Molonara's Art Blog~Enjoy!
((main blog is @molonara)) ((MY CARRD https://molonara.carrd.co/))
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Commissions Open! Click to see Molonara's commission menu.
Edit 5/17/26: Hey guys, I really need some commissions to help me find a new apartment. I moved out of my old apartment , as I couldn't afford the lease given my old work contract fell through when I normally would have a lot of work (meaning no money). So now I am currently staying with friends, but it's only temporary; they've given me an ultimatum of finding somewhere else to live by the end of June and having a good paying job to afford it. I'm trying to find some work in an art career position, been sending applications to video game developers and other places that could use my talents, but no luck as of yet. Stuff is really hard, had no money for food so I had to go to a food bank, and while I did get a job at a local establishment, they are only paying me $9.50 an hour, the lowest I've ever made, which given my 10 years of working, is way too low for all the expenses and loans I have to pay off. Basically, in the shit. Any support, even a donation, would be helpful to help me with my situation.
In any of my art below is appealing to you, consider supporting me or commissioning me via the link!
Just listening to an audiobook of the Yellow Wallpaper, first time hearing that story, and it struck me as a potentially good inspiration for an Unknown skin for DBD, especially with the reference to the crawling. It’d basically look like a victorian lady, perhaps swathed in the yellow wallpaper or a horrible yellow dress, with the weapon being the hardwood of the bed’s wooden leg with nails and rope.
Everywhere at the End of Time - Reaction Painting Series
So back in 2020 I think it was, I decided to listen to the album Everywhere at the End of Time for the first time, and, while listening, paint what came to mind. What this resulted in was a series of paintings of plants done mostly from memory (can't recall if I looked up references for some, but I know most was without a reference). Given the Backrooms movie had one of the songs from the Caretaker's series (B1 - All that follows is true), I thought it was time I shared this painting series in order of creation:
Past week has been extremely tough, I have applied to so many different places of the artistic inclination (game devs), but no positive response yet. Also trying to find local job that pays good and an affordable apartment, also no luck. My parents, whom are in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, would accommodate and control me, to a degree that I am not comfortable with, plus there is no work out there.
I had one pro to that plan, in which I would have gotten to see my kitty again, before he passed from old age, but they told me today that he's gone missing a few days ago and hasn't been seen, which might mean he slipped away to die. Day before, went to check my work to see if there was anything I could do, learned one of my coworkers who's been out sick just died. Heaviness upon heaviness. I just want to turn a corner for some good things.
Some positive today: Did the farmer's market, sold some of my clay figures, made a bit of profit, went to see the Backrooms for a discount ticket, was good, I can feel it sticking to me like a smell (granted maybe not the best thing for my mental health but I ordered ahead of time, so...). I got myself a San Pellegrino, the lifeblood of my homeland, had to treat myself.
Really hoping things get better during the week, that I find something sustainable. Going to try and get some more art out, finish some more WIP. I could really use some help if anyone wants to commission me.
Commissions Open! Click to see Molonara's commission menu.
Edit 5/17/26: Hey guys, I really need some commissions to help me find a new apartment. I moved out of my old apartment , as I couldn't afford the lease given my old work contract fell through when I normally would have a lot of work (meaning no money). So now I am currently staying with friends, but it's only temporary; they've given me an ultimatum of finding somewhere else to live by the end of June and having a good paying job to afford it. I'm trying to find some work in an art career position, been sending applications to video game developers and other places that could use my talents, but no luck as of yet. Stuff is really hard, had no money for food so I had to go to a food bank, and while I did get a job at a local establishment, they are only paying me $9.50 an hour, the lowest I've ever made, which given my 10 years of working, is way too low for all the expenses and loans I have to pay off. Basically, in the shit. Any support, even a donation, would be helpful to help me with my situation.
In any of my art below is appealing to you, consider supporting me or commissioning me via the link!
How most girls probably want to be flirted at: “You’re the most gorgeous woman in the world! I love you so, so much!”
How I want to be flirted at: “You’re a dangerous and deadly weapon; all the world cowers before you in fear. I am humbled that you dean to allow me to bask in your presence.”
Preview WIP of a larger piece. Reverse Bloodymary Ryland Grace, which I discussed here. Honestly debating if I should leave the guide lines visible, the red does make it pop somewhat...
Do you Believe in Magic? - Chapter 3 - a LTWW Fic Commission
Had to take my time with life getting in the way, but the next installment is here! Thank you again for your patience @whenthedeeppurplefalls !
***Enjoy!!!***
Three months.
It had been three months to the day since a nightmare had stolen away ninety-seven people, including their wife.
Cobblestone streets felt mismatched under foot as the Detective delved into a homely corner of this rustic berg, looking for what the rumors had whispered, and ruminating on the facts of it all.
That night was clear in their mind up until the call-in, then things become a blur of words exchanged amid flashing reds and blues. Come daybreak, and many concerned numbers phoning about missing people mounting, the case broke news:
AN ESTIMATED THREE HUNDRED HAVE BEEN ABDUCTED BY A ROGUE GROUP, MOTIVE UNKNOWN!
The actual number had been a lot higher.
A week of research followed; everything that could be found about this “Great Waldo.” It wasn’t the first time he had done a show, his was apparently a traveling performance. And with connecting dots, everywhere Waldo went, there was a pattern of missing person reports appearing in tandem, but nothing in sheer number to the disappearing act that he had performed for the Detective.
