He's afraid to close his eyes. When he does, all he can feel is a haunting pressure in the room. When his eyes reopen, the pressure is gone. This makes sleeping almost impossible, finally finding release from the fear and anxiety caused by that devastating feeling of eyes on him, when exhaustion takes him, and his mind shuts down.
This pattern repeats every night. On day seven of this terrifying paralysis that threatens him from the other side of his room, he has the idea to set his computer to record for the entire night. Tired eyes close with trepidation, worry etched on the edge of his frayed features. Sleep seems to have come easier that night than others, as if the shadows dancing in his periphery knew he was watching them for once.
The next day, trembling fingers press the play button on his computer screen, eyes fluttering across said screen as he watches the nights events. Fear trickles down his spine, a shudder wracking his frame when he pauses on a pair of almost unseen eyes in the corner of his room.
The boy blows the image up and tries to explain to his parents that something has been watching him. Something is stalking him. He waves his image, crying out, pleading with them to listen. But his pleas fall on deaf ears and he's sent back to the very room where his would-be tormentor is hiding.
Sleep does not come that night. The boy sits up the entire time, knuckles white and fingers gripping the bed sheets as if the fabric were armor against the mystique that threatened his existence.
When light breaks over the horizon and the boy feels an ounce of safety, he allows sleep to take him.
This pattern repeats for a couple of weeks and the boy's parents begin to worry for his health. They take him to doctors and run their expensive tests. He keeps his lips sealed about the eyes he discovered on his screen, merely stating that he has had difficulty sleeping. The doctors prescribe him medication, special pills that will put him into a deep trance like sleep. Fear sinks into the boy when he hears this, shivers erupt goosebumps on his skin, his eye twitching at the idea of being helpless to the monster in his room.
"W-wait, stop. Why would h-he still even sleep in the same room if t-there was something there?" A voice rang out from behind the typing blond. Said blond starts, surprise flooding his expression as his eyes leave the screen and lock with a shorter man wearing an apron standing behind him.
"I'm sorry, what?" The blond asks, astounded that this stranger, who he can clearly tell is the barista that helped him earlier when he came in, has not only read over his shoulder in a serious invasion of privacy, but also decided to commenton it.
"Y-your main character. Why would h-he stay in the room he knows a m-monster is in? Doesn't make sense to me." The barista shot back, no shame on his face for the invasion of personal space.
"Because, he thinks he's just going insane. That he imagined it," the taller man exclaims, unsure why he even feels the need to explain himself to this stranger.
The barista scoffs at that, shifting the empty plates in his hands. "H-hallucinating isn't the same thing as h-hard evidence. W-when you h-hallucinate and take a picture, n-nothing's there. Only real t-tangent things s-show up on camera." He pauses, "so why would t-this guy stay?"
The sitting blond pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. He didn't come here to have his newest book criticized. He knew it wasn't coming out the way he wanted, but he certainly didn't need some random guy telling himthat.
"And just what do you know about the things that go bump in the night, hm?" he asks, the barista clearly stiffening at that question. "Are you like, a specialist in ghosts?"
The short boy fidgets, making a sour face before huffing and turning on his heel. "S-some people can't t-take constructive criticism," he grounds out before leaving to go back behind the counter.
Fifteen-year-old Anne Knitts deserved better than the end she received. Anne's body had been found in the woods near Stark's Pond. It had been early in the morning during autumn, when the leaves had just started to fall. A jogger had been on a walk with their dog when the animal had veered off the path into the woods. The sight the jogger was met with, til this day, causes nightmares.
Anne Knitts had been mutilated, her body crushed and bent in a grotesque manner. Her skin had been peeled off of the muscle underneath, exposing the tendons and bone, and yet, not an ounce of blood was found at the scene. The only clue the police had were the old coins found wedged where her eyes should have been. The cops had determined no sign of struggle beyond the obvious mutilation and they were never able to locate Anne's skin.
This was one of the many reasons Kenny had decided to come to this podunk town. People like Anne Knitts, people who went missing showing back up in the worst possible ways. Honestly, if you dug far back enough on South Park, a lot of insane and unexplainable things had happened there. It was one of those places that seemed normal enough on the outside, but when you dove deep into the secrets hidden deep under the snow that always seemed to cover the town, you find the danger.
