AN: Hey, everyone.
Bet you were surprised or worried seeing this in your inbox.
…
Two years gone by in a flash, huh? Two years, two different jobs, and finally doing my tax returns on my own.
It's really hard to believe, to be honest. But I'll be honest all of you anyway. I had a bit of a fall-out with Harry Potter and Creepypasta over that time. I just didn't feel that same love towards Harry Potter fanfics anymore and drifted away from the fandom (I think it was all the cash-grab movies, books, plays, etc. that slowly turned me off). And Creepypasta as a fandom seemed like it was… fading.
I still have a special place in my heart for both (especially creepypasta), but I'm sorry for being on a hiatus for so long.
Just to be clear:
THE FIC IS NOT YET ABANDONED
I'm just telling you what happened.
I don't know when I'll update the fic again. Hopefully not another two-years… (anybody reading this in 2021 with no new chapters again; sorry I f*cked it up)
But if I ever run out of ideas or the fic just flat-out dies, I'll be sure to put in a chapter with a hilarious little snippet like this:
Me: "It's been nice working with you, Muse!"
Me: "Now self-destruct."
Muse: "FINALLY! Nyeh-hehehehe!"
*pfffft*
*KA-BOOM!*
Just reiterating; not abandoned yet!
I'm still rusty with it, so I decided to focus away from Hogwarts, which started feeling a little pigeonholed and move towards something more with the Creepypastas, themselves.
So, I hope you enjoy.
Your reviews, favorites, and follows remind me there are still people out there who like my story and really want to see it play out.
So, thank you.
To all of you; whether you read the story two days ago and were dumbstruck to see an update to this 'dead' fic you literally just followed out of mild hope I might update (in which case, lucky you). Or two years ago and were probably thinking 'wtf is this fic? When did I follow this?'.
Thank you.
Now
ON WITH THE STORY!
-The Smiling Crow
Toby breathed in the crisp night air around him, feeling the breeze glide past as he rolled down the long asphalt road on a skateboard. The nearest Slender-port was almost three miles away, but the summer-turning-autumn night wasn't bad so he figured he might as well enjoy the half-hour ride down the forested road.
Either way, he finally reached the gates of the mansion for Francis 'Fat Frankie' Vincenzo, an Italian mob family boss that was causing a large network of Bad to leach into the major cities around the country. The Council determined he'd actually started weeviling his way into the UnderRealm's territory by using some otherworldly connections. They decided to nip that in the bud and put out a job.
And he was selected to put it into action.
Pulling out a small ipod in his pocket, he hooked in the earbuds and strung them through his mask so they wouldn't dangle as he slipped them comfortably in his ears.
He tucked his backpack and skateboard against the brick guardpost to the fence, hidden in some bushes as he prepped up the knives, explosives, and more on his body.
Toby hesitated and pulled out a small photograph.
A pretty blond girl around college-age, if she could've seen it. A tired-looking woman with brown hair streaked with gray, but smiling gently and genuinely as she held the other two. And lastly, a boy around mid-late teens with messy hair, heavy bagged eyes, and off-kilter smile probably spasming as the photo was taken, but with both cheeks firmly intact. And no angry, blond-haired man in sight.
Toby Rogers lovingly tucked the photograph in a small nook between the wrought iron fencepost décor.
Scaling quickly, he pressed play on the device.
Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a land-slide
No escape from reality!
The intruder snuck up on a burly guard and stabbed him quietly.
Open your eyes… look up to the skies and
Seeeeeeee!
He let the body drop and swiftly moved on.
I'm just a poor boy
I need no sympathy
(Because I'm)
Easy come… Easy go…
Little high, little low.
He breezed past the guard dogs' post, not alerting them to jack squat.
Any-way the wind blows (woosh)
Doesn't really matter to meeee
Two guards.
To meeeee.
The guard looked around blankly, grunting as an axe made quick work of his brain.
The other turned to see his partner fall as a boy lifted the guard's gun from the holster and-
Mama.
Just killed a man.
Put a gun against his head
Pulled my trigger, now he's dead
The boy walked away as the second body fell.
Mama.
Life had just begun.
But now I've gone and thrown it all awaaaaaay
Did he regret it?