Interestingly, upon review of those lost prior, a few stood out. Could that have been the ticket taker? The few attendees? Those fanatical audience members? It seemed that there was a possibility that those that had vanished might still be alive. That was a lifeline to hold onto. The Detective needed something, anything, to keep rational thought.
But when they got the call, that a group of the audience had been found, composure slipped somewhat.
A sum of thirteen people, dazed and confused, had been found in a bus-lot some states over.
The Detective didn’t remember the drive there, only getting out of their vehicle to see their faces.
None of them were Wenda.
Interviews revealed no leads. All were present at the event, but time had been lost as to how they got to this place; a dream interrupted. What had occurred in between their disappearance and rediscovery was a mystery.
And so it went for the many other reappearances, all found in innocuous locations, all different amounts of them, ranging from a handful to a small crowd. A map revealed no correlation or pattern, no direct path being made. At least, not at first.
Upon the ninth group found, it clicked.
13 people, then 9, then 19, then 19 again, so on and so forth.
The Detective recognized a code. They had to just count them. A tongue-in-cheek puzzle; numbers to letters.
After the fifteenth, the message was clear.
M-I-S-S-M-E-D-E-T-E-C-T-I-V-E
It didn’t take long after for others to see the code. Amateur sleuths were sure that there was going to be another group soon, all waiting on a plural S, but the Detective knew the message was solely for them. It had not been revealed that a Detective had been at the show, after all.
It was a mocking message, but that was a good thing.
He was reaching out, perhaps he would intend to make contact. That night replayed over and over in the Detective’s mind; those eyes, hungry, fascinated, staring through them, into them. Something about the Detective had interested Waldo so. Had it been their defiance, how they stood up to him, fighting against whatever influence was miasmic in that theater? But no, even beforehand, that first glance, there had been… something, pulling. What was it?
The word ‘magic’ felt bitter on their tongue, but in this case, for what they had seen, a boundary had been crossed, and new country had to be explored; on their own time, of course, no way were they going to do this with a superior's gaze. The thought of all was still that this was a crime grounded in reality. And perhaps that was for the best.
Hence why they were here, before a dusty magic shop.
Innocuous, but there had been tell that this was the “real deal” among some circles. ‘Course, one wouldn’t think it looking in the window. Seemed more a gag shop than anything.
They entered to the tune of an old fashioned bell.
A cloud of must swirled up before them and carved their path through floorboards; was this place abandoned? Apparently not, for not a second later, from behind a starry curtain, a man dressed as a cartoonish wizard waltzed in with a flourish. He had stepped directly off an airbrushed van; flowing red cloak, pointy (if slightly dented) blue hat, and a trailing white beard that snaked around his body like a boa. He was behind the counter, so they couldn't see his full form, but from the sounds of his steps, the Detective could deduce the man must have been barefoot.
“Ah, Welcome! Come in come in!” The man’s voice was gruff and jovial with fumbling laughter, “What can I get you? Hexes? Hijincs? Something in between? Or are you just browsing the wares?”
The Detective’s gaze wandered doubtfully from the man to the paraphernalia lining the shelves, hoping this wasn’t another dead end.
“I’m actually on a case,” They flashed their credentials, “I was hoping you could answer a few questions.”
As always, guard was put up. “Oh now look, all my stuff is completely above board here! If something happened, I guarantee it was user error. Can’t blame me if someone doesn’t follow the instructions to the letter.”
“Do you remember all your clients?” The Detective asked.
The wizard looked pensive, “I mean, I get a few regulars, but not sure if I could recall every person who wanted to liven up their birthday party with a magic show.”
“Does the name ‘Waldo’ ring any bells?”
The man’s face paled a bit at that, not unnoticed. “... what did you say your name was?” The man looked them square in the eye.
There was a sudden familiar uncertainty in the air, the same they had felt when asked that same question all those months ago, if less dangerous. They met the gaze with conviction, knowing what should be said.
“Detective works just fine.”
There was a twinkle in those eyes, a mask receding, “You are smarter than most.” The man turned and gestured to follow, “Come on, I’ll talk more back here.”
The man disappeared through the patterned curtain. The Detective hesitated, testing their senses for a potential trap, and finding none, they proceeded through the drapery.
Now THIS was more so what they expected. The room beyond was much more esoteric and quote-unquote “magical” compared the store-front. Everything was space-themed and decorated as such in one way or another. Clear glass bobbles hung about and caught the light, casting pin points across the tapestried walls like shooting stars. Tomes and jarred objects outside description lined the shelves, which the wizard was now skimming through.
Only… the man had changed. No longer was there a stereotypical spellcaster before them, but a man in a red sweater and slacks, hair no longer lengthy hatted white but a shorter cut grey. Finding what he was searching for, a short white cylinder, a spectacled thin face turned back to them.
“You’re the Detective that he’s talking about,” The man dusted off a small white cylinder, “Did you give him your actual name?”
“No,” The Detective responded, “I was going to but… he stopped me.”