Lifting the last box out of the U-Haul, Kenny remembers how he researched for an entire year before he ended up in this tiny little unexplainable death trap. It wasn't like he was looking for serial killers, no, he could always head to famous states like Wisconsin and Minnesota for that. No, he wanted the weird and unexplained.
When he told his editor, he was thinking about writing a horror novel next, they had tried to talk him out of it naturally. He was able to write romance that curled people's toes, so why change it up? Because he knew it was pandering, he hated it. The entire romance genre he had sold out to drove him insane; it wasn't what he wanted to really do.
The amount of time it took him to get his editor on board with his new book idea was about the time it took for him to research South Park and find the perfect house to move in to.
The house he had purchased was probably the worst part of this entire idea. The blond had requested the realtor find a house on the market that had someone either go missing from or die in recently. She had been baffled by the request, but nonetheless, she had come through.
Thomas Tourette had been a happy enough child, though he had his issues, the people of South Park seemed to like him all the same. The day the teenager went missing, the entire police force had been out looking for him. For two weeks, all of the town attempted to locate poor Thomas, but to no luck. After a month the people stopped questioning his disappearance, as if the young man had just been erased from the town all together. His parents had moved away shortly after that, and Kenny could not for the life of him find anything in the old newspapers or online to explain where Thomas had gone or why the police had dropped the case.
The Tourette house was normal, a two-story with a basement and an attic. More so than Kenny actually needed, but it was cheap and suited his needs just fine. Not to think badly of what could have happened to poor Thomas, but Kenny was hoping for some type of spiritual essence to have been left in the house. Something, anything, to really get the juices flowing.
Moving to close the door behind him, Kenny stops, box in hand, and narrows his eyes at the figure standing near his mailbox. Squinting he realizes that it's that blond guy from the cafe that morning, the one who criticized his writing.
"What do you want?" he calls out to the blond, which in turn seems to have spooked the other. "Gonna stand there and stare at me some more? That's really creepy dude, what are you, a stalker?"
The blond's face twists when he gathers himself and frowns, "N-no, I was just thinking of course y-you're moving in to Thomas' house."
What's that supposed to mean?Kenny thinks as he leans the box against the doorframe, "Why?" he decides to ask and waits patiently for the strange boy to answer him. But the other just shakes his head as if he doesn't feel like getting into it and waves his hand to dismiss the conversation all together. Blue eyes watch as the strange barista lifts his phone and takes a picture of Kenny and the house, without permission add you, before turning tail and running off.
"Hey!" Kenny yells after him, jumbling the box in his arms and almost dropping it. "Fuck," he hisses, rebalancing the box and kicking his door shut behind himself. I should have realized people in this town would be weird.
It's slow going, unpacking by himself. Kenny finds that he doesn't quite enjoy the silence of the old house as much as he thought he would and decides to hook up his Alexa in different parts of the house. He plays music throughout the rooms he's occupying as he unpacks. Once the office is completely unpacked, the day is entirely gone, and Kenny can feel the hunger raging inside of him. Knowing there is nothing but maybe a bottle of water in his new refrigerator, he makes the snap decision to venture out into South Park.
There is little that actual scares Kenneth McCormick in this world. His tolerance for fear is pretty high and his dabbling into the occult and supernatural only prove to further his tolerance as it intrigues him more than anything. So, to say journeying out into the little town of South Park at night, with all the strange happenings he had discovered in his research, should be scary?
Well, it's not.
The town itself is quiet and cheerful, he finds; a layer of fresh powdered snow dusting the ground and the stars twinkling calmly overhead through the lack of air pollution just seems to add another feeling of serenity. You'd never know that weirder unexplained phenomenon happens in this town more than any other town in the United States, not by first glance.
Kenny finds himself in a place called Shi Ti PA Town, a corner of the town that the locals seemed to have tried to gentrify. He walks inside of one of the nicer looking restaurants and is lead to a table outside. Again, normal, nothing out of the ordinary here, and something inside of Kenny feels let down. He's disappointed by the lack of strange, but perhaps he had made his quota already today by meeting the strange spazzy boy from the coffee shop?
