☠︎︎

CherryMorbid on AO3

[velvet-onyx]

Hi!

I’m writing a fanfic for Ticcy Toby it will have multiple chapters idk how many as I’m still in the process. I’m writing this for fun and based on my personal headcannons, also this is my first work so please don’t be hateful.

I’m posting on AO3 as well, here’s my profile if you want to check it out!!

Order of the Tall Man

(Toby x Reader)

Chapter one

Chapter two

[sourdrpeppersoda]

God I love this man

All credits go to @cocoacaos on TikTok

[velvet-onyx]

Order of the Tall Man

Chapter two: Midnight Mass

11:47 a.m

“Can you hurry up!” Nina shouted, “this is really fucking heavy” she added holding a white rope with both hands clearly struggling and out of breath.

“Shut up and stop yelling!” Jeff snapped through gritted teeth as he tried to tie the child hands with the other side of said rope. This was easier said then done, the rope was too thick for bondage and the kids hands were small— slipping out of it no matter how hard he tried.

“Fuck” Jeff cursed under his breath already sweating. “Jesus Christ, you’re useless.” Nina sneered, seeing him struggle. “Do it yourself or shut up!”

They were at the edge of the forest, the sent of dump moss filling the air around them, they were instructed to bring four kids that he left there. They were told the kids are neutralised and the only thing they had to do is change them into provided clothes and move them to the church. Easy enough right?

“Omg move! I’ll do it.” She dropped the end of the rope she was holding and shoved Jeff aside, ripping the other end from his hands and swifty tied it around the child hands.

She gave him a patronising look. “Wow, it was sooo hard” she mocked, rolling her eyes and moving onto the next kid.

“Fuck off and do the rest” Jeff hissed.

“Can you kids just stop fighting and do your jobs.” Said LJ, they could hear the annoyance in his voice. “You two are giving me a headache.” He was crouched near a small, deep hole, one of his long arms pulling the last of the dirt out. Then with the other arm he grabbed the kids old clothes and put them into it.

“How about you move your ass and help.” Jeff scoffed. The clown stoped abruptly and slowly stood up. “This surely wasn’t directed at me, was it, Jeffy?” He slowly turned to look at Jeff. “Tell me, have you forgotten where you stand in this church.” He’s looming over Jeff.

Nina breaks the tension with a huff. “I’m done.” She says wiping her forehead with a back of her hand. LJ glances at her— all the kids are tied and ready. He turns back to Jeff.

“I’ll let it go just this one time, disciple.” He says to Jeff, smile growing on his face, after a moment he turns to Nina.

“Good job, dear.” He pats her head. “Shall we go?” Question directed at no one as he’s already leading the kids out of the forest, rope in his hand.

“You really need to learn when to shut up” Nina chuckles covering up the hole LJ put the clothes in. Jeff was about to say something when the bell rung, they exchanged looks and quickly jog to catch up with LJ.

The town is empty, no living creatures in sight, like everyone suddenly moved out, leaving only the bones behind. The toll of church’s bell piercing through the empty shell of Briar Hallow as they move slowly on the main road. Jack leads, chanting under his breath, rope coiled and trailing like spine pulled from something alive. The sheep stumble after him, eyes empty.

“Did you hear?” Nina asked breaking the silence. “Apparently there was an old blog with videos and photos of him, you know, back from Wisconsin.” She lowers her voice a little. “Now get this, when Ben was scrubbing the threat he saw one photo with this location, like very close to this town!” After no reaction from Jeff she adds, “Ben said we need to be more careful.”

“I don’t care” Jeff rolls his eyes at her, “besides who’s going to believe in a photo like that when photoshop exists.” He says kicking a pebble, clearly bored of this conversation.

“Right, but you’re not hearing me.” She says a little frustrated. “If there’s a pic of him that means he’s more active” she rolls her shoulders, weight of the day catching up to her. “He’s watching us more than ever before.” She adds quietly.

“Ah i hate this fucking job” Jeff winced, hands deep in a pocket of his hoodie.

“I know that.” She says, her smile disappearing. “Don’t we all.” She adds then as she was about to make a joke to lighten the situation, she hears a quiet sound, a faint click.

