#weird story

Something weird happened just now.

Things have been escalating with the Occultists in the park. This Virgil character still hasn’t shown up and they have been getting… agitated lately. The fairground has been taken down. Now there is only their campsite around the hole dotted with pyres that burn throughout the night as they try evermore eccentric rituals. The locals are getting tired of them. At the supermarket there were people collecting signatures to get them moved and for the council to fill in the hole. I’m honestly surprised they’ve lasted this long, what with the citywide ban on Occultists.

I was on my way home from my weekly shop and passed the pub. Through the window I saw one of the Occultists perched at the bar with her head nesting in her arms. Resting on the bar in front of her I recognised Rosalind’s owl mask. I hadn’t seen Rosalind without her mask before. I peered through the window to get a better look. She was a mess. Her hair was dishevelled, her boots caked in mud, and her robes were soaked in blood. One of her hands picked at the label of a bottle of berry cider. I couldn’t see her face from where I was so I went in to say hi.

“Abandon all hope, neighbour,” I greeted her. She lifted her head from her arms and turned around.

“Tasha,” she smiled before plopping her face back into her arms. “Way ahead of you.” She waved a hand at the empty stool beside her. “Have a seat.”

“What happened to you?” I sat and ordered a coffee.

“Urg. It’s Dante. He’s pisssssed.”

“Still no Virgil then?”

“Nope.” She slugged at her cider. “Y’know, when I joined this book club I thought we would just be reading epic poetry, hanging out with friends, starting a podcast, and maybe summoning a low level owl demon or something. No one said anything about having to bathe in the blood of anemones when we’re camped around a bottomless pit with no hot running water for a shower.”

“Wait. Blood of anemones?”

“I know, right? Probably another mistranslation. I’m starting to think Dante isn’t a very good occultist.”

“Ha! So you *are* Occultists!”

“Shhhh!” she hissed. “Not so loud. OK. Yes. Fine. It’s a cult. Just don’t tell the Council.” She sighed.

“So, what’s the deal with the hole?”

“It’s meant to be a stairway to the underworld. Dante summoned it. But there’s no way down without Virgil. They’re the guide who’s meant to lead us down there.”

“Why would you want to go to the underworld?!”

“I don’t! It’s all Dante. He’s getting insufferable. Every night it’s some new ritual to get Virgil to appear. All so he can raise one of Leviathan’s apostles. I just want to go back to raising genetically modified owls and reading creepypasta.”

“Omg, I love creepypasta. What’s your favourite?”

“Hmm,” she pondered. “Maybe Tales from the Gas Station. Or Lonely Broadcast Station.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “They’re so good. Quite a few series like those popping up now.”

She shrugged. “Yh, a bit derivative, but still good.”

We sipped our drinks.

“Now a creepypasta bookclub,” she continued. “I could get behind that.”

“Sign me up.” Now I could clearly see her face, I took a moment to check her out, out of the corner of my eye of course so as not to be too obvious. Even with the anemone blood soaked robes, and the patches of mud, she was cute. Very cute. Too cute to live (possibly deceased). “What if it was queer, though?” I asked testingly.

“OMG!” She sat up and faced me. “What if it was queer though? That would rock. I wonder if that even exists. Queer creepypasta I mean.”

“It must do,” I grinned. “Y’know. If you want a shower there’s hot water at my place. I live just over the road from the hole.”

Oh she’s coming back from ladies. Sorry, was trying to write this all out while she was gone. Long story short, I’ve got a guest coming back to my place. :D Hope she doesn’t mind the creepy doorway.

#somethingweirdhappenedtoday