Mamaaaaaaaaa- oooh-ooooooooooooh
Didn't mean to make you cry!
Her face streaked with tears as he stepped back from the remains of the man in the armchair
If I'm not back again this time tomorrow
Carry on, carry on
As if nothing really matters…
He moved in across the mansion grounds, like a shadow.
A ghost of a dead boy in every sense except by the Council's records.
Too late,
My time has come.
A pale hand extending towards him in a clearing wreathed by fire
Send shivers down my spine
Body's aching all the time.
He cracked his neck absently as he skewered another man's skull.
The radio in his hand crackled something.
Somebody would notice the silence.
Shit.
Goodbye Every-body
I've got to go
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truuuth!
Speeding away from the house as police sirens closed in
Mamaaa! Ooh, ooooh (anyway the wind blows)
I don't wanna die!
I sometimes wish I'd never been born at aaaallll!
He dodged a round of bullets from an asshole guard coming around the corner.
Things were getting interesting.
Like a ballet dance of mortality and death, he slipped out of the path of their clumsy semi-automatics and deftly introduced them to Proxy-fueled knife wielding.
In the distance he could see a few more coming closer to his position.
He took a running start and smashed straight through a window into the manor itself.
He stumbled in the dark as he adjusted quickly and began planting small, black boxes with blinking LEDs.
I see a little silhouetto of a man
Scaramouch!
Scaramouch!
Will you do the Fandago-
Men rounded the corner and began blasting their weapons, lighting up the hallway
Thunderbolts and Lightning,
very, very frightening me!
He popped in and out of rooms like a hopped-up jackrabbit; delivering 'presents' like a Mad Max Easterbunny.
Galileo (Galileo)
Galileo (Galileo)
Galileo Figaro
Magnifico-o-o-o-o
I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me
He's just a poor boy, from a poor family
Spare him his life from this mon-strosity
A hand smacks his cheek as the blond man in front of him explodes with rage over something probably trivial
Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?
Bismillah!
NO!
We will not let you go! (Let him go)
Bismillah!
Will not let you go! (Let me go)
Bismillah!
We will not let you go (let me go)
Will not let you go (let me go)
(Never never never) let me go-o-o-o-o
He shattered the window as he leapt out, the horde of mobsters closing in as escape routes were choked out
No, no, no, no, no, no, no!
Men were standing at the shattered remains talking into walkie talkies as groundsmen came guns-blazing towards the figure wreathed in shattered glass on the lawn.
Oh mama mia mama mia!
Mama Mia let me go!
The boy clipped off something on his belt loop.
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me~
His malformed grin widened.
For me~
He flicked open the lid to the tiny, red button.
For MEEEEEEEEE~
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The windows of the manor exploded one-by-one as the 'presents' received their signal.
The lawn was bathed in a glorious orange glow. The hired thugs were distracted by the explosion.
Their mistake.
So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye!
Jamming a knife through the eye socket of one guy, he left it wedged in the cracked bone as he dodged a bullet (literally) from a guy going trigger happy with his automatic.
Four more guys showed up behind him.
He bent gracefully around the idiot's wild shooting and wrapped his arm around the arm with the gun.
So you think you can love me and leave me to die!
His hand clamped down on the hand with the trigger and the gun jerked wildly as he aimed it to mow down the four men's attempted ambush.
A quick headbutt to the idiot-gunman's nose had him rearing back and letting go of the gun.
He now had the gun in his hand.
So, he threw it away and pulled out a knife and jammed it in idiot-gunman's neck.
Of course.
Oh, Baby!
Can't do this to me baby!
He started for the exit.
Just gotta get out-
Just gotta get right out of here!
*click*
He came face-to-face with several guard dogs and at least ten armed guards.
The dead boy spun slowly in place to see a crowd of mobsters and guards storming behind him. They all raised their weapons-
Fat Frankie stormed into his office, furious. Reports flooded in from his cell of some freak taking out his guards. A twiggy. F*cking. Freak. Taking out almost 20 of his best men before they could even nick him.
He threw himself into the chair of his heavily fortified study as the sounds of gunfire and explosions echoed through the walls.
"F*cking repair bills," he grumbled, pouring a glass of amber bourbon from a decanter.
He eased back, frowning as he noticed something under his desk.