"Water?" a nasally voice asks, and it pulls Kenny out of his thoughts, he glances up and really has to glance up as the server is pretty gosh darn tall.
"Oh, uh, yes?" Kenny asks, his smile pulling on his lips in a way he's sure is very awkward. He hadn't been prepared to come face to face with someone so dashingly attractive, not in this town anyway.
The server simply lifts one eyebrow before he's pouring water into Kenny's empty glass. "You're new," he states, not questions, and Kenny can feel that deep vibrato resonating. The man's voice sends a shiver down his spine and Kenny know's his cheeks are dusting red, there's no denying that.
"Yeah, I just moved here." He wants to ask how the other man knows, but honestly, it's such a small town the locals most likely know each other already. "I moved into the old Tourette's house today."
Something in the man's green eyes seem to flash with recognition and instantly Kenny feels like a jackass for even bringing it up. Judging by when Thomas went missing, if he did the math by this guy's appearance, they must have been around the same age. He might have even known him.
"Shit... dude, I'm sorry," Kenny spits out quickly, "that was really insensitive, bringing up the house like that."
The taller man seems as if he's pulled out of his thoughts before he shrugs one shoulder apathetically, "It's just a house. It's fine."
The blond wants to question more, wants to talk to this person again, but he knows the other guy is working and it would be rude to keep him. Kenny offers a smile and places his order, watching the other leave to go back to work. Even with the small amount of time he's spent with the noirette, he already knows he wouldn't mind talking to him again.
Kenny sits and debates with himself before he pulls out the pad of paper, he always carries in case of notes and jots his name and phone number down. When he's done with his meal and he's about to leave, he writes the man's name from his name tag, Craig, on the note and stuffs it in with the tip.
The blond has never left a restaurant so fast in his life, embarrassment encouraging him to move quickly. It was one thing to have Craig say no and decide to not call or text him, but he didn't need to be around for him to potentially rip up the paper or throw it away. Talk about a shock to his confidence. It had been a long time since Kenny had found anyone attractive, and it blew his mind that he would find someone in this haunted, spooky, town.
He's probably a weirdo too, his mind supplies.
His walk home is just as uneventful as the walk into town was, just himself and his thoughts alone with the night sky. The moon seems to hover lower in South Park for some reason, larger than he ever remembers it being in the cities he'd lived in. The brisk cold air cuts him like a knife and he's pondering on buying some thicker winter clothes when he sees a figure out of the corner of his eye. The person is shadowed by the trees, not walking the path under the street lamps like him, and Kenny wonders absently if they're following him. He pushes the thought out of his head and just continues his walk down the road, his pace perhaps a tad bit quickened.
It's another three streets over that he realizes the shadowed figure is still there and his heartbeat begins to pick up. Of course, said person could just as easily live in the same direction as him, it wasn't like South Park had many streets, but something inside him reminded him to be suspicious. He hadn't moved to this town for nothing, it had a reputation after all.
Kenny bolts full speed down the next road, turning a corner to hide behind someone's garage to wait and see if the shadowed figure followed him. Sure enough, he could hear the patting of speeded footsteps and he readies himself for when the person passes. He has half a second to collect himself before he sees said person and he acts, jumping from his hiding spot and tackling the other.
The two go tumbling on the ground, snow and dirt flying, Kenny thinks he even sees some grass as he's rolling. They both grapple against each other, the other person loudly yelling profanities. The blond can't see the strangers face, they have a hood pulled up and over their head and he's annoyed that what seems to be someone his age by the body size, was stalking him.
"What are you doing!?" He asks, finally pinning the smaller body to the ground and narrowing his eyebrows.
When the other's head hits the snow, the hood falls off and the guy from the coffee shop is peering back at him with large aqua eyes.
"You?" Kenny questions, his palms pushing harder on the man's shoulders, shoving him deeper in to the snowdrift.
The other man struggles for a moment before giving up, realizing quickly that Kenny had the upper hand. His eyebrows narrow, and he frowns as if Kenny is the bad guy in this situation and he's somehow inconvenienced.
