SLOW GRENADE. @lorenmartinez - Tumblr Blog

Hello! I’m L and I’ll be writing Loren, an investigative journalist who’s New In Town™ and it gets worse. Hailing from London, she’s come to Hollowick to research and write about the history of The Reaper and the recently-reopened investigation. I’ve put some details about her ⏤ including some basic stats, a personality overview, brief history, and some connection ideas ⏤ under the cut. It’s A Lot so if anyone wants a SparkNotes version, hit me up via IMs or on Discord.

#hollowick.intro #this took me forever but.#not bad for a girl with no serotonin!#also if anyone has any trouble reading the font on her blog lmk.#i've been fighting with css all day.

at RIVERSIDE MEDICAL CLINIC with @jihasbest.

After filling out an intake form and giving her information to the receptionist, Loren sat in the anteroom of the local clinic and waited for her name to be called. Going to see a doctor hadn’t been on her to-do list for the day, but she also hadn’t anticipated snagging her foot on a tree root the day before and twisting her ankle in a way that couldn’t be easily treated with ibuprofen and an ice pack. For the better part of the day, she’d tried to set aside the idea that she should consult a medical professional, but the ache didn’t subside even after careful dosing of the over-the-counter painkiller and elevation. In fact, it only seemed to worsen. Bouncing her uninjured leg, she glanced about the room, assessing each of the patients, naturally curious about the reason for their attendance. There was little else available to hold her attention; she had already cleared the most important emails from her inbox, and the stack of magazines on a nearby table was not only mostly out of date but looking worse for wear.

Not long after Loren gave the magazines a second look, the receptionist called out her name and she rose from her chair, limping slightly as she was deposited in an examination room and instructed to wait. She was folded over in her seat, scrutinizing her swollen ankle, when the door opened to admit, presumably, the physician that would be treating her. “Hello,” she said, lifting her head. “You must be the doctor? I’m a new patient ⏤ a walk-in. I’m in town on business and, well... I caught my foot on some tree roots and did something to my ankle. It’s been hell to walk on.”

#( — conversations. )#( ft | jiha chiltern. )#sorry this took forever!

MIKKELSEN, LUKAS.

STARTER FOR @lorenmartinez . LOCATION: The Royal Oak

It’s been exactly two days since the note was left for him— “she said she was press,” the receptionist had told him as they passed the note onto him. This “she” left nothing but a scribbled on number and an address, which he later found out was to The Royal Oak. “She” was not a mystery to him, but more of a dilemma. This note did not help his case, not at all.

Finding himself in front of the door that acted as a border between his present and past, he started to wonder what all that contemplating was for the past two days. In his left hand, he’s gripping onto the neck of a Jameson bottle, the paper bag sleeve scrunching in his hand. His right, well, is formed into a light fist, hovering along the door, wondering if this was a good choice to be made. Was he going to regret it or would this be a newfound solace for him in a foreign setting? A little piece of home from his past.

Knock, knock, knock. Three equally sounding knocks are delivered onto the door, his heart racing and stomach sick with anticipation. Why was he so nervous? Truth be told, he was quite afraid of how he’d react upon seeing a familiar face, one that was so closely associated with the life he’d had. Would he fall apart, down onto his knees, crying up all those tears he had tried hard to swallow? There was only one way to find out.

Loren woke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. The sound of knocking at her door had startled her awake; a light sleeper, she was still adjusting to the variety of nature noises that sounded through the day and night. But it wasn’t the persistent cry of animals or the rustle of underbrush in the wind that had pulled her from sleep. Someone was at her door. Slightly disoriented, she felt around the mattress, searching the sheets for her phone until she was able to locate the device. 02:19. Two o’clock in the morning. Her mind swam with possibilities. Who could be at her door at this hour? There were so few people who knew where she was, and more specifically which cabin she was staying in. Or had it been part of a dream? The past few nights had been littered with nightmares ⏤ the direct result of spending the bulk of her days consuming grisly images and information.

Clambering out of bed, Loren crossed the cabin to the door and slowly drew back the curtain obscuring the window by the door. Standing outside of her cabin, illuminated by the faint, flickering lamp over the entrance, was a ghost from her past. Releasing the curtain, she moved to open the door, her fingers slow with the singular lock. Seeing Lukas Mikkelsen in town had nearly led her to question her own sanity. What were the odds, that after all of her searching for him, he would be in the very place she had exiled herself to for work? Pausing to draw a breath, Loren gave herself a few seconds to collect herself before she opened the door to look him in the eye. She had thought about this moment, agonized over what she’d say to him, but as they stood there, divided across the threshold of the cabin, she found herself struggling to speak ⏤ until, finally, she found her voice. “Lukas. You came,” she said quietly, her voice still thick with sleep. The fact that he was there, standing before her, meant that he’d received her message. And he’d decided to show up. “Come in.”