There was an understanding nod from the old man, “Ah, I get it now. He wants to test himself.” At the questioning look from the Detective, he explained, “I don’t think it’s too much to say that yes, magic, in some form or another, is real, and you’ve no doubt seen it. One of the main forms it takes is words of power, or names, titles, things like that. Waldo himself has a name of great power, in that it means ‘great’, ‘to rule or ruler’, ‘power’. His moniker even exemplifies this, Great Waldo, Great Power.”
The distaste in the man’s voice was not lost on them; they pressed their suspicion, “He got this knowledge of names from you, didn’t he.” One look told them they were right, shame and regret.
“Yes,” he continued, voice heavy, “And a lot more, unfortunately.”
The twinkling stars burned, “So how does my title come into play?”
“Ah, that. De-tec-tive. Another old root. ‘One who works to or serves to uncover, expose, or reveal.’ A servant of revelation or the truth. His magic as you’ve seen it, that flashy crowd-work he’s no doubt put on, is all about suspension of disbelief, a framework of believed lies; my guess is he wished to see if he can go toe-to-toe with someone who’s the exact opposite of his own root power.”
There was a faint memory the Detective had, of fairy tale stories where the fae would gain power over a person should that person divulge their name to the trickster. So Waldo’s ‘abilities’ stemmed from something similar. Every person he brought on stage he had asked their name, including Wenda, but that didn’t explain how Waldo was able to abduct the rest of the audience.
“Is it possible for him to take or get power over people without knowing their name?”
The man thought for a moment, “Giving the name is giving ownership, but it can also be lost if an individual who has power over you, or is responsible for you, gives you away, though this method's not very effective.” A knowing glance to a table of newspapers, “If you’re referring to the rest of the audience, well, I don’t mean to accuse you of anything, but you would have been the being responsible for the safety of everyone in there…”
A chill crept down the Detective’s spine as they remembered what exactly Waldo had asked them.
It was warped, twisted, in a way they couldn’t have foreseen without knowing all the context, but the phrasing had just been vague enough to have allowed it. They had suspected, but hadn’t wished it to be true.
They had given the audience to him. Given Wenda to him.
Wenda… “What is he doing with them?”
The man sighed, “That I wish I could tell you, but I can’t know for sure. All I can say is he’s never taken so many and given people up before, so he’s tired of playing things safe it seems.” The column of white he wrung in his hands he now held out to the Detective.
It was plain and small, like a large roll of plastic chalk. A moment of analysis; they accepted.
It felt heavy in their hand, like it had something inside, “What’s this?”
The man smiled, “Haven’t used it in a while, but it should still be my old staff.”
Staff? The Detective turned it over in their hands, giving it a shake. That seemed to do it, as the thing suddenly extended out with red blue and white stripes. They turned it over in what the space would allow. “So it’s spring loaded then?” they asked, attempting to compress it back into its original form.
“It is if you say it is,” the man said slyly, going to retrieve a book from the shelf, “This will help too. If I know Waldo, he’s a stickler for the classics.” Its title read Marvels of the Past: A Guide to the Founders of Optical Illusions and Magic Tricks in faded and broken gold leaf. Once the staff was shortened, they took the book as well, flipping through it to see woodcut portraits and diagrams among the labyrinth of words.
With both objects in hand, the Detective tucked them into their coat, “Is there anything else you can tell-” There was a faint sound of a bell, the door to the shop. Their hairs instantly raised, as did the old man’s apparently, if masked by an affront of annoyance.
“I’m afraid I have another customer to deal with. Thank you for stopping by!”
A finger snap, the rug under pulled and propelled them out the door they came in.
“HEY!” The Detective surged toward the door again, only to plow into a wall that had appeared behind it. The hell? They felt around and tried to pass the obstacle, but it was as solid as if it had always been there.
A faint tinkling snapped their attention away, making them look around. For a split second, they could have sworn someone was standing at the door, but no one else was in the dimly lit shop. Only it wasn’t dimly lit for long, as with a fluorescent sparkling, the lights around the space began to increase in brightness in flickering waves, a power surge in time with the now audible voices beyond the wall, indiscernible, but clearly in argument.
At the second exploding bulb, the Detective quickly made for the door, as one by one the lights and every glass implement popcorned in electric air, culminating in an explosion of glass and burning ozone that kicked them out the threshold.
…
It was a waiting game now. Nothing to do but study and prepare. The Detective read the book cover to cover, twice, and was now knowledgeable on the origin of all tricks and magicians, from Harry Houdini to Ching Ling Foo. The staff remained somewhat inert; it seemed to them just a regular trick extending-pole with surprisingly strong springs. How this was supposed to help them against Waldo was unclear. Studying it hadn’t revealed anything of note, so it remained mysterious.
All had been quiet for a few weeks, no reports of any more people from the theater turning up, no word of any more performances. It turned their guts somewhat, wondering what was becoming of Wenda.
They found themself looking over the photos from that night again, and the oddities they caught. Strange lights in Waldo’s eyes, red streaks on the glass, the wailing star; all dismissed as poor lighting and their inexperience with the camera.
