Rosewood Mountain

When a serial killer struck in Rosewood, a small town in the middle of the Appalachin mountains, Laz Desman is assigned the grusume case. But when the detective is added to the list of victums, things get more complicated for the town. Especially given that he is still walking the mortal world. Now with the help of Rosewoods only mortician, Jacob Connors. Laz must now solve his own murder before someone else is forced to shuffle the world of the living.

[rosewood-mountain]

Rosewood Mountain

Chapter 2 - Body Horror

The relentless tapping of raindrops on the glass shattered the silence of the room, pulling Jacob from his restless sleep. The space briefly lit up as a flash of lightning pierced through a small gap in his curtains. 

Jacob groans as he sits up on the couch, stealing a glance at the standing clock, ticking in the corner. The hands read 6:45. He had managed a few hours of sleep, but his body yearned for more. It had been days since he experienced more than a couple of hours of sleep, the fatigue weighing him down like a stone, dragging him deeper into the waves of madness.

With a sigh, he unfolds himself from where he had curled in on himself and stood. His bare feet pad across his creaky wooden floor. He slipped down an adjacent hallway into his kitchen, sneaking as if not to wake the house itself.

The back window presents the surrounding forest, trees creating an oppressive blanket of shadow obscuring all that call the woods home, and with everything roaming the woods, seldom does one feel alone.

Jacob shook his head, trying to ease his troubled mind. It was in vain. His vision narrowed on a flash of color on his counter, tucked in a corner, right beside an old teapot. 

He caught his breath and his eyes burned as soon as he registered what he had been staring at.

A gold cross necklace. 

“Fuck!”

Jacob staggers back, the mere sight of the cross burning him. His back slamming against the wall behind him as lightning blinds him briefly. The old house groans and shutters. The walls were awake now.

His teeth grit tight, eyes squeezed shut. His breath came in short pants as he swore he could hear Lucy’s soft voice. 

“Your tea will be cold soon babe, hurry,” her voice echoes in his mind. Her soft face was etched behind his eyelids. 

Lucy stood by his stove after a church service. Her soft hands unclasped her necklace and set it aside on the counter. 

She smiled at him as he walked over, her hands wrapping around the mortician's neck, holding him close as she captured his lips in a soft kiss. 

His visions of her vanished as quickly as they appeared. All that remained was her corpse, mutilated and perverted as she laid back on his embalming table. Jacob could only find solace in Detective Laz's sympathies, as they were the only thing left. 

Jacob swore as he snapped back to his senses. His sleep-deprived brain blurs the lines between his memories and reality. He wanted to take the day off from work, to hide, to mourn, but Lucy couldn’t wait. He knew she couldn’t.

He stumbled to his feet. Grief had dragged him to the floor without him noticing. His hands lurch toward a dusty cabinet he hardly touched.

Inside, his late father’s old bottles of whisky stand. Each bottle invoked dread within Jacob. Taunting him. With a snap, he forcefully squeezes the closest bottle in his hand, feeling the plastic crumple beneath his grip. His movements were erratic as he found a glass, filling it to the brim with the lukewarm alcohol. 

The house fell silent, still despite the storm raging outside. Watching Jacob with silent judgment for depending on vices. Jacob stood defiant against the feeling, stomping back to the living room, challenging the oppressive walls. Jacob crashes down onto the sofa, setting his drink down on the coffee table. His eyes narrowed toward a bottle of sleeping pills prescribed several months ago. With little thought, he retrieved a pill from the bottle and washed it down with his whiskey. His face contorts with the stinging burn of alcohol.

He takes a defeated gulp of the glass and lets his arm drop. The familiar sting of tears etched into his cheeks, unsure when he started crying. Jacob no longer wanted to feel. He storms back into the kitchen, abandoning his glass for the bottle he started on. He flings the cap off and begins chasing the bottom.

------

Laz sighs, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Eyes watching the rain pelt the windshield of his police cruiser. His headlights reflected against the wet asphalt. The idle chatter from his police stereo fades to background static. 

The department and he had followed all leads to their ends. It was apparent the suspect had departed from the Loger Motel a day earlier. The name used was fake. All they had was the car. A car that likely was hundreds of miles away by now.

Laz sighs and turns down a familiar road, driving up to an old gas station. The buzzing fluorescent lights make it stand out like a lighthouse in the rain. Pulling in, he elected to just sit. His mind whirls as he tries to go over the facts again. To find an excuse for the killer to remain in town. Perhaps it was a local, and they had rented the car for the crime. That would explain why Lucy got in the vehicle, seemingly by her own free will.

With a curse, he slammed his hands against the wheel. Taking a final drag from his cigarette before snuffing it out in his ashtray.

The lull of the night droning on. For a moment, Laz considered calling it a night. Leaving his patrols to keep a lookout, to go back to his office and reevaluate. 

