"hmm That You Did." They Muse, A Smile Tugging At The Corners Of Their Mouth. "man, You Always Had The

"what if i said that i thought it was you?" he asks, nonchalantly folding freshly dried clothes into his basket. after a pause, he breathes out a chuckle. "i feel like you and the rest of your family would be the type to pay for some poor soul to kill in exchange for money. like those rich people in the purge." do the talbot's even have that type of money? salvador assumes they do and if he sees any of alaina's relatives running around town with a new set of wheels, he'll know exactly who to blame. "who do you think?" he asks, finally looking over her way.

open to : any where : silver coin laundry mat when : after the questionings

avery is sprawled out on a bench inside the laundry mat, newspaper covering her face. she's been quiet for a good five minutes when she finally rips the newspaper away from her face and turns to the innocent person doing their laundry. " who do you think did it? " her own clothes long forgotten, probably hogging a machine.

Sabrina the Teenage Witch – 2.15: Finger Lickin' Flu

location : the dance floor @ the warehouse

time : approximately 10:30pm.

open : to anyone!

“are you thirsty? wanna grab a drink?” kennedy half yells into the other’s ear, yet her voice is barely audible over the music pumping around them. fingers flutter down the other's arm, ready to grab hold of their wrist to lead them out of the dance floor or loosely interlace her digits with theirs to twirl them around. depends on their answer!

matilda's offer to let him stick by her side is sweet and a man with vikram's disposition can't help but immediately lean to decline the offer. "i wouldn't want to get in the way of your fun." then he remembers what his therapist who may or may not look like gabriel luna and be played by flea said, about allowing himself to be open to new experiences. "–but i might actually take you up on that... uh, if you'll have me." awkwardness and all. her laugh encourages one of his own, as he shifts a little in place, as if to settle more into the conversation. "no whispering tonight– i can do that." he's gonna have to if she has any hope of hearing him talk over the music. "yeah, wasn't he in that jumaji remake? i haven't watch it but i like the original."

vikram nods along as matilda explains the reference, trying not to show any confusion that would expose how chronically offline he is. has no idea why the local teens have taken a liking to calling him demure recently. "i don't think i've seen the picture. you'll have to show it to me when i see you tonight. get the side by side." vikram feels like his costume is not as clever or relevant in comparison. "i'm dressing as the phantom. from phantom of the opera? figured it was an easy enough costume to put together last minute." he already had the suit and the broodiness that came with the character. all he really needed was the mask. he wants to ask her if she's read the novel but instead thinks it would be better to take advantage of the fact that they rarely get to meet outside of the library to focus on a topic other than books. "are you heading home right now? would you like some company?"

“You know, if you want, you’re more than welcome to stick by me, since I’ll be doing the same. But either way, I’ll gladly take you up on that drink, if it means talking to you at a level above a whisper,” she said, a laugh bubbling out of her. She’d planned on chatting with him at some point that night anyway, but the realization that she had a Pavlovian effect on the volume of Vikram’s voice only made her more determined. “Um, yeah. Do you know The Rock? Like, the actor?” She stumbled over her words, suddenly very conscious of the idea that she could be explaining her costume all night. “There’s this picture of him with a fanny pack, in a turtleneck. I was gonna do that, but maybe switch the jean pants for a jean skirt and some heels.” Matilda made a mental note to save the picture to her phone, for easy access if anyone wanted to see it. “What about you?”

the   two   painted   an   amusing   contrast   against   the   sterile   backdrop   of   redcreek’s   pharmacy.   taylan,   fiery   and   impatient,   his   vivid   red   energy   pushing   past   vikram’s   more   solemn   blue.   "oh,   sorry."   sass   was   not   something   that   had   ever   come   naturally   to   vikram.   apologies   did.   always   something   to   be   sorry   for   when   your   dignity   is   paper   thin.   and   that’s   exactly   what   he   offers   now,   raising   a   hand   instinctively   in   submission   as   he   steps   aside.   he   had   fully   expected   their   interaction   to   end   there   so   when   taylan   speaks   again,   it   catches   vikram   fully   off   guard,   eyes   widening   as   the   other's   crude   humor   rings   in   the   air,   almost   as   loud   as   the   bell   he   was   relentlessly   pressing   a   moment   prior.