It was a wonder that there didn’t seem to be anyone else who believed that Waldo’s tricks were more than mere parlor fancies. They didn’t speak onto it at work, but they were surprised that no one else, not even the most out-there thinkers of their colleagues, seemed to even entertain the idea of legit magic. I mean, of course, why would they? It was outlandish and completely absurd to believe that magic was real. But then, could it be something else, a weird glamour, as Waldo had seemed to cast over that audience. They had felt it, that chill that stung their nerves to silence when they had met eyes; a near powerlessness that had been imposed, pull on a puppet string they didn’t even know they had. The Detective had resisted only later on, but that first time… Were they all just marionettes now, a web of invisible strings keeping everyone’s heads down? How far did that net reach? What had they gotten themself into? And why were they, quite possibly, the only one with their head above the waves of this damnable tide. There truly seemed to be no one else, as the old man had vanished in the destruction of his shop, and they suspected was dead or worse. Only them now.
Why? Why were they so special?
A tap to their door jostled them out of their thoughts.
A look to a clock upon the wall. 3:15 am. Too late for another soul outside their door.
Cold set in, a draft of soul, carried under the door with the envelope that slipped through the crack, a red so saturated it crawled around their skull.
They didn't remember moving, only a blink to tearing it open.
Within was a gold-stared ticket, an invitation attached.
For one night only, a very special performance by the Great Waldo. Special VIP access is granted to you, dearest Detective, and perhaps something more, should you come alone. If not, I guarantee you will leave emptyhanded, if you leave at all. And please, bring your own tricks, I’m dying to see what that old fool gave you. ~This ticket grants you admission and one free snack.
The Detective studied each article of paper, turning them over in their hand. The foil gold glinting a foul wink of light into their eye that burned purple, mocking. There was no address, no noticeable code, no indication where exactly, if anywhere or anywhen, this performance was supposed to take place.
There was only one other option of a clue; the person who had just left his couldn’t be far, or at least, they hoped.
Quickly, they gathered what they would need in a chase; coat, gun, badge, phone… the thought to call backup was entertained, then ignored, and after the hesitation, the book of magicians and the odd extending cylinder were stuffed with the rest into their coat. After about a 30 second scramble, still with the letter and ticket in hand, they opened the door with a rush of momentum.
As soon as they turned the knob, there was a sudden burst of pain in their hand. Through the corner of their eye, they saw the ticket spark bright and burst into a shower of sparks, a burning glow that swirled like a firework pinwheel up and around in a matter of milliseconds. Horror gripped them, the push of the door already in unstoppable motion as time seemed to slow, unable to catch themselves as a voice rang in their ears.
ENJOY THE SHOW!
A sucking airlock pressure pulled them forward, and they tumbled into an empty void where a hall should have been. It was only a moment of turning before they were stumbling, unceremoniously, upon a red carpet.
The whole change had happened in a disorienting split second, and somehow, their method of entrance disappearing behind them wasn’t so surprising as what was before them; a hallway, classic theater in style, wall sconces of turned up shell lights accentuated by red curtains that formed popcorn-bag stripes down the hall. Where someone was waiting for them.
Slowly the Detective approached, a dilapidated and moth-eaten look becoming apparent as they progressed towards the bright red door and the figure beside it. Their pace slowed as they got a better look at what might be a living person, but doubt was present on the account they, the figure, didn’t have a head.
Stood off to the right side of the door was a person, sans head, dressed as a common bellhop, a silver covered food dish aloft in one hand. Actually, now that they looked at it, the figure did have a more feminine build… a familiar build...
It hit them, and they knew there was no doubt.
“Wenda?”
There was no reaction other than the chest giving a light gasp.
It was her. It had to be her.
“Wenda… I’m so sorry…” What had been suppressed for the past few months came bottling up, the panic, the rage, the guilt, the emotions all swirling in a torrent around them, paralysing migraine shimmer catching them.
Wenda made no reaction, how could she even hear them?
Then she lowered the domed tray before them, and reached for the lid.
Their heart sank.
But then the chrome curtain lifted and revealed a cool water bottle, frosted tinged from freezer, what she given them last to comfort their nerves, as she did now.
She was still in there… or this was a twist of the knife… But they would refuse to believe the latter.
Time awaited them no more, as the door opened and beckoned them on. Wenda gestured them into the abyss. The Detective steeled themself.
“I’ll get you out of here, I promise.”
They took the water bottle and proceeded into the gloom.
A decline under their feet drew them down, down, down, a path just faintly outlined via borders, slowly growing more visible with each progressing step. Or perhaps their eyes were adjusting.
The bottle of ice they held to their chest was like a talisman, it’s chill and shape sharing space with the book and the column tucked under their fabric. It dissuaded the start when a light suddenly spotlighted the end of their path, nothing more than a winking star in the distance.
What did make them jump, as they drew close enough for the beam to cast faint illumination on the surroundings, was realizing the eyes that were upon them. It was clear where they were now, the aisle of a great cavernous theater, proportions pulled to ludicious size, seats stretching off into darkness, and every one bore an audience member, every one looking directly at them, silent, unblinking. The light beam illuminated a single point on a stage; its back curtain enormous, a red velvet wall scaling up into reaches unknown.
The Detective contemplated drinking the water, but decided against it, tucking it into a free pocket.
Finally before the final climb, no stairs available, they hopped up onto the platform, their shoes clacking a balafon note that reverberated, each step echoing among the watching many, eyes glinting a star studded sky before them; a living cosmos.
When they entered the light, the quiet broke in a waterfall of thunderous applause. And it was at that moment that they remembered something they had forgotten; earplugs.