He leaned further back.
A boxy device with a small number pad.
Counting down.
3.
2.
He sighed.
"Oh, fuc-"
BWOOOSH!
Oooooooooooooh,
Oh yeah, oh yeah!
The young man raised his arms like he was welcoming a hug as the wave of heat swept past him. The guards were caught off-guard (snicker) and thrown forward by the shock. The dogs had enough sensibility to bolt for cover, frightened of the massive fireball the mansion had become.
Charred furniture, support beams, bricks, and even an entire refrigerator came falling from the heavens like a really weird Revelations scene.
The guards were pummeled by debris. Those too close to the blast pretty much liquefied internally, those further away (like the ones that stopped him initially) were battered to death via a flaming vanity set.
The murderer stood motionless, arms still raised as a thug scrambled up and pointed a gun, only to be crushed by the refrigerator. Another dared as well, and was summarily impaled by a wood support beam like a javelin through the chest.
Woooooo.
As the glow faded and the sounds of chaos and death wound down to the softer silence accompanied by the crackling of flames and occasional crack of a new section of wall giving way.
The assassin let his arms fall limply and walked past the smashed mirror pieces and bloodbath behind him to the iron gate.
Nothing really matters.
The boy pulled the photo from the fence posts.
Anyone can see.
Toby picked up the backpack and swung it deftly over his shoulder and took a running start on the skateboard back down the long stretch of silent road.
Nothing really matters…
It really was a nice night.
Nothing really matters
To me~
He put his hands in his pockets as he rolled quietly down the road, the black smoke of the mansion rising softly in the horizon behind him.
A cool, misty fog rolled in as his board carried him smoothly downhill.
Any-way the wind blows.
Toby Rogers faded into that mist once more.
The man ran haphazardly through the office building, barreling out of the elevator.
"Dammit, F*ck, f*ck, f*ck!" He swore profusely as he shoved past a confused janitor. It was well into the night and he was alone in the office, again. This was never a problem, but all of this started when he picked up some foster brat with a f*cking 'imaginary friend'.
"Hlehlehlehlehlehle"
He stopped, whirling in place to try to find the source of the demented high-pitched tongue-on-teeth chuckle echoing all around him.
He was alone in the lowest level of the office building home to only a couple things; the janitor's closets and lounges, the boilers and heaters, a couple old archives, and the employee gym.
The hallway around him was lit by the fluorescent lights buzzing above.
"You want the f*cking kid?!" He roared, "He was just a government check! F*ck everything! You want him? Take him!"
"Take him and go to Hell!" He screamed, panting.
The faint sound of a carnival calliope did not bode well.
He rounded the corner of the hallway and stepped back immediately at the overwhelming odor of rot and viscera. It was some horrifyingly macabre impression of a birthday party set up in the janitor's lounge!
The 'streamers' were red and dripping with god-only-knows what. A number of balloons bobbed in the air, the fleshy pinks and reds leaving him little doubt they were really stomachs and bladders somehow tied together. A bunch of balloon animals were clearly similar make and model, just with intestines.
A 'birthday cake' made from an obviously human brain had several lit candles jammed into the swirly gray matter. Trays of fingers imitating 'finger food' lay next to a hollowed out human head, top missing, filled with a visceral red soup, punch-ladle at the side.
How in the Hell did the janitors not notice this being set up?!
He gagged as an intestinal-balloon-giraffe burst and released sloshy contents on the 'party table'.
"Happy Birthday to you~"
'Oh, God, no!' He begged, stumbling away from the room.
"Happy Birthday to you~"
The next hallway was blocked by an entire carnival game set up smack-dab in the middle of the f*cking way! It was one of those classic little shoot-'em-up games where tiny targets popped up and moved while armed BB-Guns were hooked into a slot at the countertop and chained to the booth.
Prizes ranged from dolls to teddies, all smiling ferally and hanging from nooses across the sides and top of the attraction.
Each of the tiny targets was himself, down to the f*cking tie he picked out this morning!
"Happy Birthday, dear Georgie~"
"Leave me the f*ck alone!" He roared, running the only hallway left.
Towards the gym.