'business   is   blooming.'   vikram   clears   his   throat   at   that,   shifting   awkwardly   in   place.   “uh,   yeah,   i   suppose   it   is.”   brows   twitch   into   a   frown   at   his   own   reply.   immediately,   vikram   can   tell   this   conversation   will   be   one   he   regrets.   one   that   his   mind   will   save   into   the   memory   of   his   brain   and   safely   tuck   away   at   the   corner   of   his   mind   specifically   reserved   for   remembering   any   time   he   puts   his   foot   in   his   mouth.   for   anyone   wondering,   throwing   azi   under   the   bus   in   his   police   interview   is   stashed   away   in   there   as   well.   he   draws   in   a   sharp   breath,   trying   again,   more   composed   this   time.   “they’re   probably   at   lunch   and   forgot   to   put   up   a   sign.”   better   to   address   the   younger   man’s   actual   question   than   the   colorful   way   he   expressed   it.   “or   maybe   they   did   put   one   up,   and   we’re   both   equally   awful   at   noticing   it.”   there’s   a   hint   of   a   joke   in   his   tone   as   his   eyes   flicker   to   the   'no   smoking'   sign   hanging   in   the   crook   of   the   reception   counter,   right   above   the   forgotten   ashes   of   taylan’s   cigarette.

where : red creek pharmacy status : closed with @brntout

with a cigarette dangling between his lips and insomnia looming underneath his eyes , taylan's days and nights blend into an aching mess that he can’t ease with the pills that he takes . years of playing hockey and fighting on the ice led him to shed blood , and steal from others without repercussions . but one accident had pulled on a loose thread making everything come undone . unraveling a poorly stitched pattern that his coach attempted to stitch close over the years with the help of painkillers . no pharmacist in sight and patience running thin . rough , careless and blowing out a waft of smoke , taylan pushes past vikram and leans against the counter , disregarding the no - smoking sign as if it were mere decoration . impatiently , he presses the call bell , over and over again . ding , ding , ding , resounds and bounces against the the pharmacy walls . “ think they died ? ” toying with the cherry at the end of his cigarette , taylan burns the pad of his thumb before pressing it out on the reception desk , leaving a dark marring spot behind . “ for all we know , the boogeyman gutted them in the back , and we have one less pharmacist in this town . ” too soon . “ congrats business is blooming for you . ”

♰  ⋅  ⋆  ───  #𝑩𝑹𝑵𝑻𝑶𝑼𝑻 .  .  .   is a  dependent,  multimuse blog  for  REDCREEKFM  brought  to  life  by  aime,  twenty7,  she/her,  mst.

Ⅰ . . . 𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝙷𝙴𝙿𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙳  —  vikram  shah.   thirty5.   he/him. funeral  director.

ⅠⅠ . . . 𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙳𝙸𝙶𝚈  —  kennedy  stuart.   twenty8. she/they.   journalist/author.

Ⅲ . . . 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝚁𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙽 𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙳  —  joey harlow.   forty4. she/her.   owner of redstone bar.

it had been years since kennedy last stepped foot in the thorne house. nostalgic and new all at once,  pictures tucked inside smashed frames, their spot on the wall replaced by old graffiti.  murderer. burn in hell. boogeyman. so and so was here. the house had been around too long, access made all too easy for the town’s angsty youths and wannabe detectives. the chances of kennedy finding anything of note were practically slim to none but unfortunately for them, this was the only lead they had. the past thirty minutes had been spent digging through the drawers of a beat-up dresser, only to come up empty. “really fucking did a number on this place ” they mumble under their breath. the house creaks in response as if to share their sentiment. on to the next room,  kennedy was beginning to feel ill-prepared for this endeavor, having only brought a flashlight and their phone, which they had been using to record from the moment they entered the house. handy for snapping photos and collecting thoughts.  “check county records to see if jacob thorne owned any property other than — fuck!.” 