She hadn’t anticipated any company; the place was messy by her standards, her work strewn across furniture. She realized as she stepped back to allow him entry that he would see the collection of information and images ⏤ clusters of photocopies, reports and articles and images, belonging to the various murders attributed to The Reaper, as well as pertinent thoughts and theories scribbled on sticky notes ⏤ that she had begun to assemble on the main wall of the cabin like an overzealous character in a crime drama. But there wasn’t a point in fretting over the state of her accommodation, and the evidence of her growing obsession, when the person she had tried in earnest to track down had finally found his way back in her life. “I... I don’t know where to begin,” she admitted, turning back to look at him, her hands set on her hips. There was a sadness in the thought she voiced next: “I know better than to ask you how you are.”

#( — conversations. )#( ft | lukas mikkelsen. )

CHILTERN, JAIME.

Jaime hadn’t been in Hollwick for fifteen years. He’d put a whole ocean between himself and this place. And yet - here he sat a couple days in at The Royal Oak because he was trying to keep a low profile while in town. he was staying in one of the rooms at the main house and after unpacking and adjusting to the time change, the smell of a home-cooked breakfast had called to his stomach. He dressed quickly and wandered downstairs just as other guests began trickling in and the dining room filled up fast. He’d managed to grab a coffee and a plate with some sausage and a couple pieces of toast. He wasn’t much of a breakfast eater anyway.

He had a table in the corner, no one could sit behind him and for the most part the tourists filling in were happy to ignore him and focus on plans to tour the reaper museum that day. This is why he hated this town. Why was he here again; the zillionth time he had asked himself. He sat there drinking the hot coffee and taking a couple bites of food here and there figuring he’d head back upstairs when he was done. Or he might have, had a voice queried him about the empty seat across from him. He glanced up to the woman, waved a hand, “Please, feel free too.”

He glanced at the table of the American tourists and then to the woman, “I might have to break it to you gently, I am as well.” Though his accent had softened a great deal after fifteen years stateside; he carried duel citizenship. But he considered the states his home.

Just as soon as Loren had taken the seat opposite him, successfully managing to get her proverbial foot in the door to a conversation with a Chiltern, she felt a swift stab of regret for her choice of an opener. A cursory Google search of the man’s name had yielded few results, but of the information she could find, she knew that he was employed overseas. She couldn’t have possibly anticipated that he would present himself as an American; still, the feeling of failure in her research, however faint, settled on her shoulders. While the us vs. them approach by way of her remark about the tourists hadn’t paid off, it also hadn’t completely closed the door on the potential for a friendly conversation. Was it unethical to speak to someone without revealing her identity as a journalist? The answer varied, depending on who you asked. In her mind, having a conversation with a person of interest wasn’t entirely a violation of the unspoken code of ethics she’d adopted when she’d entered the industry, but she would be certain to tread lightly with Jaime.

“Oh, goodness,” Loren said, feigning embarrassment with a remorseful look. “I didn’t mean anything by it. They’re nice, but just...very chatty.” Plucking up her knife and fork, she began to slice up her breakfast, cutting into grilled tomato, sausage and eggs. The vibrant yolks bled easily across the plate, saturating the halved slices of buttered toast. “And overly obsessed with... well” ⏤ lowering her voice, she leaned forward to complete her sentence ⏤“the murders. I think just about everyone staying here is in town for the tour and the museum. It’s horrible, really. So much tragedy in such a beautiful place.” She took a bite of her breakfast then, eyes trained on him to gauge his reaction, hoping he would take the bait to share his own thoughts on the matter.

#( — conversations. )#( ft | jaime chiltern. )

COLLINS, BODHI.

First thing in the morning was the best time to visit the museum. He hadn’t visited that often during his one month here ( no matter how many times the docent waved at him and said his name ). It was to do research. Each artifact was more interesting than the last. Most of his research was done to figure out the authenticity of each item. He kept reaching out to the Horrorwick director for an interview, but each time a new excuse was offered. Sooner or later, he’d wear them down or bump into them in town. It was part of the reason he kept hitting up the museum at odd hours. But this morning was to gather his thoughts. It wasn’t to double or triple check facts. That was for another day, perhaps tomorrow. Today, he was staring at each item and almost trying to gather its energy. Mentally, he was trying to organize his next episode.