“Wait.” she stops walking making Jeff stop as well. “Did you hear that?” She whispers her pointing finger on her mouth is a shushing manner. She turns her head, eyes sweeping the street carefully.

“I didn’t hear anything.” Jeff says, after a moment of silence as they scan the empty street. Closed drapes, lights out in every window, not a soul in sight.

“It was probably a rat.” Jeff adds and turns his back to her.

“Yea, probably.” She says not convinced. They start walking again.

They reach the church, the doors open without ceremony, swallowing sound and light. Inside the air is cold and smells faintly of metal and wax. Eyeless Jack waits near the entrance, arms crossed, expression unreadable even without the mask, his voice is flat.

“Took your sweet time.”

“Ohhh, don’t be mad,” LJ thrills happily, spinning the rope in his hand. “Look—i brought you five this time!” He presents the kids like gifts. Jack barely glanced at them. “Move them to the basement.”

Nina is practically skipping towards the stairs. “Race you,” she exclaims to Jeff, he ignores her and grabs the rope from LJ.

“By the way,” Jeff tries after a second, looking down, not daring to meet LJ eyes after the exchange in the forest. “What was the chanting for? You’ve never done that before.” Jeff asks. “Didn’t you realise?” LJ asks amused. “We were being watched, couldn’t help myself putting a little show.” He says laughing.

Meanwhile in the basement, in one of the rooms in the far end, Toby was sitting in an old leather chair in front of big wooden desk. The office was dim, lit only by a single desk lamp, papers stacked neatly.

“How’s everything?” Tim asked sitting opposite from Toby

“Stable.” Toby answered, then after seeing the look on Tim’s face he added, “Priest’s s-still barricaded at the edge of this shithole, Nina and J-Jeff should be back by now, they said it was five this t-time.” His shoulder jerked to the side.

“What about the newcomer” Tim asked playing with his car keys.

“What a-about her?” Toby asks, his brows furrowed, picking at a small scar on his finger.

“Describe her, is she trouble?” Tim asks annoyed. Toby looked of to the ceiling biting this nails. “Uh, p-probably not.” He answered with his thumb still in his mouth, “I don’t think-k she s-sleeps much. If n-nesesery wouldn’t take much to break her down.” His neck snapped to the side.

“Why is she here?” Tim is now fully annoyed at Toby’s luck of urgency.

“I dunno” Toby says shrugging his shoulders. Tims brows are pulled tight together “Then find out for fucksakes.”

“You want me t-to follow her around?” Toby chuckles at the thought. “Nah, I’ll p-pass.”

“That’s not an option for you, you’re a disciple, you do what you’re told.” Tims voice was cold.

”I’m not a f-fucking babysitter.” Toby let out a breathy chuckle, his voice raised.

“You are what i tell you to be!” Tims raised his voice, his hands on the desk. ”and starting today you’re a fucking babysitter.” He raises one hand and dismissed Toby out of his office. As Toby was about to open the door Tims voice filled the room again.

“Just one more thing.” He says making Toby turned his head. “If you decide she’s a threat to the church or to us,” his eyes were dark, locked on Toby. “Eliminate her immediately.”

“Understood.” Toby nodded, closing the door behind him.

You woke up early in the morning. Well more like you decided to leave bed early in the morning, you didn’t really sleep after what happened last night. You were too busy transforming your motel room into something straight out of true detective, your walls are covered in photos and snippets from newspapers, you printed back at your collage. Pages ripped out of your journal now pinned to the wall—short description of everyone you came in contact with—Eli, the waitress, the motel reception lady, Tobias, the clown, the children in white and lastly the woman and the man leading them to the church. Red string connecting the last four to a poorly drawn church. They were your age. A thought of you being in cult runs before your eyes. Why would they join? Will they be open to a quick chat about the church? No, probably not and to be frank, even if they would be, you were to afraid to approach them.

You step out of the room to breath some fresh morning air, the fog is laying low over the swamp, as you make your way over to the vending machine. You put a few coins in and click a button, after the machine gave you its last can of soda, you open it and light a cigarette looking at the motel, most of the curtains are drown with exception of room two and six, those probably empty. Your back is pressed lightly on the empty bulletin board as you smoke your nerves away and plan your next actions. The library would be a good place to start your investigation, maybe going by the main road to check if what you saw was real and if anything was left to prove that. The bud burned your fingers pulling you back to reality, with steady hands you throw the bud away and sip on your soda—heading back to your room to wash up and change into fresh clothes. You turn the water letting it fill the mint bathtub, the loud hum of the water calms you a little. You undress and get inside, your body relaxing under the warm pressure of water.