the assault of yellow light landing directly in their line of vision makes kennedy stumble back a bit, a hand instinctively rising to shield their face. they hear him before they can see him and while it only takes them a second it takes them to adjust to the added source of light, it’s a second too long. his words cause kennedy’s face to pinch further, confusion lingering for a second before recognition hits. a killer who deflects—of course he would. it’s a bluff, and kennedy is quick to clock it, straightening their posture while ( bravely )  clinging to the wall.  a small laugh escapes them, humor masking the adrenaline still pumping in her veins.  “from cold case enthusiast to hot-blooded killer—how does that sound for a headline?” ever so critical of their own work, kennedy mentally answers their own question with ‘you can do better’. still, not a bad start. “did you come here to feel inspired, kieran?” they ask, their own flashlight trained directly on his person, steady despite their shivering breath. it makes his height look that much more imposing, serving as a reminder that the chances of him being stronger and faster than her are uncomfortably high. they want to look around, to find an exit that wouldn’t require them to just run out the front door or jump out of the second-story window but they refuse to let their guard down… just in case. the room is perfectly still as the two stand off. "you always did have a fascination for the macabre, didn't you?"

…                      he had been here a thousand times before, a place for solace and rumination, for youthful rendezvous and misdeeds. here, he smoked his first cigarette with taylan and thought of himself as some kind of anarchist for tarring his lungs. here, he tried to speak with the ghost of jacob thorne, trying to understand him with every mark of growth on the door frame, every old photo abandoned, and every tall tale unburied. it was a place filled with ghosts, though nothing could harm him here. but with alaina price disemboweled, her organs bagged and sewn back in, thorne house now felt like an ancient beast disturbed ⸻ spreading its teeth and devouring him, gnawing on his autonomous nervous system until all his synapses could relay would be pastpresentpastpresent. it must all be connected somehow, and kieran couldn't think of another place the boogeyman could have gone after slipping away from his sight. so he searched and searched and searched for some trace, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the dust-cloaked darkness of sybil thorne's room. the house felt more alive than ever, but kieran did not flinch when he heard the creaking floorboards the first time, only natural for old houses like this to breathe every now and then. but then he heard it again, closer this time, his body tensing as he was reminded that the ghost he chased was more flesh than memory. and at the indication of the third time, the beginning of a drawn-out groan of wood shifting under pressure behind him, kieran immediately pivoted ⸻ flashlight slicing through the darkness, illuminating another trespasser. he expected a knife, he expected a mask, but the absence did not necessarily mean innocence either. “ huh ... ” he began, heart slowing into a more deliberate rhythm, probably should known that he wouldn't be the only trying to find answers here. “ i didn't expect the boogeyman to be just some journalist trying to create her own headlines. ” he deadpanned, a half-joke, a half-accusation, head canted to watch kennedy with wary fascination. @brntout

vikram was feeling tad out of place here. his therapist was the one to suggest he wear a mask to the town's halloween party. a happy medium between his desire to socialize more and his fear of being perceived. it was working! for the most part. clearly not well enough if hana was able to spot him clinging to the walls like some sleep paralysis demon. "oh! i was just um, admiring the decor." that sounds better than him saying he was spacing out in the corner, right? vikram doesn't question the boldness in which she snatches his wrist nor does he resist her pulling him towards the bar. he knows better than to try to dissuade hana when she has her mind set on something and if that something is having a drink with him... then who the hell is he to get in the way of that? "i think they have two for one morgue-a-ritas?"

🔒 closed starter for vikram // @brntout 🧡 for a starter from mid party. 📍 the warehouse's halloween party, ~10 p.m.

☾ the moment hana sets her sights on him, his attempt at being a wallflower is promptly ended. ❝ you ! vik ! ❞ she calls out over the music, not - so - subtly shouldering her way through the crowd to get to him. ❝ what are you doin' in the corner ? ❞ her accent comes out thicker, thanks to the drinks settling in her system from a generous pregame. with possibly too much familiarity, she takes hold of his wrist and starts to pull him along. ❝ we gotta get you out there . . . to the bar ! trust me ! do you think they still have the fun themed drinks this year ? ❞

the silence between is heavy and the house seems to settle within it, wind whistling through the room as if to cut the tension. a shiver runs through them once more, the chill more physical than mental this time. kennedy is hyper-aware of their surroundings. of the dust particles floating in the air, the stray moonlight peeking into the room from poorly boarded-up windows, and kieran talbot. standing as the centerpiece.  illuminated by a warm light, lips parted slightly, a small twitch in his brow, dark eyes trained on them with a reflected caution. he almost looks like a painting. like something they would see in some museum, drawn by an unknown tragic artist, toeing the line between beautiful and unsettling. so kennedy does flinch when kieran moves closer, all instinct, eyes narrowing into daggers— a silent warning.