They knew what Waldo wanted. He wanted them to flinch, to show weakness, but they would not. They stood fast, even as the sound gave way to ringing that trill trilling trilled deep into their skull.
At once the discordant cacophony gained a rhythm, all hands began to clap in tandem, until all was a steady beat that punched them with each blast, felt in their bones, their heart…
Their heart…
As they realized, the speed of the beat within and out-loud sped up, in time with each other, a frightening tendril coiling in their chest as they considered what that implied.
But enough, enough, the lights, the sounds, all leading to a buzzing brain that not even frost would fix, they were done with the game! They shouted out, voice lost in the din:
“WALDO! SHOW YOURSELF!”
The clapping stopped on a sudden note that squealed in their skull, and they feared a moment that their heart had followed suit. No, it hadn’t.
That came a second later.
~TBC~
So this was originally only going to be 3 chapters long, but I felt that one more chapter was required to really wrap things up! Next will be the conclusion!
Want to get this dream down, may incorporate it into a fanfic later with the horrible (as in terrifying) idea I had.
I was descending an apartment staircase, the kind that spirals within 4 walls and you can see down the middle for stories. As I went down, I looked over the railing, and it struck me that I didn't recognize this place, and that I might be dreaming. I called out "hello?", which echoes down the space, and doubted myself, as everything seemed pretty clear. I began noticing the segments of the wall seemed to get larger as it went on, going from 4 to 5 walls, and the style of everything started to get more and more simplistic, low poly. Upon the full spiral stair, everything was made of plain grey cubes at near straight angles (but everything off center), no round surfaces, as if I were in a geologic cavern. The stairs then ended, but down below I could see the bottom. Again, the thought that this could be a dream, and with that hope, I jumped, floating down, but doubt speeding my decent, causing me to land on my ass, past the glimpse of a basketball net and backboard embedded in the cubby wall. The space screamed gymnasium, but only with vague impressions, like the shiny wood court in the large space. On the other side of the court, the other net set rightly positioned in the grey uneven blocks, some of which formed an arch like the mockery of a prom balloon fixture, behind the left of which stepped the Unknown under it. It stood framed under the arch for a moment, looking at me, until it suddenly crawled at me, crossing the space in a mere second, the speed revealing the ground wasn't shiny hardwood, but a thin layer of water, kicked up by the sudden approach. To say it startled me was an understatement, I exclaimed something like "woah!" and fell on my ass again with a splash. Crouching before me, I recalled that before I fell asleep I had been watching the 13 hour DBD stream, and was just really tired. I told the creature as much, blearily, "I just want to sleep." At this it reached out with what looked like hands from around it's neck, though it was probably the UVX mixed with the memory of a horror short I'd seen from Netflix (the Xmas on from LD&R). The "fingers" touched my face, softly, and made me close my eyes. I then could feel, or perhaps I was peeking, it sat and coiled itself around me, cradling me, it's head peering at me upside down on a twisted neck. It felt nervously comforting at first, but then it dredged up a similar memory of me being small being held by my mom, as if it were mimicking it, or pretending to be her, humming and everything. This freaked me out, like it was tainting that memory, or stealing it, and struggled to get away. I woke up disturbed.
(BTW, as I was typing this I can hear something crawling around in either the closet or the walls behind me, which is probably the nesting birds or a mouse or something, but just in case it's the Unknown, it's been a pleasure everyone, wish me luck in the fog!)
Do you Believe in Magic? - Chapter 3 - a LTWW Fic Commission
Had to take my time with life getting in the way, but the next installment is here! Thank you again for your patience @whenthedeeppurplefalls !
***Enjoy!!!***
Three months.
It had been three months to the day since a nightmare had stolen away ninety-seven people, including their wife.
Cobblestone streets felt mismatched under foot as the Detective delved into a homely corner of this rustic berg, looking for what the rumors had whispered, and ruminating on the facts of it all.
That night was clear in their mind up until the call-in, then things become a blur of words exchanged amid flashing reds and blues. Come daybreak, and many concerned numbers phoning about missing people mounting, the case broke news:
AN ESTIMATED THREE HUNDRED HAVE BEEN ABDUCTED BY A ROGUE GROUP, MOTIVE UNKNOWN!
The actual number had been a lot higher.
A week of research followed; everything that could be found about this “Great Waldo.” It wasn’t the first time he had done a show, his was apparently a traveling performance. And with connecting dots, everywhere Waldo went, there was a pattern of missing person reports appearing in tandem, but nothing in sheer number to the disappearing act that he had performed for the Detective.
Interestingly, upon review of those lost prior, a few stood out. Could that have been the ticket taker? The few attendees? Those fanatical audience members? It seemed that there was a possibility that those that had vanished might still be alive. That was a lifeline to hold onto. The Detective needed something, anything, to keep rational thought.
But when they got the call, that a group of the audience had been found, composure slipped somewhat.
A sum of thirteen people, dazed and confused, had been found in a bus-lot some states over.
The Detective didn’t remember the drive there, only getting out of their vehicle to see their faces.
None of them were Wenda.
Interviews revealed no leads. All were present at the event, but time had been lost as to how they got to this place; a dream interrupted. What had occurred in between their disappearance and rediscovery was a mystery.