The soft rumbling of a car caught his attention. With a quick glance in his rear-view mirror, he observed the car headlights approaching rapidly. The vehicle raced past the gas station, well over the speed limit. Just as he is about to turn on his light for a traffic stop, he stops. As it raced down the rain-drenched streets, a red Austin Allegro swerved down a turn towards the main road out of Rosewood, and up the mountain. 

“Mother-fucker!” Laz nearly screams as his car roars to life. His foot slammed the petal to the floor as his tires spun for a moment, skidding out of the gas station with a squeal. Sirens blaring as he gives chase. Grabbing his radio, he tries to call for backup. Only to be met with static. Not willing to lose the suspect, he bit his tongue. He had taken bigger risks before. He had his whit's and his shotgun in the passenger seat. 

-----

Jacob groans as his head pounds, an empty bottle slipping from his grasp to clang to the floor between his feet where he sat on that red sofa. The room warped and melted in on itself as the alcohol and pills mixed in an ungodly concoction. 

Lifting his head, he stares straight ahead. His once cozy living room now spinning and rocking like a ship in a storm. His stomach lurched. 

“Jacob.”

The mortician froze. Stuck in place, he hears his name called. Wondering if it was maybe the groaning of his home. 

“Jacob.”

The man gulped and lifted his head, turning toward the sound. Eyes meeting a painting of Mother Mary. His heart stopped.

The painting had changed. 

Jacob stared into wide, uncanny eyes that seemed to follow him. Her peaceful expression warped into one of rage, hate, and disgust as she witnessed the man on the sofa. 

“Jacob.” The painting hissed at him. 

The man leapt off the sofa scrambling across the floor, a guttural scream leaving his throat as he slammed a hand down. Hot pain shot up his arm. Looking down, Jacob heaves. A large nail impaled his through the palm. Blood oozed from around the wound. Lifting his hand he clutched at his wrist sobbing like a scared child as he continued to scoot further from the painting. 

The painting was laughing now. Illuminated by lightning, the Mother caught up in a strange and inhuman euphoric state. Her mouth opened far too wide. A third large eye staring at him from inside the void of her maw.

“What are you!” Jacob shrieks as he tries to look for a way out, his vision tunneling leaving him disoriented and lost inside his own home. Eyes landed on other paintings, Angels, Saints, and the Messiah himself all staring with wide eyes. All depicting inhuman grins on their painted lips, the holy now perverted into beasts. A cacophony of laughter and hymns filled his ears. 

“Jacob, Jacob, JACOB!”  the voices chant louder and louder. The man wept in desolation as blood poured from his hand, staining the floor, the baseboards, and the walls.

Jacob felt himself dry heave. His stomach was flipping. Was he on the ceiling? His home felt as if it was crushing him. 

“What do you want from me!?” he screams back at the walls. Watching as lightning flashed once more and in an instant, the expressions changed  once again. All the faces were wiped clean. Blank slates of flesh. 

“Forsaken” 

Jacob grits his teeth wanting to deny it, but his voice has died. Sobbing loudly as he brought his hand in front of his face. Howling like an injured animal as he grabs hold of the long bent nail. Had he been sober he would have left it alone, to call for help, but in his altered state his logic was nonexistent. Yanking it free, sending blood across the room. Splattering against the painting of the holy Mother. 

“Stand” 

Jacob felt his lungs ache as he forced himself to obey, blooded hands leaving grotesque imprints on his wall. Was this what divinity was? Was this God's will? 

“Please … .please. What have I done to forsaken you?” 

He wept stumbling towards the photo again, a religious stupor falling over him. His mind crumbles with each slow tick of the clock. Every whisper and insult.

"Because you have done this, Cursed are you above all livestock and all wild animals!

You will crawl on your belly and you will eat dust all the days of your life."

Jacob felt his vision tunnel further, legs shaking as they began to give out. His hands fly out as he catches himself on the sofa. Falling onto it with a thud. On his back he stares at the ceiling unable to move, staring at his hand, through his hand. Warm blood dripped down his face.  Unable to fight any longer, his hand fell to his chest limply, His wound oozed and soaked his shirt through to the skin as Jacob slipped into unconsciousness to the sounds of maniacal laughter and church hymns.

[rosewood-mountain]

Chapter-3-Forsaken

Laz grits his teeth as the needle of the speedometer pushes further and further right. His car roars as he gives chase, the Austin Allegro skidding around the bends and curves of Rosewood Mountain. The barren highway offered the fleeing vehicle no place to hide from the pursuing officer.

Laz’s heart pounds in his ears as adrenaline rushes, a deranged grin stretching across his face, fingers gripping the wheel till they turn white. A quiet mantra of “mother fucker” whispered under his breath.