"G-get offa me," he grumbles, pushing against Kenny's body. "This is a free country, man, I can walk where e-ever I want!"
"Free country or not, why were you stalking me?" Kenny demands, putting more of his weight on to the other man to keep him from wiggling around and getting away.
The guy under him lets out a frustrated groan, gloved hands giving a final shove before flopping back against the snow in defeat. "I'm nngh not stalkin' you, okay? Shit, have you never met a fan before?!"
Kenny is surprised to hear the other's response, his eyes narrowing a fraction more in suspicion. "What?" He so eloquently asks, "You know who I am?"
"Well, yeah," the stalker sputters out, looking thoroughly put out at still being trapped under someone in a snowdrift. "You're not exactly hard to find out about, e-even if you use a pen name," he tries to wiggle himself free again to no avail. "I dunno, man, the torrent love affair between Harper and Trent? It had me hanging on- nnghevery word. Jesus, the raw passion was just-"
Kenny moves so fast away from the shorter man at those words that he falls backwards onto his ass. So, he was a stalker andhe was a fan of that series? The blond's expression twists to that of judgement before he schools the look and dusts himself off.
"Sorry, I didn't think anyone would figure out who I was? I mean, a pen-name is supposed to keep my privacy... well, private." He frowns, twisting his lips before pushing himself off the ground, "Gonna explain to me why you were following me tonight?"
Standing immediately as though he would instantly end up pinned to the frozen ground again, the stranger dusts himself off, movements jerky and uneasy. "W-well, I wasn't trying to creep you out or anything. I wanted to say something at the...at the coffee shop, but I got distracted reading over your shoulder."
Kenny twists his expression at that remark, remembering the unsolicited criticism the blond had offered during his writing session. "Yeah, you certainly sounded like a fan then." The taller man remarks, rolling his eyes, "More like one of my critics."
"Well, maybe they're onto something," the other grumbles, continuing to fidget with his coat. "Criticism i-isn't bad, especially if people know you can do better," the stranger stops his assault on his coat, fixing Kenny with a wide-eyed stare, "But, at any rate, sorry for creeping over your shoulder, man."
Kenny feels the strange anger he felt before melt away, it's hard for him to keep this type of feeling harbored inside for long. He's just not the type of guy to hold grudges and honestly, if this blond is a fan of his, he should be a little more understanding lest he hear it from his PR and editor. A small smile lifts his lips before sighing, shaking some snow from his hair. "Aah, it's okay. I think me tackling you calls us even."
The stranger furrows his brow, a faint smile tugging uneasily at the corner of his lips. "I mean, I-I wouldn't exactly say even, but I guess," he shifts his shoulders, seeming to decide something for himself before wiping his hand quickly on his pants and extending it to Kenny. "I'm Tweek."
The taller man rolls that name around in his mind for a moment, resisting the urge to ask him how much his parents may have hated him to grace him with such a terrible name, but his social skills kick in and instead he merely reaches out and accepts the guys hand.
"Seems redundant to tell you my name, but, Kenny. Nice to meet you, Tweek." Kenny gives his hand a little squeeze as his father taught him, a firm yet friendly handshake for strangers Kenneth, echoing in his head.
"And uh, yeah. Sorry about that again, fight or flight and all that jazz."
"It's cool, man, I get it," Tweek retracts his hand, firming shoving it into his coat pocket. "Weird shit everywhere, y'can never be too careful."
"You're telling me," He pauses before a light switch flicking on in his brain, "Hey. You wouldn't be open to talking about those weird things, would you?"
Tweek's eyes widen a fraction, nearly glowing in the dim light.
"What do you mean weird, there's nnngh-nothing weird going on!" he practically yells to the deserted street, gripping Kenny's arm and forcibly dragging him closer. Tweek's voice drops to a harsh whisper, looking even more manic, if that was possible. "The fuck are you trying to do? Y-you can't let then hear you!"
Blue eyes narrow before glancing down at the fingers gripping his jacket tightly between them, he frowns just a bit at that. "Um, them?" he asks quietly, keeping his voice down as if to pacify the other's paranoia.
