I feel I should say this now rather than later, but this is definitely going to be a bit heavier than my usual writing, particularly in terms of body horror, PTSD, and the subject of abuse. If you're not comfortable or don't feel safe reading about those particular subjects, I completely understand.
Be kind and safe, and stay spooky, everyone.
-Inky
"Talcum?" The door shut behind Sophie with a small click, and she set down her backpack on the small table beside her. "I'm home!" The small mrow from her room was enough to satisfy her, and she worked her shoes off before all but collapsing on the threadbare sofa she'd bought less than a month before.
Riding an Uber had never been so exhausting. She glanced at her phone - her new phone, a phone with a new number and new bank account and new everything - and felt an irrational wave of relief when there were no messages, no notifications of any sort of locator being turned on. She should have been over this by now, she thought, but even now Sophie couldn't quite escape the shadow looming over her shoulder, even though she knew perfectly well it was her own. Such was how it was, she supposed, opening her photos and flipping through them.
She found the one she was looking for easily. It was a beautiful shot - the honey-golden sunlight spilling through a crack in the ceiling, making puddles on the ground shimmer with tiny flecks of quartz in the concrete leading down a hall. Sophie smiled as she looked at it - for a second-hand phone, she had always been surprised at the camera's quality, and something about the image just soothed her. It was like she had captured a secret, a glimpse of beauty in a place that time had already claimed.
Sophie rolled onto her back and zoomed in on the shot. The path she'd photographed was obscured by the beam of light, such a vibrant yellow that it fogged the darkness behind it. She knew what was there, of course; it had been the wall with the most candle stubs, the most signs of paint, the wall that had seemed the most sacred. In the picture, though, it was invisible; perhaps, she thought, it was not meant to be seen through a filter, needed to be beheld in the flesh or not at all.
Of course that was nonsense, but nonsense was something she found comforting. Nonsense restored mystery to the world, gave her life a little mystique, a little wonder. It was something she had been sorely missing.
Sighing, Sophie turned the phone off and got off the sofa, finally getting to her room to change. It was still a modest space - bed, dresser, closet - but it was hers, and she was happy with it. Talcum let out another meow as she stepped in, hopping down from the bed to rub against her ankles as she pulled her volunteer shirt off, her hair falling loose once more and landing on her shoulders.
That gave her pause. Instead of reaching for another shirt, Sophie stopped to look in the mirror; her shoulders were still smooth and freckled, her skin still that shade of olive she proudly took from her mother, but it was marred. She knew it was permanent, and she'd had them for months, but the scars still drew a resigned, sad sound from her throat as she traced over them. They weren't red or white, weren't pretty colored lines that gave her character; the one down her left shoulder was a tangle of imprinted flesh, valleys of skin that had healed around the wounds instead of over scar mapped out her old wounds like they were pressed in. It crept up her neck to her jaw, spreading like branches from a tree across her face, not deep but far from invisible.
The scar no longer caused her physical pain, but they still hurt. They should have been a monument to her being alive; instead they just reminded her of Malcolm.
"Look at me, Talcum," she said, petting the pitch-black cat that had jumped onto her dresser, "I was once a great beauty." She was still pretty, she could admit that to herself; she still had her mother's proud eyebrows, her pleasant smile. But oh, how the scars distracted from all that; more than one person had jumped, just a little, seeing her for the first time. That stung.
Of course, the ones who had ignored them had stung all the more. Sophie sighed and scooped up Talcum, burying her face in his stomach.
"Do you think I'm still pretty, Talcum?" She asked, voice muffled by his fluff.
"Mrow," said Talcum, batting the top of her head with his paw as his tail flicked back and forth. Sophie set him down, and he trotted into the kitchen. Sophie finished changing into a lighter shirt and some shorts before following him.
"I saw a pretty building today, Talcum," she said as she reached for a can. "It was in the old Cabrini Green area."
"Mrow," said Talcum, rubbing her ankles again. He stood back on his hind legs and pawed at her calf.
"They're going to tear it down in a few days," she said while she opened it and scooped out the food onto a paper plate, "and nobody wanted to talk about it. I asked some people - somebody even told us not to go in there. Isn't that strange, Talcum?" Talcum hopped onto the counter and started eating; Sophie threw away the plastic spoon and started washing out the can. "I think it was a temple, with all those candles. Don't you think so?"
"Mrow."
