bones to collide with each of the other three, bashing them back into the flames, and finally that put her half-laying on the ground, fighting up at him from a bad place. A place where he could pick up one heavy boot of his and drive it into her ribcage, feel splintering beneath as he surged past what her bulk could handle. And he did it again, so that she screamed, and again, so that she’d stop tearing at his uniform with that knife of hers.
There was a burst of light from the back end of the room, then, shouts of Scout City’s sheriff’s department arriving, and for anyone not to move. When Shank looked around, only Cannibal watched him from beyond the ring of flame; the other three were gone. Shank sighed, and began pulling knives from his back, and rolled the cracks out of his neck.
“Sorry, doggy,” he said, looking down to the dog. “We’ll get you outta here soon. But looks like there’s gonna be two fights today.”
Outro - Vendettas
Vendettas. When pain is dealt, there is the violence and there is the wound. And in time, the violence ends, and only the wound remains. Layer by layer, muscle mends, and flesh seals and scars, and then all that is left of the pain at all is the memory that it happened, once, and hurt much more than it does now. The pain is gone, but I remember it, and how long I carried it, and the memory itself is a weight. And I wish that I could put it down, dreamer, and carry on as though I had never known agony.
But I will find value in carrying these, yet. In understanding the plight of another whose wounds are fresh. In seeking kinder balms. In the projects begun and now that I must see through to the end. Until the hatchets are buried, I am your loyal host Nikignik, waiting vindictively for your return to the Hallowoods.
The bonus story that goes with this episode is called 'Burn Rubber' and is available on the Hello From The Hallowoods Patreon. Consider joining for access to all the show's bonus stories, behind-the-scenes and more! Until next time, dreamers, do no-*explodes*
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