He'd never really had the willpower to really go down this way, his New Year's Resolution petering out barely an hour into the new year. The room was completely empty, even the roid-ragers in accounting having packed it up and gone home. Iron barbells of varied sizes, colors, and weights lay in neat rows across the holders. Cycles and treadmills left clean for Monday morning.
No carnival crap. No three-ring circus. No dancing elephants, or fortune-teller booths, or a f*cking balloon in sight.
"Happy Birthday… to… you~"
"It's not my birthday, asshole!" He shouted behind him, ducking further into the gym, hoping for a back exit or something.
He ended up in the mens' bathrooms/lockers just off to the side of the main workout area. The air hung slightly rank with the smell of body odor, sweat, and obnoxious brands of body-spray, like 'Hatchet'.
Past it was the shower block, he nearly passed out with relief as he found a door labeled 'EXIT' in beautiful, red letters!
He bolted through-
*jingle-clatter*
He hesitated and turned to see his car keys falling on the floor-
-just on top of a drain in the center of the room.
"No, no, nonono!" He doubled back for them, only to see them slip right through the grate. His heart sank, the drain couldn't have been bigger than 3 inches around, the grate just barely large enough for crap (and evidently car keys) to slip through.
His car keys were his best bet against this shit.
But that f*cking psycho was on his tail.
'Nevermind that,' He thought, 'I'll take a cab, a bus, a train, a f*cking horse-and-carriage if it'll get me the hell away from here!'
He turned back to the EXIT sign when he heard it.
*ping*
*ping*
*ping*
Drawn to the sound, he saw the tip of his car keys wiggle just barely poking out of the drain pipe's slats. They pinged against the sides tauntingly with each little wave.
'C'mon, Georgie,' they seemed to taunt, 'don'tcha want us back?'
So close… He could just… take it back right?
Crouched low, hoping not to be seen by… THAT in the drainpipe, he readied himself to snatch the keys.
With a quick grab for the keys, he felt the jagged metal in his hands-
-fumble and tear off the grate to the drain before clattering down a bit into the drain again.
"GOD F*CKING DAMMIT!" He swore, crawling forward to the now-open drainpipe.
The tube barely wide enough to fit a tennis-ball through was an inky black abyss that seemed to go on forever.
But a glint of metallic light drew his eyes.
Just barely in the darkness, and barely within grabbing distance if he stuffed his fingers in and tweezered them out with his longest digits.
He needed more light, though.
He jolted up and looked around the room. THAT hadn't appeared, yet. Maybe he could still manage this.
He pulled out his phone and flicked on the flashlight setting.
Shining the beam around, he pointed it down the tunnel-
-An eye met an eye.
He screamed in terror as a black-and-white striped arm erupted from the drainpipe and a pale hand grabbed onto his face.
It gave a swift tug and pain exploded across his face.
He stumbled back, whimpering and clutching his face, bleeding.
"Got yer NOSEY!"
THAT THING'S pale hand tauntingly popped out of the drainpipe and gleefully waved around his severed nose, flapping with skin before diving back down into the drain, taking the piece of his face with it.
The man moaned as he turned away from the drain; forget the keys, forget his nose, he was getting the f*ck out!
The EXIT door was so, tantalizingly close!
An arm, covered with a black-and-white striped sleeve, extended from the drain, elongating like a snake at least five feet across the bloody, wet tiles.
It gripped his ankle.
BREAKING NEWS:
"The city was rocked this morning by a shocking discovery in the basement of 'Derry and King' corporate offices.
"George Gray, 47, was reported missing by his neighbors when his foster child contacted them for help after being left alone almost two days.
"Police have cordoned off the area after the man's corpse was found inexplicably forced into a shower drain only 3 and a half inches wide.
"Coroner's reports are still baffled how Mr. Gray was… crudely put, stuffed into the drainpipe. An insider's leak revealed that the blood in the drain indicates the man was forcibly pulled into the pipe almost a foot beneath the floor level. Though, again, the size and depth of the drainpipe leads many to only speculate how this was done, with more suspecting more elaborate methods to make it only appear to be the case.
"A few witnesses report the man behaving erratically throughout the workday, with a lone janitor's statement indicating he was evidently running from something further into the lower levels shortly before the medical examiner believes was the time of death.