As he chases, images of Jacob’s broken face flash in his mind. That deep heartache evident in every detail, every fiber of the morticians being.  It burned deep in the detective's chest. Those tears did not belong on Jacob's face, that man shouldn't have to bear such a burden. Not like Laz did. 

With a screech the red car takes another winding mountain road, down an older unpaved  path, the gravel and mud fly as Laz follows without hesitation. The trees hang thick overhead. Rain still slipping through the branches and landing against the windshield with loud slaps. With a  moment of clarity Laz slows his own car slightly, feeling his tires slip on the wet mud and clay, the suspect however, didn't. His car began to fishtail across the road. Sending sprays of orange muck from his back tires. 

Laz watched as, almost in slow motion the car started to slide, wheels spinning uselessly as the car barrels towards the tree line. They lost control. In an instant the chase came to an end with a loud bang. The red car slammed head first into the trees and boulders. Smoke billowing from the hood, Headlights flickering 

Laz hit his brakes coming to a stop about 30 feet away from the wrecked car, now a tangled jagged mess of metal and glass.  A shiver ran down his spine as he grabbed a flashlight and his shotgun from his passenger side and jumped from his cruiser, his boots hitting the old path with a splash. 

“Step out of the car with your hands up!” he screams, his voice commanding authority as he shines his flashlight at the car. He didn't see a driver, figuring he was obscured by his angle. 

“DO YOU HEAR ME MOTHER FUCKER, HANDS UP, GET OUT OF THE CAR” 

The rustling of the trees and rain was his only answer. His lips pulled back a hot rage building behind his eyes. He raises his shotgun, putting his flashlight  in his mouth as he approaches the wreckage. A breath is held in his chest as he reaches the driver's side and looks inside, down the barrel of his gun. His anger turned to shock and confusion as he found no one inside. The seatbelt still fastened. 

“What the…” he mumbled around the rubber handle of his torch. Lowering his gun to his side. He pulls the flashlight from his mouth and shines it inside the car, a gag caught in his throat as he catches a whiff of rot, moving the beam of light to shine through the back window. The feeling of dread overtakes his body. 

Blood

So much blood. 

He quickly runs back to his cruiser and grabs the radio. 

“Come in, Come in, I need backup, I have the suspects car, we are on-” he reels back from his stereo, his head slamming against the roof of his cruiser, losing his footing and falling out of the car into the cool mud on the ground, his radio falling into the driver's seat. A loud static and ringing came through the other end. the static quickly morphed into strange howling and screeching. A woman screaming, begging for her life before the audio cut and was replaced with distorted church hymns. 

“Jesus christ!” 

Laz snatches his gun back off the ground from where he had dropped it. His flashlight flickering. 

His heart rate spiking as the darkness and isolation of the night finally set in. a feeling of wrongness filling him

Laz scans his surroundings, the suspect had to be in the trees, likely injured from the crash, so there was no way he got far. Trying to gather his thoughts he stood with his back to his car. Scanning the trees around him, eyes squinted to try and pick out any movement. Heavy rain drops collecting and dripping from the brim of his Stetson hat. 

A sudden crack caught his attention and sent him spinning towards the sound, gun raised, looking down the sights, a deer stood in his crosshairs. Illuminated by the flickering lights of the wrecked car. 

Unmoving like a statue. 

“Get! Go on!”

Laz yelled, his voice cracked slightly as he grit his teeth. His temper boiled over. His mind snapped to Jacob again. The man’s face. His shaking and uneasy hands clasping his worn rosary. 

“Whoever did this…I would pay to see them hang. They don't deserve the air they breathe”

Laz racks his shotgun with a snarl, looking down the barrel. 

“I said get!” He yelled at the large buck. The animal was unphased. Staring with what felt like a challenge. And Laz was not one to say no to a challenge. Human or animal. 

With a loud snarl,  he pulled the trigger, a loud bang echoing through the mountain. For a moment it felt as if the rain had paused mid fall, the trees frozen in the wind. The shot lands, hitting the deer in the chest. A killing blow. 

Yet the deer stood, muscle and sinew torn, blood oozed from a large wound. 

Laz, now the deer In Headlights. 

He had hunted since he moved to Rosewood at 15. He had spent every season out in the woods of his property. He had killed and skinned more of those animals than he could count. Looking longer at the creature before him, a pit formed in his stomach. Now that he stopped for a moment to really look, The eyes sat too far forward, like a mountain lions would. 

The creature's lips pulled back in a snarl, a long, thin tongue swipes across  uneven and mismatched carnivorous teeth. Slobber and foam dripping from its maw.

This wasn’t a deer.

Laz held his gun in a white knuckles grip as the lights of the Austin allegro went out with a buzz. Plunging him into darkness. The only sounds he could hear, his own thundering heart. And the approaching growls and snarls of whatever was in front of him. 