And so it went for the many other reappearances, all found in innocuous locations, all different amounts of them, ranging from a handful to a small crowd. A map revealed no correlation or pattern, no direct path being made. At least, not at first.
Upon the ninth group found, it clicked.
13 people, then 9, then 19, then 19 again, so on and so forth.
The Detective recognized a code. They had to just count them. A tongue-in-cheek puzzle; numbers to letters.
After the fifteenth, the message was clear.
M-I-S-S-M-E-D-E-T-E-C-T-I-V-E
It didn’t take long after for others to see the code. Amateur sleuths were sure that there was going to be another group soon, all waiting on a plural S, but the Detective knew the message was solely for them. It had not been revealed that a Detective had been at the show, after all.
It was a mocking message, but that was a good thing.
He was reaching out, perhaps he would intend to make contact. That night replayed over and over in the Detective’s mind; those eyes, hungry, fascinated, staring through them, into them. Something about the Detective had interested Waldo so. Had it been their defiance, how they stood up to him, fighting against whatever influence was miasmic in that theater? But no, even beforehand, that first glance, there had been… something, pulling. What was it?
The word ‘magic’ felt bitter on their tongue, but in this case, for what they had seen, a boundary had been crossed, and new country had to be explored; on their own time, of course, no way were they going to do this with a superior's gaze. The thought of all was still that this was a crime grounded in reality. And perhaps that was for the best.
Hence why they were here, before a dusty magic shop.
Innocuous, but there had been tell that this was the “real deal” among some circles. ‘Course, one wouldn’t think it looking in the window. Seemed more a gag shop than anything.
They entered to the tune of an old fashioned bell.
A cloud of must swirled up before them and carved their path through floorboards; was this place abandoned? Apparently not, for not a second later, from behind a starry curtain, a man dressed as a cartoonish wizard waltzed in with a flourish. He had stepped directly off an airbrushed van; flowing red cloak, pointy (if slightly dented) blue hat, and a trailing white beard that snaked around his body like a boa. He was behind the counter, so they couldn't see his full form, but from the sounds of his steps, the Detective could deduce the man must have been barefoot.
“Ah, Welcome! Come in come in!” The man’s voice was gruff and jovial with fumbling laughter, “What can I get you? Hexes? Hijincs? Something in between? Or are you just browsing the wares?”
The Detective’s gaze wandered doubtfully from the man to the paraphernalia lining the shelves, hoping this wasn’t another dead end.
“I’m actually on a case,” They flashed their credentials, “I was hoping you could answer a few questions.”
As always, guard was put up. “Oh now look, all my stuff is completely above board here! If something happened, I guarantee it was user error. Can’t blame me if someone doesn’t follow the instructions to the letter.”
“Do you remember all your clients?” The Detective asked.
The wizard looked pensive, “I mean, I get a few regulars, but not sure if I could recall every person who wanted to liven up their birthday party with a magic show.”
“Does the name ‘Waldo’ ring any bells?”
The man’s face paled a bit at that, not unnoticed. “... what did you say your name was?” The man looked them square in the eye.
There was a sudden familiar uncertainty in the air, the same they had felt when asked that same question all those months ago, if less dangerous. They met the gaze with conviction, knowing what should be said.
“Detective works just fine.”
There was a twinkle in those eyes, a mask receding, “You are smarter than most.” The man turned and gestured to follow, “Come on, I’ll talk more back here.”
The man disappeared through the patterned curtain. The Detective hesitated, testing their senses for a potential trap, and finding none, they proceeded through the drapery.
Now THIS was more so what they expected. The room beyond was much more esoteric and quote-unquote “magical” compared the store-front. Everything was space-themed and decorated as such in one way or another. Clear glass bobbles hung about and caught the light, casting pin points across the tapestried walls like shooting stars. Tomes and jarred objects outside description lined the shelves, which the wizard was now skimming through.
Only… the man had changed. No longer was there a stereotypical spellcaster before them, but a man in a red sweater and slacks, hair no longer lengthy hatted white but a shorter cut grey. Finding what he was searching for, a short white cylinder, a spectacled thin face turned back to them.
“You’re the Detective that he’s talking about,” The man dusted off a small white cylinder, “Did you give him your actual name?”
“No,” The Detective responded, “I was going to but… he stopped me.”
There was an understanding nod from the old man, “Ah, I get it now. He wants to test himself.” At the questioning look from the Detective, he explained, “I don’t think it’s too much to say that yes, magic, in some form or another, is real, and you’ve no doubt seen it. One of the main forms it takes is words of power, or names, titles, things like that. Waldo himself has a name of great power, in that it means ‘great’, ‘to rule or ruler’, ‘power’. His moniker even exemplifies this, Great Waldo, Great Power.”
The distaste in the man’s voice was not lost on them; they pressed their suspicion, “He got this knowledge of names from you, didn’t he.” One look told them they were right, shame and regret.
“Yes,” he continued, voice heavy, “And a lot more, unfortunately.”
The twinkling stars burned, “So how does my title come into play?”
“Ah, that. De-tec-tive. Another old root. ‘One who works to or serves to uncover, expose, or reveal.’ A servant of revelation or the truth. His magic as you’ve seen it, that flashy crowd-work he’s no doubt put on, is all about suspension of disbelief, a framework of believed lies; my guess is he wished to see if he can go toe-to-toe with someone who’s the exact opposite of his own root power.”