Lost in thought, he doesn’t notice the women enter this section of the museum. Bodhi should perhaps be a little better about people creeping up on him with serial killer on the loose. The question makes him whip around almost tripping over his feet. His ears perk up at her mention of the music before her dramatically rolls his eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me? At least it’s not ki ki ma ma from Friday the 13th? Or maybe that plays later in the day.” He jerks his thumb at the exhibit he was just studying. “Have you seen this? Allegedly a cast of a muddy footprint found outside the cabin of the first victim. I bet it belongs to one of the teens or investigators.”

Loren’s eyebrows lifted as she regarded the man, a flicker of bemusement crossing her features. “Fair. Or the Halloween theme,” she conceded. “If that comes up on the ‘eerie music’ playlist, I don’t care about the cost of admission. I’ll probably bolt.” Exposure to classic horror films had come later in life, in her teenage years, during sleepovers and movie nights with friends. The piano cue from the Halloween series was enough to strike fear in her heart; it had been no exaggeration on her part that the song would be cause for her to flee the attraction after years of being nightmare fuel. Just the thought of it sent a chill down her spine. “It’s my first time here, so I haven’t really seen anything just yet.” Looking past him, she stepped closer to examine the casting he’d indicated and considered his theory that the print belonged to someone on the scene ⏤ either one of the teenagers who had found the body of the as-yet-unidentified man or one the detectives who had shown up to investigate ⏤ and not the killer. “So you think the initial investigators were incompetent?” she asked, in an attempt to confirm what could be easily deduced from his allegation. Glancing away from the messy ridges of the footprint, she looked up at him. It seemed to her that he was knowledgeable about the murders, or at least aware of some of the inconsistencies flagged by those who had made it a hobby to discuss the case online. “Ruling out the footprints of people on the scene sounds like bare minimum crime scene management. It would be a pretty big oversight on their part if they hadn’t done as much.”

#( — conversations. )#( ft | bodhi collins. )

Loren lives in East London, in a two-bedroom flat she shares with a roommate, and commutes daily to the Herald’s offices in Southwark. She occasionally entertains fantasies of packing up and moving elsewhere, but London is home. She’s been saving up to buy a house for years, but nothing’s come together yet.

She picked up smoking at university and has never really considered herself a smoker but indulges in the occasional cigarette when she’s out with friends or when she’s overly stressed. Deadlines tend to push her to smoke to soothe frayed nerves. It’s not a habit she’s particularly proud of, but she hasn’t gone out of her way to try to kick it. She keeps a lighter and pack of cigarettes in her bag, along with gum and travel-sized perfume to help diffuse the smell of smoke on her breath and clothes. (Loren’s determined to never let her mother find out about it because she’ll never hear the end of it.)

There’s always at least one hair tie or elastic around her wrist. The day is typically started with the best intentions; she tends to wear her hair down around her flat and when she’s headed out to work or to run errands, but most days end with her hair fastened in a ponytail or messy bun. A sure-fire sign that she’s about to get serious about something comes when she starts gathering her hair to tie up out of her face.

When Loren graduated from university and was set to start her internship at BBC News, her parents gifted her a leather satchel monogrammed with her initials: L.M. She still uses the bag daily. It’s seen better days but it’s a reliable accessory and she’s yet to find a suitable replacement (not that she’s really looking ⏤ if it ain’t broke, etc). It’s usually a multipurpose bag, taking on the role of both a laptop case and a purse, in which she stashes essential work items (laptop, device chargers, a handful of USB keys, a notepad and several pens) and personal items (a zippered billfold with cash and cards, an old Altoids mints tin containing loose over-the-counter and prescription medication, a compact mirror, a tube of lipstick, a pack of tissues, a pack of chewing gum, travel-sized hand sanitizer, tampons, etc.).

( ANXIETY TW ) She was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder in her early twenties after a series of panic attacks resulted in a trip to the A&E. Over the years she’s managed her anxiety with a combination of medication and therapy, though in the last few years she’s slowly stopped going to sessions, citing her workload as the reason for scheduling conflicts. Currently, she carries prescription medication for any onset spikes in anxiety or panic attacks.

#hollowick.cd #( — character development. )

at HORRORWICK with @bodhicollins.