“God help me”

-----

A soft knock echoes through the living room, the ticking of the grandfather clock seeming to swallow the sound. 

Jacob laid unmoving, sprawled out on the old sofa, his breathing heavy and labored, despite his unconscious state. His chest stutters with each breath as he fights for a solid lungful of air. 

Another knock, and Jacob doesn’t move.

The walls shake as if the house was speaking. The deadbolt begins to tremble, the lever slowly turning without cause. Clicking open with a loud 'thunk'. The old wooden door creaking open with a loud whine.

A gust of midnight air filling the room, the faint glow of streetlights illuminating what stood before the door.

A large, black goat. 

It did not move at first, staring into the home with interest. Ears perked and eyes focused in.  It took a single step, a hoof crossing the threshold of the home. A snort coming from her wet nose. 

A shadow  cast along the mudroom wall, like a claw reaching its way inside. the animals head suddenly jerks upright. Neck snapped with a loud crack, before twisting again. Rearing back into hind legs to stand, every bone in its body crunching and contorting.

Front hooves crack in half, long fingers taking there place, its face stretched and pulled until with a hiss it broke into shattered pieces, the black fur smoking and smoldering off the flesh. Until pale, human skin was revealed. 

A tall woman, with goat hooves for feet, her body decorated with gold chains and black soot. Her face covered save for her mouth by a black vale, made of lace and silver. Two horns wrap around the sides of her head. 

She took a deep breath before exhaling through her nose. Smoke flutters through full red lips. Her hands grip the doorway as she steps inside the home, the door creaking shut behind her. 

She walks slowly, her footsteps echo through the entire home, the ornate clock locks up, stuck ticking at 1:24 am. The crosses and religious imagery decorating the home tremble and shake as she passes. Yet despite the noise, the rattling of the walls and pulse of the floor. Jacob doesn’t stir. 

The woman slowly approaches the back of the red sofa. Her fingers trace the fabric as she leers over it. Staring at the Mortician. A somber look on her lips.

She quickly rounds the couch before lowering to kneel at Jacob’s side, her hands reach with a familiar kindness, taking hold of the blonde man’s wrist and lifting, examining the oozing wound, able to look through the palm of Jacob’s hand as if it was a keyhole. The man groans loudly at the movement, pain etched into his face as he gave a attempt at pulling away, but after a moment, he relents. Trembling like a wet dog.

The woman sighs to herself before opening her lips. A black snake like tongue peaking out. Flicking the air. She leans forward and with a hum drags the appendage across the man’s wound. The blood crackles and steams as she does so, the hole slowly closing as she focuses her attention to her task. Jacob’s distress easing as the demon consumes.

Within minutes the hole was gone, the only evidence of it ever existing was the blood on Jacob’s shirt and the stains on the walls. 

The woman sets his hand back down before fetching a blanket from the floor, laying it over the man with strange mix of  admiration and pity. 

Leaning down to his ear she whispers, her words seeming to ease the morticians troubled mind as he eases into a dreamless sleep, relaxing into the hold of the sofa. He did not protest as the demon sat with him, placing his head in her lap, and stroking his hair. 

He instinctively turns and wraps his arms around her waist. Holding onto her. Finding peace not in his god, but in the arms of a devil. 

——

“This seat taken?” 

Jacob snaps from his blank stupor and turns his head to look at a young woman. Her soft green eyes gazed at him with an unfamiliar kindness. Dressed in a blue sundress and sandals. A gold cross necklace hung along her neck, shimmering in the mid morning sun that lit up the stained glass windows of the church. Her curly hair pulled back into a hastily done bun. 

The mortician raised a brow in curiosity noting his location. Sat in the furthest back corner. Every other person was at least two rows ahead, patiently awaiting the Sunday sermon to begin. The sound of town gossip becomes the white noise. 

“Be my guest, plenty of room.” Jacob says scooting over further to give the young lady space. The blond man caught off guard however as the brown haired woman plopped down right beside him. As if they were already best friends. 

“My name is Lucy, you are Jacob, yes?” 

The town mortician cocks a brow, mind reeling. Did he know her from somewhere? Did he handle a funeral in her family recently? Maybe her family knew his late father? Lucy seemed to notice his confusion as she extended a hand.

“I notice you are always here in the back. You ain't a talker, figured I would offer some company. If ya want.” 

Jacob cracks a soft smile and takes her hand in a friendly shake. 

“Appreciate  that Lucy, ya here with your folks?”

“They are in the front row.” 

Jacob nods, turning his head forward he noticed a few pairs of eyes turning. People started to whisper. With a sigh he averts his gaze back to his lap. Turning his rosary over in his palms anxiously.

“As much as I would love to sit beside ya, I wouldn't wanna cause issues mam. People here like to talk.” 