There was a faint memory the Detective had, of fairy tale stories where the fae would gain power over a person should that person divulge their name to the trickster. So Waldo’s ‘abilities’ stemmed from something similar. Every person he brought on stage he had asked their name, including Wenda, but that didn’t explain how Waldo was able to abduct the rest of the audience.
“Is it possible for him to take or get power over people without knowing their name?”
The man thought for a moment, “Giving the name is giving ownership, but it can also be lost if an individual who has power over you, or is responsible for you, gives you away, though this method's not very effective.” A knowing glance to a table of newspapers, “If you’re referring to the rest of the audience, well, I don’t mean to accuse you of anything, but you would have been the being responsible for the safety of everyone in there…”
A chill crept down the Detective’s spine as they remembered what exactly Waldo had asked them.
It was warped, twisted, in a way they couldn’t have foreseen without knowing all the context, but the phrasing had just been vague enough to have allowed it. They had suspected, but hadn’t wished it to be true.
They had given the audience to him. Given Wenda to him.
Wenda… “What is he doing with them?”
The man sighed, “That I wish I could tell you, but I can’t know for sure. All I can say is he’s never taken so many and given people up before, so he’s tired of playing things safe it seems.” The column of white he wrung in his hands he now held out to the Detective.
It was plain and small, like a large roll of plastic chalk. A moment of analysis; they accepted.
It felt heavy in their hand, like it had something inside, “What’s this?”
The man smiled, “Haven’t used it in a while, but it should still be my old staff.”
Staff? The Detective turned it over in their hands, giving it a shake. That seemed to do it, as the thing suddenly extended out with red blue and white stripes. They turned it over in what the space would allow. “So it’s spring loaded then?” they asked, attempting to compress it back into its original form.
“It is if you say it is,” the man said slyly, going to retrieve a book from the shelf, “This will help too. If I know Waldo, he’s a stickler for the classics.” Its title read Marvels of the Past: A Guide to the Founders of Optical Illusions and Magic Tricks in faded and broken gold leaf. Once the staff was shortened, they took the book as well, flipping through it to see woodcut portraits and diagrams among the labyrinth of words.
With both objects in hand, the Detective tucked them into their coat, “Is there anything else you can tell-” There was a faint sound of a bell, the door to the shop. Their hairs instantly raised, as did the old man’s apparently, if masked by an affront of annoyance.
“I’m afraid I have another customer to deal with. Thank you for stopping by!”
A finger snap, the rug under pulled and propelled them out the door they came in.
“HEY!” The Detective surged toward the door again, only to plow into a wall that had appeared behind it. The hell? They felt around and tried to pass the obstacle, but it was as solid as if it had always been there.
A faint tinkling snapped their attention away, making them look around. For a split second, they could have sworn someone was standing at the door, but no one else was in the dimly lit shop. Only it wasn’t dimly lit for long, as with a fluorescent sparkling, the lights around the space began to increase in brightness in flickering waves, a power surge in time with the now audible voices beyond the wall, indiscernible, but clearly in argument.
At the second exploding bulb, the Detective quickly made for the door, as one by one the lights and every glass implement popcorned in electric air, culminating in an explosion of glass and burning ozone that kicked them out the threshold.
…
It was a waiting game now. Nothing to do but study and prepare. The Detective read the book cover to cover, twice, and was now knowledgeable on the origin of all tricks and magicians, from Harry Houdini to Ching Ling Foo. The staff remained somewhat inert; it seemed to them just a regular trick extending-pole with surprisingly strong springs. How this was supposed to help them against Waldo was unclear. Studying it hadn’t revealed anything of note, so it remained mysterious.
All had been quiet for a few weeks, no reports of any more people from the theater turning up, no word of any more performances. It turned their guts somewhat, wondering what was becoming of Wenda.
They found themself looking over the photos from that night again, and the oddities they caught. Strange lights in Waldo’s eyes, red streaks on the glass, the wailing star; all dismissed as poor lighting and their inexperience with the camera.
It was a wonder that there didn’t seem to be anyone else who believed that Waldo’s tricks were more than mere parlor fancies. They didn’t speak onto it at work, but they were surprised that no one else, not even the most out-there thinkers of their colleagues, seemed to even entertain the idea of legit magic. I mean, of course, why would they? It was outlandish and completely absurd to believe that magic was real. But then, could it be something else, a weird glamour, as Waldo had seemed to cast over that audience. They had felt it, that chill that stung their nerves to silence when they had met eyes; a near powerlessness that had been imposed, pull on a puppet string they didn’t even know they had. The Detective had resisted only later on, but that first time… Were they all just marionettes now, a web of invisible strings keeping everyone’s heads down? How far did that net reach? What had they gotten themself into? And why were they, quite possibly, the only one with their head above the waves of this damnable tide. There truly seemed to be no one else, as the old man had vanished in the destruction of his shop, and they suspected was dead or worse. Only them now.
Why? Why were they so special?
A tap to their door jostled them out of their thoughts.
A look to a clock upon the wall. 3:15 am. Too late for another soul outside their door.
Cold set in, a draft of soul, carried under the door with the envelope that slipped through the crack, a red so saturated it crawled around their skull.
They didn't remember moving, only a blink to tearing it open.