the mention of their book is unexpected and the wary glare softens into something kennedy can’t quite place, somewhere between amusement and surprise. they were sure that their parents did their best to spread the word about kennedy's achievement around town but they didn’t actually expect anyone care enough to pick up their book. they haven't spoken to anyone about it, not even santiago. so under kieran's mention of it, they suddenly find themselves thinking back on their time in italy.

a small church yet beautifully ornate with stained glass windows depicting idolized saints and dutiful angels. their eyes meeting his— the priest in their story. father caruso. the last murderer they were in a room with as far as they know .  the man who had the whole town wrapped around his finger. kennedy remembers looking around the cathedral, catching glimpses of the people in the pews looking up at him with teary reverence, clinging to his every word.

kieran’s voice pulls them back to the present, directing their attention to the battered bed nearby. sybil thorne’s bed. kennedy’s flashlight follows instinctively, skimming over the surface before snapping back to kieran, unwilling to lose sight of him. they feel disoriented, trapped between two worlds—the cathedral in their memory and the decaying thorne house.

kieran’s words settle in the room like the dust swirling in the faint light. more lamb than butcher. the phrase plays over in their mind, the weight of it heavier than they expect. "yeah?" they finally speak up, canting their head slightly, a slow-growing smile making its way to their features. "so what's a sweet little lamb like you doing out here then? hoping to find a purpose to bleed yourself into?" kennedy wasn’t fully convinced, they would be foolish to be, but they’ve never been the type to look to god or the universe for guidance. their gut was their bible and right now, it’s telling them that the kid who spent years buried in old articles and cold cases might be better used as an asset than dismissed as a suspect. they lower their flashlight some, and perhaps their guard as well. for now at least. "'cus i might just be on the same boat as you. " there's another pause then, only this time it doesn't feel so daunting. "do you think this place is actually haunted?" a sudden ask. they just can't help but shake the feeling that they were being watched. was it paranoia? god?

ꜜ ﹙ ⚰️  ﹚ ﹕ the questions hung heavy in the air for a few moments, met with kieran's silence as the thorne house creaked and groaned with every cold autumn breeze, almost as if the very walls were an audience reacting to this confrontation. he held his stance even against the blinding light of kennedy's flashlight, expression caught somewhere between surprise and something more akin to indignance against the returned accusation. it should be expected ﹕ he probably checked off multiple boxes in some litmus test for serial killers, but allegations felt like smoke sometimes ⸻ it could be suffocating if left unchallenged. he let the silence stretch out between them just for a few more beats, the weight of it pressing down on him like the dust that covered this old rotten place, before finally taking a small step forward. just to see if it would rattle them, just to see if they would flinch, just to see how much kennedy actually believed him to be red creek's newest murderer. then, a smile as he shook his head. “ i read your book, y'know ? great work you did there. but people look at it like it was an exposé on that priest, the oh so terrible things he did to maintain people's faith ... but the way i see it, it's more a revelation of the lies people tell themselves. ” kieran shrugged nonchalantly, casting his light on the bedside table, where sibyl thorne's weathered bible remained after all these years. and he wondered if she believed god would save her son from the misplaced wrath of this town. “ they need something to believe in, something bigger than their own insignificance. faith healing, prayers to some god, a big dose of hope and dopamine from the bible— because to live in a world without that, without the illusion of purpose, of salvation, would be too much. it's easier to believe in that whole weird apocalyptic scifi literature than accept we're just specks of dust drifting in a universe that doesn't really give a damn. ” and finally another step forward, hands raised in feigned surrender. he didn't always say much, sometimes not even enough, but kieran felt an affinity for kennedy ﹕ both of them only trying to make sense of what was happening in their town. “ guess what i'm tryin' to say is, i may not look like it, but i give too much of a damn to be an indifferent killer like this goddamn universe. i'm really just like all those people, ken. more a lamb than a butcher. ” a mess of belief, fighting too hard for meaning to ever be an empty murderer.