“Oh I know. They can call me the town bicycle for all I care” 

The blonde man's eyes fly wide before he snaps to look at Lucy, holding back a laugh with a soft snort.

“Too much?” she says, covering her smile with the back of her hand, Eyes glimmer with amusement. 

“Nope, not too much” Jacob exhales, clearing his throat as the church falls silent, the preacher taking to the stand. 

sorry for such a wait. i have been away from writing for a long while and figured even if no one sees this i should at least post what i had.

[rosewood-mountain]

Rosewood mountain

Chapter one

 Cries of agony shatter the peace of the early fall morning. For a few hours even the crows and owls fall silent. The vast and dense forest seems to listen in as tears began to decorate the crunchy grass of the graveyard. Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers all weep as a young woman, Lucy Jackson, aged 22, is lowered into her final resting place. Her headstone carved only days prior. The coffin is crafted with the wood from the mountain sides, a wreath of dried daisies and ivy sitting upon the coffin's lid. 

The service comes to a close as dirt and soil is shoved into the open grave. Her portrait sits by, a smile on thin pink lips, bright green eyes glimmering with potential, thick brown curls flowing along her shoulders, glimmering in the sunlight as if it was shining amber. Her face dusted with freckles. She leaves behind her mother, father, two brothers, and six close friends. All of them clinging to one another as part of their world is covered in earth. A life snuffed out too soon. 

By noon the crowds disperse, leaving only one person remaining. From the edge of the town graveyard a  man emerges from where he had stood. In the relative quiet and shade of an old oak tree. 

He is dressed in funeral attire. A black button up, worn and faded from use, dark slacks with a small tear on the ankle. Black dress shoes, dirty and scuffed from his time in the graveyard. 

His wavy blond hair falls past hazy blue eyes, chewed and chapped lips pulled tight as he ambles forward. His calloused hands reach into his pockets to pull forth an old rosarie, its gray beads and cross glimmering in the faded sunlight. 

His thumb rubs against the beads slowly as he kneels by the young woman's grave. Sniffling hard he holds back his tears and lets out a shaky sigh. His eyes read the stone over and over, hoping that somehow the name would change. 

“Lucy Jackson, Born January third 1960, died 1982. A loving sister and friend.” 

With a shutter, silent tears manage to slip past long eyelashes, down a soft and flushed cheek, falling to the dirt like the first drops of rain before a long storm. 

“Jacob?” a voice calls, deep and rough. 

The blond man's head whips up suddenly, a hand flying out to wipe the moisture from his eyes, to no avail. The dam had broken. His normally calm, almost blank face is warped with agony.  Lips pulling back in a snarl as his jaw clenched shut. Brows furrowed as he gripped at his rosarie tighter. His voice is caught in his chest as a taller man trudges over. 

The man wears an old brown leather coat over a black tee shirt, faded blue jeans covering his legs, a tear across one knee. A pair of brown boots cutting through the grass as he draws closer.  He has a sharp and angular face. his chin and neck covered in a five o clock shadow. A large hand reaches up to awkwardly  scratch at the stubble. Thick brows drawn close as he joins the other at the grave. 

Lowering himself down into a squat beside the blond man he takes a moment to glance at the headstone, reading it once over before sighing low. A tanned hand coming up to remove his brown leather Stetson hat. Holding it in a loose grip. Chestnut colored hair flutters about his face in the autumn breeze. 

“I dropped by your house, figured you would be here.” The man says, his voice hushed, only slightly louder than the breeze. His deep brown eyes locked with Jacobs, their intensity forcing the weeping man to avert his gaze to the ground. He tries to muster his voice back, sniffling loudly as he tries once again to calm himself. His face twisting as he forces a neutral expression. Despite this the tears continue to fall. 

“We saw each other a few days ago Laz…she got a scholarship, god she was so happy. She talked for an hour after the letter arrived. How she would get to move out of Rosewood. We could move out of Rosewood… she was going to become a lawyer.” Jacob whispers. Hands trembling slightly as he shakes his head.

“Please tell me you have a suspect.” 

Laz pauses, chewing on his cheek before he speaks. A hand comes to rest on Jacobs shoulder.

“We do have suspects. Laura at the Gas Station mentioned seeing her get into a red Austin allegro…based on that , I got a warrant for a room at the Loger motel. I have my fingers crossed it's a quick case.”

Jacob nods before turning his body to face the detectives. 

“Whoever did this…I would pay to see them hang. They don't deserve the air they breathe”

“I can do my best in accordance with the law. “ 

Laz says,  holding the smaller man's shoulder in a comforting grip. His eyes filled with silent sympathy.

“You saw her on my table. She was in agony "Jacob says before he wraps his arms around himself. Trembling as visions of Lucy's body on his embalming table filled his mind.