"The body was first discovered by a plumber called in after gym-users arrived on Monday morning and reported a blocked drain bubbling up red water and a foul smell.
"At this time, no clues have arisen as to who did this or how. On a related note; are our sewers safe? Find out next just what lurks under your cities' streets."
The TV switched off.
A monochrome clown chuckled slyly from the couch he lounged on as he buried his conical nose in a book about this wonderful Dancing Clown character.
The Rake hissed from where he stood under a bus awning, trying desperately to ignore the crap this hippie re-born whacko was spewing at him.
He was stuck in God-forsaken San Francisco.
His target had led him on a wild chase all day and night and by then he realized his nearest Slenderport symbol was a bus-ride away.
So, he found a handy trench coat and fedora (grateful to the fashion whackadoodles for making both come back for the season) and stalked his way through the streets at 3 AM.
He found a line that went through (but reading the bus lines was like trying to decipher the Necronomicon, for all that the twisted colors and symbols meant). He stood at the appropriate awning, expecting a standard way-too-early bus ride to swing through and pick up the creepy passenger.
Then, that guy came along.
A long, scraggly beard matted with sunflower seeds and God knows what 'vegan' brown slurry that was. His hair was done up in sloppy, filthy dreadlock imitations with 'locally-sourced' glass butterfly clips or some shit done up in them. His outfit screamed 'I listen to NPR, so I know everything', down to the tacky sandals exposing his dirt-covered toes probably unwashed since April.
He reeked like unshowered BO that Rake hadn't encountered since the Mayflower folks came over after months and months of being stuck on a ship.
He took one look at Rake and sneered. "Ugh! Don't you know where those coats come from?"
Rake didn't respond, shuffling a little further in on himself to hide his face and exposed, sharp teeth.
"African Warlords are probably dancing around a pile of burning babies because you bought that! How can you live with yourself?!"
'Easily enough,' Rake thought. He rasped out, "I picked it up off somebody who didn't need it anymore…"
Technically true.
After all… you can't take it with you beyond the grave.
"Ugh! That's not much better! You just freed up space for them to go buy more! All those Marie Kando wannabes just tossing their stuff away, not caring how it'll just end up in a landfill, just that now they'll have more space to buy more stuff!
"I have everything down to a system," He boasted, "I eat only organic, locally-sourced foods with degradable packaging, if any. All my trash can fit in a salsa jar I kept from a friend's chip-and-salsa party."
Ugh… it was far too early to deal with this.
He continued shuffling away.
"Hey! I see you doing that," The man accused. "You probably commute, like, 5 hours to and from work each day! Do you know how much pollution that puts out?"
"I take it you're a local," Rake hissed.
The man spread his arms wide, like he was imitating the statue of Jesus in Brazil, "The Earth is my home! The sky my ceiling, and mother nature as my provider!"
…
"So… you're a 'nomad', technically?"
"Hmph! Truth, brother," The man nodded agreeably, "If you were wise, you'd join up, too! Help reduce your impact on this world."
"Oh, I rather like the impact I leave," Rake chittered, his claws clacking and clicking excitedly, hidden in the long sleeves of the coat.
The man's mood soured immediately, "Feh! Just goes to show; some people are animal-killing jerks destined to destroy this planet!"
…
"So… you leave no impact?" The Rake asked, derailing the conversation sharply. The clacking claws got faster and more jittery.
"None!" The man said, "I'm off the grid! No Social Security, no bank accounts, nothing! My worldly possessions are that which you see upon my person! I eat no meat and wear no synthetics."
"Oh, how interesting! You're a vegetarian!" Rake rasped.
"By coincidence, I'm a humanitarian," The cryptid continued.
…
"I- I don't understand. What do you mean hum-?"
Rake threw off the disguise.
A brief scream shattered the early morning darkness.
And was silenced just as swift.
Half an hour later, a bus came trundling up to the station. The disgruntled driver barely glanced at the strange person in a literal, stereotyped-creeper fedora and trench coat hobbling up the steps, throwing down a couple bills, and taking a seat. He was carrying a little plastic bag of… something sloshing as he ate it bit by bit, careful not to leave anything on the bus seats.
He raised his head and she saw something red dribbling down his chin from an abnormally sharp-toothed smile.