Horrorwick ⏤ quite a gauche name for the main tourist attraction in town, if an appropriate one. Taking her change and ticket from the disinterested employee stationed at the booth in the entranceway, Loren pushed through the turnstile and glanced about the place as she made her way into the museum devoted to the terror The Reaper had unleashed on Hollowick. She had spent the previous night holed up in her cabin, combing through hundreds of reviews and blog entries written about the attraction to get a better sense of what to expect, as well as what to look out for. The official Horrorwick website gave little away; protecting their investment, the owner had made sure to keep the details scant and the featured images carefully framed to avoid giving away what was promised to be “a bone-chilling good time.” Accounts of guest experiences seemed to overwhelmingly recommend the tour of notable sights around town, but Loren felt drawn to the museum, if only because of the controversies surrounding the authenticity of the items displayed within. There were a few blogs dedicated to debating the legitimacy of the evidence, though most of the entries were several years old and lacked the substantive evidence necessary for her to make a determination on either side of the theories circulating online.

The museum was quiet at this hour ⏤ she had made the executive decision to visit the attraction first thing in the morning, at opening, to avoid the congestion that came with the high levels of tourist foot traffic. Only one other visitor was milling around when she entered the first room. Loren couldn’t help but roll her eyes as she registered the music playing overheard. Some reviews had warned of tacky elements, but she hadn’t anticipated this. “Am I losing it,” she began, pointing upward to indicate the speakers positioned in the corners of the room as she turned toward the stranger, “or are they playing the theme song from The Exorcist?”

#( — conversations. )#( ft | bodhi collins. )

at THE ROYAL OAK BED & BREAKFAST with @agent-jaime-chiltern.

Every morning, from seven o’clock sharp until eight-thirty, guests of The Royal Oak were welcomed into the dining room of the main house for the first meal of the day. The spread offered was as impressive as it was traditional; in additional to the cereal and porridge options, those staying on the grounds were also privy to the option of a fry-up plate if they so desired. It was hard to resist the call of a home-cooked meal, no matter how greasy it was, and so whenever Loren found herself awake within the breakfast window (which had been most mornings in the first full week of work in Hollowick), she dressed and made the walk up from her cabin to start the day. Today, however, breakfast was a distant thought as she approached the house, the smell of bacon wafting out when she pulled the door open to step inside. She was looking for someone; not just anyone, but a particular guest who had checked in to the bed and breakfast two days earlier. Loren had been loitering in the front room with her laptop, taking full advantage of the faster wifi in the house to upload files to the Herald’s secure drive, when he had arrived. It had been difficult not to overhear the name offered in confirmation of his reservation: Jaime Chiltern. The surname had caught her attention ⏤ Chiltern, not unlike that of The Reaper’s fourth victim.

Pausing in the doorway, Loren scanned the dining room, clocking Jaime in the corner, seated alone at a small table by the window. It helped that the space was busy at this hour ⏤ she had more of an excuse than just occupational curiosity to seek out his company. Stepping into the room, she flashed an acknowledging smile at the group of tourists she’d sat next to the previous morning and made her way over to Jaime’s table, pausing several times to glance around under the guise of searching for an empty seat. “Excuse me,” Loren said, approaching him. Indicating the empty seat opposite his, she asked: “Do you mind if I sit here? It’s busy this morning, and between us, I’d rather sit with you than with the table full of Americans.”

#( — conversations. )#( ft | jaime chiltern. )#food tw

antigonick

I always loved ghosts. They fascinated me. Not the rattling chains and horror part of it, of course, but the mystery, the promise of secret knowledge, of seeing something that no one else was privy to. A secret world that gripped my imagination.

Jonathan Sims, “Bloody Mary [MAG154]”, for The Magnus Archives (via nathaliekclley)

#( — introspections. )

❝ Journalism will kill you, but it will keep you alive while you’re at it. ❞ ⏤ Horace Greely

#hollowick.aesthetic

flowerytale

Henry James ― The Portrait of a Lady

#( — introspections. )

slytherinnpride

#( — aesthetics. )

locsofpoetry

My father used to say, “Don’t raise your voice. Improve your argument.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu (via locsofpoetry)

#( — introspections. )

oliviadumhan

Knives Out (2019)

#( — reflections. )

quotemadness

…and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine.

Gillian Flynn (via quotemadness)

#( — introspections. )

imperialblack

#( — aesthetics. )

fyp-philosophy

The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.‘

Anais Nin (via wnq-writers)

#( — introspections. )

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

SLOW GRENADE.