"It's a shame it's so worn down, though. I would have liked to know what kind of temple it was. Maybe I could have brought a candle, too." She glanced over to the folding table that made up her "dining room" - a few spare wicks and lumps of wax sat waiting for her. "That's only polite, isn't it?" She set the can down in the sink and walked over to her makeshift work station. She'd been making candles for a few months now; it wasn't her only source of money anymore, thank goodness, but it was still nice to have the extra money when she did sell one or two of them. Two candles were already finished - a tall white rod with a yellow core that would drip golden as it melted, and a three-wick column about four inches tall, golden-bronze and vaguely scented like butterscotch and toffee.
Still three more candles to go. Sophie picked up the raw wax and brought it back to the kitchen. She only had two pots, one for cooking and one for melting, and she filled both before turning the old stove on and watching it grumble before sparking to life.
A bowl of canned soup and the start of three candles later, Sophie looked up at the microwave clock. It was 11:30 at night. How long was I working? she thought, looking down at her works in progress - only one was halfway done, but they all looked quite nice.
It only took a moment for her to realize how tired she was; it was as if a blanket of quiet exhaustion had settled on her shoulders. She set about cleaning up in silence; Talcum was already asleep on the couch, and for such an attentive animal, he was nigh-impossible to wake. She envied him for that. Still, Sophie thought as she put the last of her tools away, she'd been resting easier lately; it was no longer a frightening thing to go to bed.
Nobody would find her here, she reminded herself, nobody would think to look for her in such a place. She was safe.
"Goodnight, Talcum," she said as she walked to the bedroom, and laid down without changing clothes. Sleep overcame her in moments, heavy and still in the hot Chicago night.
She was gripping a candle - not a candlestick, just a candle, tall and white and dipping as it flickered. Sophie's hand rested on the cold wall, and she looked around, but there was nothing but darkness around her. The light twinkled in puddles at her feet, soaking into her slippers, staining the hem of her long white nightgown.
"Hello?" She called into the dark - where was she? - and was met with silence. "Is someone there?"
A whisper, like the wind, answered from the dark in front of her.
"Hello?" She called again. She took a step forward, and the icy water splashed her ankle. She winced.
"Closer," came the voice, only a little stronger, only a little more audible. It wasn't Malcolm's, it couldn't have been, because he didn't whisper, not ever. Sophie stepped towards it, ignoring the cold, drawn towards its softness.
"I'm coming closer," she called into the darkness, and though she heard nothing she felt herself being beckoned forward. As she walked the candle dripped in her hand; the wax spilled down her wrist, but she didn't drop it. It stung as it cooled on her hand, settling into the cracks of her scars, dripping to the floor below. Still she pressed on, and slowly something came into view.
A brick wall, brown and old, loomed over her. Sophie held the candle to it; a drop of icy water splashed her wrist and she dropped it. The flame caught something below her; more candles, old and half-melted, burst alight. She stared at them before looking up at the wall, and from the flames an image emerged.
A figure stared down at her, eyes dark and sad. Another drop splashed her wrist, and in the fire's light it twinkled red.
"Sophie," the voice whispered, and the figure leaned forward. A heaviness settled on her chest. She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't breathe.
"Mrow." Sophie's eyes opened to Talcum's weight on her chest. She sat up and he leapt off of her, meowing in protest, and she drew in a deep breath before staring at the mirror.
No was, no nightgown. She didn't even own a white nightgown.
"What an odd dream," she murmured, staring at her sheets, when her phone buzzed. She unplugged it and picked up, but not before checking the number. It was Marcus. "Hello?"
"Hey, Soph?" He sounded uncertain. "You know that last building we checked out yesterday, the one with the candles?"
"What about it?" she pulled herself to the side of the bed. "Did we miss something?"
"Kind of. Jesus Christ... what kind of sick fuck..."
"Marcus," she said, managing her stern voice even with the weight of sleep still on her shoulders, "please tell me what's going on."
"So apparently a couple people weren't too happy about the building being condemned, or us going in there, and I guess they tried to go in to do something, but..." he drew in a breath, and she heard the audible fuzz on the other end. "There's... two people were found dead. Ripped open. They were teenagers, Sophie."
Sophie felt Talcum batting at her leg, but didn't look up at him. She just stared at the floor, gripping the phone, and swallowed.
"Were... were they there before us?" She asked.
"No," he said, and her shoulders relaxed a little, "but I saw a picture and... they want us to come down for questioning, Sophie. The whole group."
"...Okay," she whispered, "I'll see when I can get down there." She hung up and hugged her knees, looking to Talcum. The police. Her name on a police report... would somebody find it?
"What do I do, Talcum?" She asked.
"Mrow," Talcum said, tail flicking back and forth.