"Shhhhh!" Tweek hisses, clamping a hand over the other's mouth. "Yes, them," he glances around them, eyes darting to what could only be imagined foes concealed in the dark.
Turning back to Kenny, Tweek removes his hand with a jolt, cleaning it of any potential germs on his coat before pocketing it once again. "It's not safe here, man."
To say Kenny is startled by the other's actions would be an understatement, his eyes grow wider as he prepares to defend himself in case Tweek suddenly decided to do something erratic. When the blond drops his hands Kenny's nerves calm down slightly, though he takes a cautious step back. "Okay...?"
Kenny glances around as his urge to leave and pretend none of this ever happened rises, "How about we talk somewhere safer? Say the coffee shop you work at? Another time of course, it's late and..." Kenny hears himself trail off, not sure what excuse he wanted to supply.
Pulling his coat tighter around himself, Tweek nods quickly. "After-hours only. Tomorrow."
A weight lifts off of Kenny's chest as he nods, he turns and leaves without much else. He doesn't feel like he owes this new person much, let alone a full conversation. However, if he were to prove useful in finding out the truths of this town, then maybe the trouble he caused would be worth it?
The night sky continues to be unfazed by the night's events, the same twinkling stars he had glanced at during his walk into town now greet him. There's something comforting in the way the sky is unchanged, as if no matter what oddball situations Kenny finds himself in, he can always find common peace in the ever-glowing night sky.
The moment he's home and his head finds the softness of his pillow, Kenny finds a deep slumber he hasn't found in a while. The promise of answers in the form of a strange and terrifying stranger giving him comfort in ways he shouldn't find it. After all, he wasn't one for boring and normal, he thrived in the unknown. And South Park, was just that: unknown.
Kenny McCormick was no stranger to small towns; he'd grown up in one all his life before embarking into city life when the siren call of college came singing in his ear. So, he was used to the creeks and strange unexplainable sounds that came with old houses built during times long gone. At least, that's what Kenny keeps attempting to convince himself as different occurrences continue to take place and repeat in his new home. Sure, he bought the brick home with hopes that he could draw inspiration from the disturbing on-goings that happened within the walls of his new abode, but he did not sign up for actual ghosts.
The last couple of weeks he had found himself out of the house more often than not, his interviews with Tweek keeping him focused on the enigmatic blond's veiled answers, hoping he could decipher the truth behind them as if they were some cryptic puzzle. Concentrating on something tends to take all of Kenny's attention, so now that he's has enough down time to notice the phenomenons happening, they're getting harder and harder to ignore.
Sitting in his office, Kenny is convinced the coffee mug his baby sister made for him moved. He had been writing a scene when the smallest scraping sound had caught his attention and now, he can't seem to look away from the baby pink and purple mug. He doesn't know how long it's been that he hasn't dared to blink, the silence filling the room almost palpable.
It doesn't move again.
But he knows damn well that it did move.
There's darkness surrounding him at every angle, a deep abyss swallowing him whole at every turn. He's been here before, many times. It's the same hellscape he finds himself stuck in whenever his night terrors decide to rear their ugly heads. It's always the same, he can tell he's there, completely aware of the situation, yet he can't force himself to wake up and escape this demented dream.
The darkness gives way to a barren wasteland of reds and oranges, a desert of death. Hands reach from their graves grasping and hoping to grab on to something, anything, to release them of their untimely torture. Kenny knows the cracks and holes to avoid, the dance he must perform to dodge the ever-reaching fingers, dry skin cracking and flaking off of the torn appendages. This mass graveyard that goes on as far as the eye can see with no sign of stopping, seems like his own personal hell, a place where many people are forced together yet at the same time destined to be apart, none sharing the same grave, never able to touch.
Next come the screams, the deafening sound that for sure should wake him from his slumber, but never does. They come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, bombarding his senses and rupturing his eardrums. It's in the silence that he finds his adrenaline pumping and the fear really taking hold.