…
"They don't pay me enough to deal with these crazies," She muttered, closing the door and rumbling the bus forward, unperturbed.
The man sat back in his chair, swirling a glass of smooth bourbon in his hand.
He'd been in this business for long enough, he had contacts and those contacts knew things.
It had been almost a month since one of his more unwilling contacts was pressed for info on some of his other employers. He let slip about some kind of Council.
It was a slippery slope for his informant after that. One slip-up, a couple rounds of his fingers and toes dangerously close to a hot waffle press, and he sang like a canary. He learned more about the world in that night than his last 50-odd years alive.
Monsters under the bed? Real.
Bloody Mary? Real.
Ghost stories? Real.
Urban legends? Mostly real.
Apparently, that bullshit about poprocks and sprite was just someone messing around.
And a Council that kept it all in check from the 'Normies', as he was called.
But those creatures and those people were elites. Their abilities and talents would go a long way in his… businesses. "Packages" could be taken instantly from Columbia across the border by a freaking witch that can travel through mirrors. He'd cut out middle men left, right, and center. Freaks who can read minds and tell if someone's being completely honest or not just by staring at them. Interrogation without them even knowing.
People who can walk through shadows, kill with a glance, and obliterate evidence.
All definitely a valuable, valuable thing to know.
He tipped his drink back. That particular contact went dark the next day after his little 'confession'. Vanished in the warehouse room he was tied up in and his men were nowhere to be found.
Hazard a guess, that 'Council' of his didn't particularly care for him spilling the beans to a 'Normie'.
Imagine his surprise when the guy popped back on the radar at one of his dens in LA, saying he needed to lay low for a while.
He pumped the informant in exchange for his protection. He learned the informant now had a hit on him, but he had some reliable contacts still that were less-than-compliant with the Council and more-willing to let things slip in exchange for the occasional bottle of pills or stack of cash.
Hence how he found out about the hit the Council put on his own head.
So, it was simple from there, set up the informants with false info and lead the would-be assassin to an empty warehouse where a couple dozen of his best guys would be ready to take him out. Guns, snipers, the whole nine yards.
The informant promised the guy they sent would be one of their best, so in return, he sent his best and then-some.
With this assassin down, he'd start his work putting a foothold in this world. Show them not to mess with a man like him. If they didn't like it… well, he had contacts in their network to let him in on their dirty little secrets, too.
He expected the text from the guys any minute now.
*Ping*
He eased back, smiling.
He flipped out his phone and frowned when the display indicated a picture was sent. It was from his head guy he sent to the operation; he recognized the number immediately, but this broke protocol.
His men were the best. They knew phones could be taken as evidence or connection with a crime, hence why the simple 'Done' text was important. A photo could be traced back to his contacts, his businesses, his affiliations.
Either these guys were trying to pull something funny or something f*cked up.
But…
Curiosity got the better of him.
He unlocked the phone and was redirected to his texts.
…
He sat up in disbelief.
A boy stared at the camera in the photo, maybe 15 or 16 at most. The angle of his arm in the photo indicating he was taking it 'selfie-style'. His tongue slid out of his widely-grinning mouth obscenely, his other hand thrown up in a 'peace' sign.
His skin was pale and bleached, except around his eyes which was withered and blackened. His wide grin was the result of slash marks through his cheeks, but he could sense the smug grin behind it.
Behind him, he recognized the warehouse he'd sent his men to. It was on fire.
His men were lying in front of it. The orange flickering captured in the slick, crimson puddles pooling beneath them.
*Ping*
Another text.
[I lived, bitch]
…
He sat back in his chair, nursing the bourbon shakily.
He needed an out.
He needed to get that bastard informant. This set up was his idea.
*Ping*
He looked back at the text string to see the new photo.
It was his informant.
The severed head of his informant, mouth and eyes still slightly gaping in surprise.
…
That resolved itself quick.
But without that informant, he didn't have the contacts with the UnderRealm folks anymore. He was essentially cut off from his only source of info on what these freaks were going to do next.
Wait…
He looked closer at the picture, ignoring the blood and gore skillfully.
That table the head was placed on had a distinct marble pattern.
He knew, after all.
He saw it in his foyer every day.
*Ping*
He looked at the newest photo.
…
It was the back of a chair.