After changing into some black jeans and short sleeve T-shirt you grab your bag with the usual stuff in it—camera, journal, lighter and cigs but now you also grab a small makeup bag with rubber gloves and tape in them. For evidence, you thought to yourself but couldn’t help and felt very silly packing them. Closing the door and you turn the key twice locking it.

The motel office door creaked open as you stepped inside, the receptionist looked up from her crossword puzzle.

“Well, good morning, honey.”

“Morning.” You offered a polite smile. “I was wondering if there’s a library in town?” The woman’s pencil paused.

“There is.” The answer hanged there as you waited for her to continue—give you directions or something but the silence stretched and she just kept looking at you.

“I just need directions” you said picking at your nails. “Of course you do.” She smiled. Something about te way she said it made you break eye contact. She set the pencil down and leaned forward on the counter.

“Head up the Main Street. You’ll pass the butchers. Turn left, the library is on the other side of the street.”

You shifted awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“Mh.” You started towards the door. “Honey?” You turned, the receptionist was still smiling.

“Are you planing on staying?” You laughed nervously looking at her, the question cought you off guard. What possessed her to ask that? If you were planing on staying you’d rent an apartment or same thing, not a motel room.

“No.” You said, shaking your head, for some reason, that seemed to amuse her.

“I suppose you’re not.” She glanced toward the window overlooking the parking lot. Her gaze stoped and fixated on something, her smile dropped. You couldn’t see what she was looking at from where you stood. You left before you could think of a response.

The town library occupied a narrow brick building squeezed between a florist and a shuttered hardware store. Its faded sign hung slightly crocked above the door, the gold lettering worn pale by decades of Louisiana summers. The moment you stepped inside, the smell filled your lungs—old books, damp carpet and something floral beneath it like rose water. The sent lingered in the air as though someone had spilled a bottle years ago and the carpet swallowed the sent never letting it go from its fibbers. The library itself was small enough to cross in less than a minute. Tall shelves crowed the room, their dark wood scarred with scratches and stains. The carpet had ones been burgundy, now faded to muddy brown. Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, stirring the warm air. Behind the front desk sat an elderly woman in lavender cardigan. She didn’t greet you nor smile. She simply looked up from her book and fixed you with long, measuring stare over the rims of her glasses. Something in her expression reminded you of a crow perched on a fence post—old, inteligent and entirely unimpressed. You offered a polite smile approaching the desk, she didn’t return it.

“Can I help you?” She asked. The words sounded less like an offer and more like a challenge. You cleared your throat.

“I’m looking for local history records.” The woman closed her book carefully, marking the page with one finger.

“Are you.” Her eyes moved over you slowly like she was taking inventory. Shoulder bag, notebook, camera—everything about you screamed outsider. Something tightened around her mouth.

“You from the university?” You hesitated.

“How did you know that?” There was no point in lying to her. A low sound escaped her nose, not quite a laugh but close.

“Baby, you’ve got ‘college student’ written all over you, besides people talk here. A lot. They have nothing better to do.” You smiled despite the redness creeping up your cheeks. For a moment, her gaze drifted toward the windows. When she spoke again, her voice had softened.

“Whatever it is you looking for in this town…” she paused. “Be careful you don’t find it.”

The words settled heavily between you two. You waited for a smile—a joke. Anything to suggest she was messing with you, that she wasn’t serious. None came. Instead she stood, smoother her cardigan and pointed towards the archives.

“Local records are in the back.” Than she added, almost under her breath. “Some things ought to stay buried.” She opened her book and started reading again, when you turned your back to her heading for the archives, she followed you with her eyes then glanced out the window.

The archives occupied a single room at the back of the library. Dust lingered in the narrow shafts of sunlight filtering through high windows. Metal filing cabinets lined the walls beside shelves crowded with binders, newspaper boxes and decades of town records. The smell of old paper was stronger here, mingling with mildew. Everything seemed to be coated in a thin layer of neglect, not abandoned just untouched, as though nobody came back here unless they absolutely had to.