The rope marks around her blackened wrists. All of her fingernails and toenails missing, having been torn off. Throat cut so deep that she was nearly decapitated, blood all over ripped and muddy clothes. Her once hopeful and soft eyes warped with fear. 

Laz shivers at the thought, his own stomach churning at the visual once again. 

He couldn't help but feel lost. He never had seen Jacob cry at a funeral, never had to step away from an autopsy for a breather, and certainly never saw him vengeful, with hate and violence swimming in tear full eyes. The normally stoic mortician crumbling on the grass. 

“I know…he will get what's coming to him. I swear it to you. As a friend.” he promises, dropping to sit down at the man’s side then yanking him against his chest. Strong arms wrapping around Jacobs body. After a moment the mortician's shaky hands come up to coil around his waist. Holding on as if he was going to fall into the open mouth of hell. 

“Please” Jacob whispers as he rests his forehead against the shoulder of Lazs jacket. His sobs fell silent as the mountains began to awaken, the sound of birds calling and trees shifting in the breeze, leaves tumbling to the earth.  

“When was the last time you slept?” Laz asks as he gets a better look at his friend's face, noting the dark circles and redness in his eyes. 

Jacob shakes his head and looks away. 

“ I think you can guess,” he whispers, his expression falling completely blank. As if a switch had been turned off, or he had run out of energy to cry. 

“Come on, I'll walk you home… you need time to lay down." Laz slowly clambers to his feet, pulling Jacob up with him. 

There was little resistance from the blond man as he was led away from the graveyard, stumbling as the exhaustion began to creep up on him. Eyes heavy as he ached for the warm embrace of his sofa. 

Laz keeps a hand on him, leading the young man like he was a zombie, eventually  reaching the Connors funeral home. Built in 1903 by Jacobs grandparents, it served as both the only mortuary in Rosewood, and the Connors family house. 

The old blue siding faded from wind and rain. The black shutters in need of some minor repairs and a fresh coat of paint. The old wooden front steps creaking loudly as the pair ascend  them. 

After a moment Jacob reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a rusted house key, inserting it into the brass lock, turning it with a loud clunk. The Black door whines as it swings open into the mudroom. 

Laz relinquishes his hold on his friend as they step inside, toeing off his boots as Jacob did the same. Leaving their shoes at the door the pair enters a spacious living room. The gray walls adorned with different crosses and pictures of saints. An ornate mirror sits over a large brick fireplace, full of the ashes of last night's fire. In the center of the room is an old couch, its once bright red color faded by time and use. A white knit blanket is draped over one arm and an old pillow, likely dragged downstairs by Jacob, sits crumbled at the other end.

A small table sits in front of the sofa. A frayed bible lay open on the surface. Laz sighs as he notes the familiar surroundings, before turning to Jacob. 

“Why don't you go get changed into something comfy and take a nap. I'll draw the curtains” he says, attempting to shoo the man into his room. After a long pause Jacob seems to register the taller man's words. Turning slowly he stumbles towards the set of stairs at the far end of the room. Holding onto the old banister he makes his way to the master bedroom. 

Meanwhile Laz walks to the large living room window, taking a moment to stare out. The home has a great view of all of Rosewood. He can see the church Jacob attends  each Sunday, despite the difference in faith. He can see his highschool, the police department. All of the small businesses and restaurants that line the main street. 

With a sigh he grabs hold of the black curtains and yanks them shut, some light still managing to shine through, but it seemed to dim as clouds rolled into the valley.

Turning around, Laz watches as Jacob trudges back downstairs, no longer in his mourning clothes and instead dressed in a pair of black shorts and a tee shirt. His hair askew from running his hands through it. 

The detective sighs and nods offering a soft smile as the man gravitates towards the sofa. Wordlessly flopping back into the cushions with a loud huff. The couch groans under the sudden weight. Laz leans against the back as he watches the mortician shove his face into the pillow and wrestle with the old quilt, eventually pulling it over himself. 

“Get some sleep, if you need anything, call the station and if i'm not there then call my house.” Laz instructs watching his friend fight sleep. 

“I will…you going to check that warrant tonight?”

“Yep, and I will call you if I get him.. You will know before the papers ” he smirks and pulls at the brim of his hat, earning himself a smile from Jacob's lips. 

As he walks to the door to slide his boots back on, he turns. The mortician calls out, his voice drawing slowly.

“Don't do anything stupid Laz…i'll kill ya” 

The detective smiles and shakes his head. Turning the door handle as he steps out,  calling back before the door latches behind him.

“I know”

[rosewood-mountain]

Update coming soon!

Tune in for chapter 2.

Rosewood is dying to meet you.

[rosewood-mountain]

Rosewood Mountain has a playlist!