The top of a graying haircut poking out from above.
A glass of bourbon in one hand.
And a phone in the other, glowing in the darkness.
…
"Aw, f-"
*shlick*
…
"Go to sleep."
Joe was a jack of all trades.
His jobs bounced and varied from whatever he could find. Landscaping, handyman work, repairs, towing cars, you name it, he'd probably done it.
Even things he wasn't overly fond of doing again.
Shoveling shit out of a barn.
Working with municipals on a sewer system setup.
Setting up a giant middle finger statue in someone's back yard pointing towards a neighbor he had beef with.
All that he didn't necessarily like, but didn't complain before, during, or after.
…
This… this was something he wished he could say 'no' to.
He was paid a handsome sum by a funeral home to get down and dirty in the local cemetery to exhume a body. Coroner decided he had better things to do (the prick), so he had to break out a small crane his contact with a construction company nicknamed the "Claw".
He arrived at the place early; his truck, the Claw, and his permits and papers all in tow.
There were only three other folks there. One was one of the cemetery workers who handled landscaping, headstone cleaning, and grave-digging for the most part, but never exhumation. It was pretty much unheard of in this small town. He was there mostly to help Joe use the equipment the cemetery had on hand.
The other was some official-looking prick in a suit from the city council office to look over the whole thing and make sure it was 'respectful and clean'.
Like any of this job was 'clean'. Poor sonofabitch looked three seconds from puking as he stood beside the grave, just thinking about what would happen next.
And the last was their client.
He knew this guy had his credentials and paperwork in order (incredibly fast for the local bureaucracy), but he looked so damn young. Joe's oldest was just graduating high school and going to the local community college and he could be the same age as this guy.
Kid's hair was brown and mousy, cut short but shaggy. His suit was formal black with a matching tie and a black overcoat protecting against a chill in the air as an early autumn breeze picked up around town.
Despite the overcast, he never took off his sunglasses.
Honestly, he looked creepy as hell, like a junior CIA splinter-cell agent or the next Neo ready to fry the Matrix.
It was a simple matter of working with the cemetery guy to handle the place's Bobcat and scoop out the first five feet of dirt. Then, it was getting down and dirty in the hole skimming off the last layer so the coffin wouldn't get harmed.
He hooked his last tether to the coffin itself and hopped into the Claw to hoist it up.
The machine groaned a little, but eventually the earth gave up the macabre prize. He was a little ashamed of himself for the thought likening it to a claw-game.
The coffin rose into the air and was directed onto a laid-out tarp where a hearse had backed up, ready with two larger men ready to haul it off the tether and into the back. He gently laid the coffin onto the ground and reduced slack on the tethers. The men moved into action and started unclipping straps.
He hopped out of the Claw and approached the young man in sunglasses. "Es'cuse me."
The kid turned to face him, "I know I'm just a hired hand, but I… I knew the family in the area 'fore they moved and… I just wanted to ask why she was being exhumed."
The kid regarded him through the expressionless sunglasses, but spoke. His voice sounded as young as he looked, "There's been an update with the case. We have a facility up north that we want to examine the body in more detail."
Joe nodded thoughtfully, looking back at the little white coffin being loaded in the hearse. It was slightly yellowed with age and covered in earth stuck to the handles and sides.
"Just… just take care of her, y'know?"
"We know," The client answered.
The kid approached the men as they were loading it onto the hearse and they spoke in a low, hushed murmur for a moment. The two men nodded and gave some space while the kid walked up to the coffin and placed a hand gently on the surface, gliding across it.
The silence of the graveyard let Joe pick up what he was saying.
"Please forgive me."
The kid backed away, nodding to the men to settle the coffin firmly into the hearse. After that, he walked solemnly in the passenger's side and the car drove away.
Joe looked down sadly at the old headstone leftover.
It made headlines, he remembered.
And, Christ Almighty… she was only 8 years old.
…
…
Sally Marie Williams
April 5th, 1985 – April 5th, 1993
.
~o)0(o~
The angels weep in Heaven.
Her suffering now ceased,
May her spirit lay unperturbed
To rest eternal peace.
~o)0(o~
…
…
AN: I added a little dark plot progression towards the end. Betcha weren't expecting that?
