"I can hear 'em," Stag asserts, his eyes wide and pinned on the burned-out husk of an old transport storage warehouse that he and three of his friends are huddled outside of. His voice is purposefully lowered, and the expression he wears is grim. "...Cryin'. In pain, like. I'm... I'm not goin' in alone."
The three boys crowded around him—Peter Horvat, Lance Mackay, and Michael Stivers—look up to where Stag's eyes are in unison, and for about forty-five seconds, all the four of them do is stare. Only one of them can hear the moans and gasps that echo in the empty structure. For a handful of seconds, they're the low groans of a person doubled-over and aching. Then comes a sharp wail of sudden pain, so guttural it doesn't quite sound human. After that, it's the small, pitiful cries of a lonely, abandoned creature that can do nothing but call out in the vain hope that its missing companions might hear. On and on, over and over, in any sort of order, without any sense.
Lance breaks the silence first. "...Is it dangerous, you think?"
"It's a person," Stag says, not moving his eyes away from the window they're pinned on for even a second. "But I don't... I don't know. Could be. The ones that do this are more likely to get—"
"The ones that cry?" Peter interrupts unintentionally while he searches the face of the building with his eyes, straining to see any movement, to hear any whisper.
"The ones that're sufferin'."
Without another word Stag peels away from the group, flashlight in hand, grim determination on his face, and slinks over to the building as quietly as he can. Peter, Lance, and Michael scramble to follow, a few murmurs of surprise bouncing between them before Peter calls out in a forced whisper. "Woah, Jesus, hold on! We're comin'!" Stag is the first to place a foot beyond the threshold of the building, and the moment the sole of his sneaker comes in contact with the concrete floor, he jumps back so hard he nearly trips over his own feet. The sound that rips out from every half-patched window and busted door in the place is brief but impossibly shrill, and so utterly debilitating that Stag flinches as he claps both hands over his ears. The three are left to stumble back, holding their hands out as if to catch Stag, should he falter, as they question what he's hearing. What is it? What? What happened? What is it? Did it say something? Are you okay? What is it?
Stag rights himself, doing his best to shake off the sudden spike in anxiety as the shrieking dies back to total, deafening silence. Michael bends to snag the flashlight Stag had dropped onto the ground; Stag turns to take it as it’s offered out, and whispers to his friends. "They know we're in here.”
The next motion forward takes all of the strength in Stag’s body. He can feel every single part of it, distinct from itself and each other—lift foot, bend knee, lean body forward, lower foot, shift weight onto sole. Lift other foot, bend knee, lean forward again, lower foot, shift weight onto sole. Raise arm, twist wrist, turn head, focus eyes on doorway. Lift foot—like he’s an automaton, deliberate in its movement, forcing itself onward for the sake of reason, not emotion. His heart pounds, and he can both hear and feel it in his chest, his neck, his ears, his eyes. Peter, Lance, and Michael are chattering behind him, but he tunes them out, listening hard for any tiny scrape, any whisper, any indication of where the spirit in this place has holed themself up.
The three continue to point things out to each other behind him, making note of what seems to be an old, overturned desk and a splintered chair that goes with it, as well as the shell of a metal filing cabinet, its drawers entirely missing. As they carefully shuffle their way into a concrete stairwell, the boys all seem to notice the presence of blackened marks along the walls at the same time. Stag takes note somewhere in the back of his head but ultimately doesn’t pay them any mind, his head on a swivel as he leads them onward and up the stairs to the next level. The smears of black continue, getting worse as they step out into the open area at the top of the stairs one by one, each of them taking a silent moment to suss out the new space. To their right is an alcove with some crusty old furniture and the remains of what looks to have been, at one point, a small encampment for a homeless person or three. None of them can imagine that anyone has camped in this space for a very, very long time. Directly across from the mouth of the stairwell, about ten yards away, is a window. The very one Stag had been staring up into, from the ground outside. To the right of that, a pair of doorways with faded signs to indicate that these are (or were) restrooms. To the group’s left is a hallway lined with doors that remain closed on either side, and at the end of that hall is an open doorway: the room beyond is cast largely in shadow, with the only light inside coming through a window on the southern wall. From the angle the boys have they can’t see the window itself, only the light that flickers and flutters with the movement of the leaves half-covering it.
“I wonder what it sounds like,” Lance mutters.
“Wonder what it looks like,” Michael whispers back.
Peter shakes his head, makes a face, and replies: “I’m glad I don’t gotta see it. What if it’s like— Like a dead body?”
“Stag said it’s not.”
“He said they’re usually not,” Lance corrects, gesturing vaguely to the building they’re standing in. “He said they’re not all the same, and he ain’t seen this one yet.”
“So it could look like a dead body.”
“Well, I mean, his papaw ain’t a dead body.”
“Yeah but that’s his papaw,” Lance says, waving the thought off as he steps over toward the window just beside the restroom doors. He glances over into one of those closet-sized rooms and wrinkles his nose as his eyes graze over an old toilet, its seat broken and haphazardly set on top of the opening, with several hypodermic needles resting atop it. Their bright orange caps are littered across the floor, a few of them looking as though they’ve been smashed underfoot. “...Gross.”
“I bet it ain’t, anyway,” Michael denies, keeping his voice quiet.
Peter shivers visibly. “Good. I don’t wanna be in here if there’s a dead body, even if I can’t see it.”
“Is it even here anymore?” Michael asks, stepping over toward one of the dark, char-like marks on the nearest wall. “Stag?”
“Hey, Stag,” Lance calls out as softly as he can as he steps away from the window and turns to survey the room. He looks to what is now his left, where the alcove is, along with Peter and Michael. Then to his right, toward that long, dark hallway.
The three are met with a view of the back of Stag’s plaid flannel, and the shuddering of a flashlight’s beam as it’s gripped in his shaking hand. He steps forward, framed by the darkness of the doorway before him, that trembling spotlight mingling with the sunlight that dances on the floor of the room only a foot or so away. Silence hangs heavily, uncomfortably, anxiously in the space between those four living bodies right up until Stag’s nose breaks past the threshold, and his eyes flick to the furthest, darkest corner of that room.
A gift for my fiance that I drew a couple months back for Valentine’s Day. They’re two of our OC’s (his on the left, mine on the right) - side characters from a back-burner graphic novel concept + world-building project we’ve been sandboxing around in since high school.
Grogu is my favorite Star Wars character (Din is a close second) and Hazel has a knack for writing in Grogu’s voice. I always enjoy interact with her (or should I say, them, since sometimes it’s Grogu himself who answers!) 💚