[shimmerfrog]

Laz and Jacob - characters drawn for Rosewood Mountain!! Im excited to see where the story and these characters go 💕

[rosewood-mountain]

Rosewood mountain

Chapter one

 Cries of agony shatter the peace of the early fall morning. For a few hours even the crows and owls fall silent. The vast and dense forest seems to listen in as tears began to decorate the crunchy grass of the graveyard. Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers all weep as a young woman, Lucy Jackson, aged 22, is lowered into her final resting place. Her headstone carved only days prior. The coffin is crafted with the wood from the mountain sides, a wreath of dried daisies and ivy sitting upon the coffin's lid. 

The service comes to a close as dirt and soil is shoved into the open grave. Her portrait sits by, a smile on thin pink lips, bright green eyes glimmering with potential, thick brown curls flowing along her shoulders, glimmering in the sunlight as if it was shining amber. Her face dusted with freckles. She leaves behind her mother, father, two brothers, and six close friends. All of them clinging to one another as part of their world is covered in earth. A life snuffed out too soon. 

By noon the crowds disperse, leaving only one person remaining. From the edge of the town graveyard a  man emerges from where he had stood. In the relative quiet and shade of an old oak tree. 

He is dressed in funeral attire. A black button up, worn and faded from use, dark slacks with a small tear on the ankle. Black dress shoes, dirty and scuffed from his time in the graveyard. 

His wavy blond hair falls past hazy blue eyes, chewed and chapped lips pulled tight as he ambles forward. His calloused hands reach into his pockets to pull forth an old rosarie, its gray beads and cross glimmering in the faded sunlight. 

His thumb rubs against the beads slowly as he kneels by the young woman's grave. Sniffling hard he holds back his tears and lets out a shaky sigh. His eyes read the stone over and over, hoping that somehow the name would change. 

“Lucy Jackson, Born January third 1960, died 1982. A loving sister and friend.” 

With a shutter, silent tears manage to slip past long eyelashes, down a soft and flushed cheek, falling to the dirt like the first drops of rain before a long storm. 

“Jacob?” a voice calls, deep and rough. 

The blond man's head whips up suddenly, a hand flying out to wipe the moisture from his eyes, to no avail. The dam had broken. His normally calm, almost blank face is warped with agony.  Lips pulling back in a snarl as his jaw clenched shut. Brows furrowed as he gripped at his rosarie tighter. His voice is caught in his chest as a taller man trudges over. 

The man wears an old brown leather coat over a black tee shirt, faded blue jeans covering his legs, a tear across one knee. A pair of brown boots cutting through the grass as he draws closer.  He has a sharp and angular face. his chin and neck covered in a five o clock shadow. A large hand reaches up to awkwardly  scratch at the stubble. Thick brows drawn close as he joins the other at the grave. 

Lowering himself down into a squat beside the blond man he takes a moment to glance at the headstone, reading it once over before sighing low. A tanned hand coming up to remove his brown leather Stetson hat. Holding it in a loose grip. Chestnut colored hair flutters about his face in the autumn breeze. 

“I dropped by your house, figured you would be here.” The man says, his voice hushed, only slightly louder than the breeze. His deep brown eyes locked with Jacobs, their intensity forcing the weeping man to avert his gaze to the ground. He tries to muster his voice back, sniffling loudly as he tries once again to calm himself. His face twisting as he forces a neutral expression. Despite this the tears continue to fall. 

“We saw each other a few days ago Laz…she got a scholarship, god she was so happy. She talked for an hour after the letter arrived. How she would get to move out of Rosewood. We could move out of Rosewood… she was going to become a lawyer.” Jacob whispers. Hands trembling slightly as he shakes his head.

“Please tell me you have a suspect.” 

Laz pauses, chewing on his cheek before he speaks. A hand comes to rest on Jacobs shoulder.

“We do have suspects. Laura at the Gas Station mentioned seeing her get into a red Austin allegro…based on that , I got a warrant for a room at the Loger motel. I have my fingers crossed it's a quick case.”

Jacob nods before turning his body to face the detectives. 

“Whoever did this…I would pay to see them hang. They don't deserve the air they breathe”

“I can do my best in accordance with the law. “ 

Laz says,  holding the smaller man's shoulder in a comforting grip. His eyes filled with silent sympathy.

“You saw her on my table. She was in agony "Jacob says before he wraps his arms around himself. Trembling as visions of Lucy's body on his embalming table filled his mind.

The rope marks around her blackened wrists. All of her fingernails and toenails missing, having been torn off. Throat cut so deep that she was nearly decapitated, blood all over ripped and muddy clothes. Her once hopeful and soft eyes warped with fear. 

Laz shivers at the thought, his own stomach churning at the visual once again. 