Within was a gold-stared ticket, an invitation attached.
For one night only, a very special performance by the Great Waldo. Special VIP access is granted to you, dearest Detective, and perhaps something more, should you come alone. If not, I guarantee you will leave emptyhanded, if you leave at all. And please, bring your own tricks, I’m dying to see what that old fool gave you. ~This ticket grants you admission and one free snack.
The Detective studied each article of paper, turning them over in their hand. The foil gold glinting a foul wink of light into their eye that burned purple, mocking. There was no address, no noticeable code, no indication where exactly, if anywhere or anywhen, this performance was supposed to take place.
There was only one other option of a clue; the person who had just left his couldn’t be far, or at least, they hoped.
Quickly, they gathered what they would need in a chase; coat, gun, badge, phone… the thought to call backup was entertained, then ignored, and after the hesitation, the book of magicians and the odd extending cylinder were stuffed with the rest into their coat. After about a 30 second scramble, still with the letter and ticket in hand, they opened the door with a rush of momentum.
As soon as they turned the knob, there was a sudden burst of pain in their hand. Through the corner of their eye, they saw the ticket spark bright and burst into a shower of sparks, a burning glow that swirled like a firework pinwheel up and around in a matter of milliseconds. Horror gripped them, the push of the door already in unstoppable motion as time seemed to slow, unable to catch themselves as a voice rang in their ears.
ENJOY THE SHOW!
A sucking airlock pressure pulled them forward, and they tumbled into an empty void where a hall should have been. It was only a moment of turning before they were stumbling, unceremoniously, upon a red carpet.
The whole change had happened in a disorienting split second, and somehow, their method of entrance disappearing behind them wasn’t so surprising as what was before them; a hallway, classic theater in style, wall sconces of turned up shell lights accentuated by red curtains that formed popcorn-bag stripes down the hall. Where someone was waiting for them.
Slowly the Detective approached, a dilapidated and moth-eaten look becoming apparent as they progressed towards the bright red door and the figure beside it. Their pace slowed as they got a better look at what might be a living person, but doubt was present on the account they, the figure, didn’t have a head.
Stood off to the right side of the door was a person, sans head, dressed as a common bellhop, a silver covered food dish aloft in one hand. Actually, now that they looked at it, the figure did have a more feminine build… a familiar build...
It hit them, and they knew there was no doubt.
“Wenda?”
There was no reaction other than the chest giving a light gasp.
It was her. It had to be her.
“Wenda… I’m so sorry…” What had been suppressed for the past few months came bottling up, the panic, the rage, the guilt, the emotions all swirling in a torrent around them, paralysing migraine shimmer catching them.
Wenda made no reaction, how could she even hear them?
Then she lowered the domed tray before them, and reached for the lid.
Their heart sank.
But then the chrome curtain lifted and revealed a cool water bottle, frosted tinged from freezer, what she given them last to comfort their nerves, as she did now.
She was still in there… or this was a twist of the knife… But they would refuse to believe the latter.
Time awaited them no more, as the door opened and beckoned them on. Wenda gestured them into the abyss. The Detective steeled themself.
“I’ll get you out of here, I promise.”
They took the water bottle and proceeded into the gloom.
A decline under their feet drew them down, down, down, a path just faintly outlined via borders, slowly growing more visible with each progressing step. Or perhaps their eyes were adjusting.
The bottle of ice they held to their chest was like a talisman, it’s chill and shape sharing space with the book and the column tucked under their fabric. It dissuaded the start when a light suddenly spotlighted the end of their path, nothing more than a winking star in the distance.
What did make them jump, as they drew close enough for the beam to cast faint illumination on the surroundings, was realizing the eyes that were upon them. It was clear where they were now, the aisle of a great cavernous theater, proportions pulled to ludicious size, seats stretching off into darkness, and every one bore an audience member, every one looking directly at them, silent, unblinking. The light beam illuminated a single point on a stage; its back curtain enormous, a red velvet wall scaling up into reaches unknown.
The Detective contemplated drinking the water, but decided against it, tucking it into a free pocket.
Finally before the final climb, no stairs available, they hopped up onto the platform, their shoes clacking a balafon note that reverberated, each step echoing among the watching many, eyes glinting a star studded sky before them; a living cosmos.
When they entered the light, the quiet broke in a waterfall of thunderous applause. And it was at that moment that they remembered something they had forgotten; earplugs.
They knew what Waldo wanted. He wanted them to flinch, to show weakness, but they would not. They stood fast, even as the sound gave way to ringing that trill trilling trilled deep into their skull.
At once the discordant cacophony gained a rhythm, all hands began to clap in tandem, until all was a steady beat that punched them with each blast, felt in their bones, their heart…
Their heart…
As they realized, the speed of the beat within and out-loud sped up, in time with each other, a frightening tendril coiling in their chest as they considered what that implied.
But enough, enough, the lights, the sounds, all leading to a buzzing brain that not even frost would fix, they were done with the game! They shouted out, voice lost in the din:
“WALDO! SHOW YOURSELF!”
The clapping stopped on a sudden note that squealed in their skull, and they feared a moment that their heart had followed suit. No, it hadn’t.
That came a second later.
~TBC~
So this was originally only going to be 3 chapters long, but I felt that one more chapter was required to really wrap things up! Next will be the conclusion!
