Mystique Isle is the kind of place a hunter could have a field day about. It’s got disappearances, it’s got strange sightings, it’s got mysterious deaths, hell, even some of the records insist the place was off the coast of South Carolina, and others say it’s off the coast of Rhode Island and some even claim it to be off of Maine, closer to Canada then the states, really.
And within the deaths, the missing people, all of that had happened and had been happening for years. Almost as soon as people settled there kind of time, there have been these insane reports. But in the most recent things, within the past five years or so, a face kept popping up in all the pictures.
Always in a lifeguarding shirt and swim trunks, arms crossed, hair in a short braid. Looking intently somewhere off camera, eyes narrowed.
And they’re there on the island, too. Sitting atop their stand is when they notice the pair first because they’re new and they don’t really. Look the beach type. But they hadn’t paid much mind. They were just finishing up and before they could interact Daniel had called them over to help gather the umbrellas off the beach and the two of them had ridden down the coastline to the other side to start the nightly chore. By the time you got back, whoever they were were gone.
They see one of them again at the grocery store, that night, just as they’re checking out, he’s coming in. They grab their bag, which doesn’t hold much in it, and slide out the door without saying a word. The guy had been talking to the store owner, and Sass wasn’t really interested in whatever conversation he was having.
They have the next day off and spend it in their normal way, which is lying around and watching tv. Nor a glamorous style, but their’s nonetheless.
They’re not an easy person to find. People seem to know who they are, some even know where they live but no one seems to want to spill. Or that they can’t spill, like something is stopping them from telling. They don’t even have a full name to go off of, just Sass. Is it a nickname? Anyone asked doesn’t seem to know that, either. It’s just what they go by. What they’ve always gone by.
It ends up, their house is a tiny, near shack like structure nestled right between two hotels, beach front. It’s one story, and the windows are open, and there’s music playing from inside. They’d laid around all day, and had their energy at night, now. Like the kind of energy to be sitting up lowkey dancing to Tainted Love blaring so loud anyone outside can hear it through the open windows.
And then they hear the knock.
They hadn’t been expecting anyone, and they hadn’t ordered pizza, so this was strange. But they’ve dealt with a lot of strange. They go to the door and open it, looking out plainly. They look... No different then the pictures, really, though they’ve got a t-shirt and basketball shorts on, and their eyes are really, really sharp and bright blue. Their skin has some freckles, and it’s just between fair and tan. Right on the border. They have that look about them. An utterly exhausted look. But maybe that was evidenced well enough in all the pictures.
“What?” Their tone is. Odd. It doesn’t carry inflection. No tone to indicate how they’re feeling just. Flat.