He couldn't help but feel lost. He never had seen Jacob cry at a funeral, never had to step away from an autopsy for a breather, and certainly never saw him vengeful, with hate and violence swimming in tear full eyes. The normally stoic mortician crumbling on the grass. 

“I know…he will get what's coming to him. I swear it to you. As a friend.” he promises, dropping to sit down at the man’s side then yanking him against his chest. Strong arms wrapping around Jacobs body. After a moment the mortician's shaky hands come up to coil around his waist. Holding on as if he was going to fall into the open mouth of hell. 

“Please” Jacob whispers as he rests his forehead against the shoulder of Lazs jacket. His sobs fell silent as the mountains began to awaken, the sound of birds calling and trees shifting in the breeze, leaves tumbling to the earth.  

“When was the last time you slept?” Laz asks as he gets a better look at his friend's face, noting the dark circles and redness in his eyes. 

Jacob shakes his head and looks away. 

“ I think you can guess,” he whispers, his expression falling completely blank. As if a switch had been turned off, or he had run out of energy to cry. 

“Come on, I'll walk you home… you need time to lay down." Laz slowly clambers to his feet, pulling Jacob up with him. 

There was little resistance from the blond man as he was led away from the graveyard, stumbling as the exhaustion began to creep up on him. Eyes heavy as he ached for the warm embrace of his sofa. 

Laz keeps a hand on him, leading the young man like he was a zombie, eventually  reaching the Connors funeral home. Built in 1903 by Jacobs grandparents, it served as both the only mortuary in Rosewood, and the Connors family house. 

The old blue siding faded from wind and rain. The black shutters in need of some minor repairs and a fresh coat of paint. The old wooden front steps creaking loudly as the pair ascend  them. 

After a moment Jacob reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a rusted house key, inserting it into the brass lock, turning it with a loud clunk. The Black door whines as it swings open into the mudroom. 

Laz relinquishes his hold on his friend as they step inside, toeing off his boots as Jacob did the same. Leaving their shoes at the door the pair enters a spacious living room. The gray walls adorned with different crosses and pictures of saints. An ornate mirror sits over a large brick fireplace, full of the ashes of last night's fire. In the center of the room is an old couch, its once bright red color faded by time and use. A white knit blanket is draped over one arm and an old pillow, likely dragged downstairs by Jacob, sits crumbled at the other end.

A small table sits in front of the sofa. A frayed bible lay open on the surface. Laz sighs as he notes the familiar surroundings, before turning to Jacob. 

“Why don't you go get changed into something comfy and take a nap. I'll draw the curtains” he says, attempting to shoo the man into his room. After a long pause Jacob seems to register the taller man's words. Turning slowly he stumbles towards the set of stairs at the far end of the room. Holding onto the old banister he makes his way to the master bedroom. 

Meanwhile Laz walks to the large living room window, taking a moment to stare out. The home has a great view of all of Rosewood. He can see the church Jacob attends  each Sunday, despite the difference in faith. He can see his highschool, the police department. All of the small businesses and restaurants that line the main street. 

With a sigh he grabs hold of the black curtains and yanks them shut, some light still managing to shine through, but it seemed to dim as clouds rolled into the valley.

Turning around, Laz watches as Jacob trudges back downstairs, no longer in his mourning clothes and instead dressed in a pair of black shorts and a tee shirt. His hair askew from running his hands through it. 

The detective sighs and nods offering a soft smile as the man gravitates towards the sofa. Wordlessly flopping back into the cushions with a loud huff. The couch groans under the sudden weight. Laz leans against the back as he watches the mortician shove his face into the pillow and wrestle with the old quilt, eventually pulling it over himself. 

“Get some sleep, if you need anything, call the station and if i'm not there then call my house.” Laz instructs watching his friend fight sleep. 

“I will…you going to check that warrant tonight?”

“Yep, and I will call you if I get him.. You will know before the papers ” he smirks and pulls at the brim of his hat, earning himself a smile from Jacob's lips. 

As he walks to the door to slide his boots back on, he turns. The mortician calls out, his voice drawing slowly.

“Don't do anything stupid Laz…i'll kill ya” 

The detective smiles and shakes his head. Turning the door handle as he steps out,  calling back before the door latches behind him.

“I know”

[rosewood-mountain]

Rosewood Mountain

When a serial killer strikes in Rosewood, a small town in the middle of the Appalachian mountains, Laz Desman is assigned the gruesome case. But when the detective is added to the list of victims, things get more complicated for the town. Especially given that he is still walking the moral world. Now with the help of Rosewoods only mortician, Jacob Connors. Laz must now solve his own murder before someone else is forced to shuffle the world of the living.

This blog is dedicated to My WIP Novel, Rosewood Mountain. I hope to post weekly/biweekly updates and Character info here while I work on this project. Consider joining me for the ride!

Rosewood is dying to meet you.