He drops down out of the wasteland into a world of colors, bright and painful. They seem off, as if the vibrancy is attempting to blind him. He concludes that is exactly what this particular purgatory was designed to do, much as the shrill screams had robbed him of his hearing, this dangerous swirl of ever assaulting colors was meant to strip him of his eyesight. Kenny closes his eyes to save that sense, relying only on his memory of the dreams, knowing full well what was next to come.
He attempts to keep this wonderland of horrors from stealing the most important defense he has in this place: his sight. It isn't until he finds himself safely slipping into the next layer of his perdition, does he finally deem it safe enough to open them.
Learned experience has taught him that the next stage of his night terror will walk him through his sense of pain, and this is when his mind tends to overload enough to wake him. Though he's anticipating the world he's phasing into, he is never really fully prepared for the level of agony his mind, and thus his psychical body, goes through.
It is a white room, devoid of colors or sounds, emptiness at its greatest perfection, that he finds himself.
The pain will follow after the door appears and Kenny's heart hammers hard against his chest as he squeezes his eyes shut and prays to any deity that could possibly be listening to not put him through this suffering again. He hits his knees and prays as hard as he can, the silence the screams caused ringing a terrible emptiness in his ears, stealing his chances of foretelling the doors arrival. It creeps up on him like the demented unorthodox creation that it is, opening slowly and with some trepidation. The weight of the door causes this slow creep, but Kenny thinks it's also the pain that comes with anticipation that causes its snail's pace as it opens.
Kenny knows deep within his subconscious that this is just a dream and his untouched body is, more likely than not, tossing and turning in a torrential wave of sweat back in the safety and sanctity of his bedroom. However, no matter the conviction he holds, nothing will or can stop the wave of pure fear that wracks his body when the door finishes its journey, gaping open, welcoming the plethora of demons inside to come and play.
He is frozen in his terror, eyes peeled wide as he shakes, watching the void of darkness within the door frame for any slight sign of movement. What demented hell creature would he be provided with today, he wonders. Which creature would be the master of his pain, the main attraction for his agony? It's his mind's own carousel of horrors, providing an ever growing diversity of anguish to punish him for whatever misdoings these night terrors are pennants for.
Kenny can feel the growing lump in his throat as he spies the swiftest of movements beyond the shade. His eyes burn from over use yet he does not dare blink, least he miss the horrendous beast his twisted psyche has plucked out to doom him. It is in a moment of weakness, when his eyes can no longer stand to be open, that he feels the touch of a ghostly appendage on his skin. It's that brief second, that instance of darkness inflicted by his need to blink, that he knows he has damned himself.
When his eyes reopen, he is face to face with something only described as unworldly. It's maw so close to his face that he can now feel the panting heat of its breath, smell the stench of sulfur mixed with the coppery sweetness of blood. Wetness travels down his skin and he isn't sure if it is his own tears, sweat, or the dripping saliva from the monster's beak-like mouth that has found its way downward. He doesn't know, nor does he have time to ponder this, as the creature descends upon its meal, happy to rip Kenny shred by shred as his unheard screams are surely gracing its ears.
Kenny awakens to the sound of his own screams, primal and torn from him, ripped out of his throat hard enough that he can feel the rawness when he reaches up to touch his Adam's apple. His hands are shaking as he reaches for his bedside table, a little pill bottle awaits him as he snatches it and pours out two small white pills. He downs them without any water and allows himself the chance to finally breathe, to take in the fact that he's whole and safe.
His mind races as he cries into his open palms; he always cries when his medication fails him and takes him back to the hell of his own making. He cries for the souls trapped in the ground and for his ongoing torture at the hands of unspeakable horrors. Kenny wonders if he's cursed, cursed in the way many gifted imagineers are. Blessed by the ideals of their mind and haunted by them at the same time. When Kenny's breathing finally dies down, the tiniest hiccups left over from his tears, he dries his face on his sleeve and tries to allow the medication to lull him back to sleep.
During the moment when sleep begs to take him, and consciousness hangs on, he swears he sees a person in the corner of his room. A boy. Young, scared, and apprehensive, as if the idea of the man in the bed's own torment frightened him. Kenny thinks nothing of this, surely, it's his mind playing tricks on him again, as it does so often, and he allows the pills coursing through his bloodstream to do their work and put him back into a dreamless slumber.