In my research for this section, I discovered Sally was actually canonically 12 years old and died in 1970 after being alive in the 60's.
Whoops… my bad. Really didn't feel like editing years-old chapters.
Added scene- Didn't fit with the mood at the end- but this is so 'Toby'
.
The Queens song faded in his earbuds with the final cymbal swish. Toby, not stopping the skateboard, pulled out the little music player and queued the next song.
"I gotta pocket, got a pocket full of sun-shine!" He sang along cheerily, swiveling his hips to the music. "I got a love, and I know that it's all mine. Oh, oh whoa-"
.
AN: Psst! Psssst!
Here's a literary question; Who was the one who infiltrated the mob boss's mansion? Huh, Toby? Really? I don't remember Toby being mentioned at all except the beginning and end.
AN:
This next skit isn't canonically part of the Harry by Proxy Timeline, but I wanted to get this segment in here as part of the Holiday.
Enjoy!
(10 years ago)
Slenderman let the body drop off his tentacles with a wet slop.
The living room was now splattered messily with blood from the… rather distasteful man before him. Police would likely discover exactly why he attained his fate, but that was for them to decide.
Gathering his notes and confirming the kill, he tucked everything away in his suitcoat pockets, ready to depart-
*ding-dong*
…
'An accomplice,' Slender dreaded.
Intel was a little sparse on this one, but it was entirely possible for him to not be working alone.
He appeared at the foyer of the small home immediately in a cloud of wispy black smoke that faded into absolute nothingness. With slow, determined steps, he approached the front door.
The lights flickered as he allowed himself to naturally affect the electrical grid surrounding him.
A light further in the back exploded, plunging the foyer into an eerie heavily shadowed glow. A lamp overturned in the scuffle with the man cast a stark, amber light from its spot in the corner, silhouetting Slender's shadow across the wall opposite the door.
Standing before the door, he allowed one of his tentacles to snake across the door and twist the latch.
He stood fully in his spindly, 8-foot-tall stature. His tentacles flailing behind him like writhing snakes, ready to snap forward in a second and impale the accomplice through mercilessly. His blank stare permeated the darkness gazing down at the-
-at the…
-at nothing?
…
"Twicker Tweet!"
He looked down further.
A small 5-year-old boy and girl in matching scarecrow costumes held out two barely-filled pillow cases. Both grinned up at him expectantly, the boy missing both front teeth and lisping badly.
…
'Oh, dear Creator! I'M NOT GLAMOURED!' He panicked, his nonexistent gut dropping like a load.
The children looked at him.
Silence.
…
"Supeh-cool costume, misteh!" The boy exclaimed.
…
A costume?
Of course!
He 'cleared his throat' and chuckled softly, "Thank you. Yours are both impressive as well; scarecrows?"
The girl nodded, but the boy shook his head, fiercely. "Nope! I'm the Stwaw-Man! Arch nemeseisesies of Captain-Farmer McDonald!"
He struck a villainous pose likely seen in a juvenile-section comic book, ignoring his own stammered and butchered attempt at saying 'nemesis'.
Slender merely nodded, bemusedly, though it didn't show through his 'mask'. "Ah, yes, 'Straw-Man'. Very frightening… Erm… just a moment…"
He left the door slightly ajar and passed by the corpse in the living room, mindful to not track any blood with him. With a 'woosh', he discretely teleported to some random department store in Indiana. With a quick In-and-out flash, he yanked two large bags of assorted candies off the shelves and teleported back to the room.
Walking back to the foyer, he tore the bags open and upended one each in the children's bags. Their eyes were easily the size of dinner plates the entire time, seeing their loot quadruple, at least, in size.
"Since you two are the only ones to show up today and I need to close up for the evening, would you do me a favor and take the rest of this? I can't eat all of it."
Their eyes lit up like jack-o-lanterns. "Yeah! Thank you, Misteh!"
He waved them off as they ran back to their parents at the end of the drive. The two children chattered excitedly to their parents, showing off their much-fuller pillowcases.
The pair turned around and waved to the entity one last time before walking down the street, ignoring the parents' nervous glances back at the cryptid.
The Slenderman waved back, shut the door, and turned off the porchlight.
AN: Happy Halloween!
-Crow