“Okay.” You signed and got to work.

The newspaper box groaned when you pulled it fro the shelf, dust bloomed into the air making you sneeze. Most of the articles were exactly what you’d expect from a town this small—church bake sales, local football team scores, property disputes, obituaries. Then a headline caught your eye, MISSING BOY FOUND SAFE, the article was dated June 2019. You frowned leaning closer. According to the report, twelve-year-old Samuel Greene had vanished for five days before being discovered wondering near Miller’s Creek. Authorities described him as unharmed. His family had asked for privacy. That should be the end of it, instead, you found yourself searching for another article, and another, and another. Each one told the same story. A missing child then a search concluded with miracle return—always alive and unharmed.

Something about it bothered you. At first you couldn’t quite put your finger on why. A missing kids being found alive was a miracle. A missing kid being found alive and completely unharmed was almost unheard of. This town seen it happen fifteen times in ten years. Fifteen. At what point miracles stop being miracles and they become a pattern? Your palms started to sweat, the newspapers seemed to get warmer to your touch. You shifted through another box of photographs until one slipped free from the stack. July 2019, the date was written neatly in the corner.

A church picnic. Parents stood gathered on the lawn in their Sunday best with the priest positioned proudly in the center. Everyone was smiling, kids ran through the grass, blurred by movement, a dog hung suspended mid jump, frozen forever in pursuit of a tennis ball. The photo felt alive, you could almost hear the laughter. Your eyes drifted across the crowd, then stopped. One child wasn’t laughing, he wasn’t running, he wasn’t looking at the dog or the camera operator or the adults around him. He stood near the edge of the frame, partially cut off as though he’d wondered into the picture by accident, starring directly into the lens. You frowned. The boys expression wasn’t sad nor frightened, wasn’t anything. A chill crept up your spine, setting the photograph on the table, you leaned closer. The face was familiar. Your gaze snapped toward the pile of newspaper clippings scattered on the table. Hands suddenly unsteady, you rifled through them until you found the article. Samuel Greene. Missing five days. Found alive. You placed the clipping beside the photo, the same boy stared at you from both. There was no doubt about it, same eyes, same nose, the same crooked cowlick in his hair and yet…

The article photo showed a child. The picnic photo showed something else. You couldn’t explain it but the boy in the picnic looked hollow somehow. As though someone had carefully reconstructed Samuel Greene from memory and gotten most of the details right. Most.

A cold sweat gathered at the back of your neck, you flipped the photograph over. A handwritten note covered the otherwise blank back, the black ink had faded slightly with age:

*You poor thing.

Sweet, mourning lamb.

There’s nothing you can do.

It’s already been done.*

Your stomach dropped, the room suddenly felt far too quiet. You pushed back from the table so quickly your chair scraped against the floor loudly. The sound echoed through the archives. Breathing hard, you looked toward the nearest window, at the ally beyond, a row of dumpsters. For a split second, you thought you saw someone crouched behind one of them, watching you. Then they were gone.

“What the fuck.” The words stuck in the air, you run your fingers through your hair. You look at the photo at the table, but this time the priest catches your attention. You haven’t seen him in town.

“What’s happening in there?” You hear the librarian yell out.

“Em, nothing ma’am!” You say breathless. “It’s just—i thought i saw a spider!” You yell out to the front, quickly cleaning up the desk and putting everything back in place. You hurried out not looking back.

“Im sorry.” You silently say as you pass the front desk and make your way to the front door. Ones outside you crouch next to the florist and with shaking fingers you lit a cigarette, your cheeks hallowing as you pull on the stick. With your other hand you pull out your phone, smoke curling around the screen.

The priests name takes longer to find than it should, that alone tells you something’s wrong. You cross reference old parish records, archived town newsletters, anything with a letterhead that hasn’t been scrubbed clean. The churches website is defunct, frozen in time like a digital corpse. Cached pages talk about bake sales, food relief, community dinners. Pictures of smiling people who look healthier than they should for a town than feels like its rotting from the inside out. Then you find him. Father Elijah Moreau. Late fifties when he arrived, outsider, educated and loved by town. Articles praise his generosity, his long sermons about unity and watchfulness, about “protecting the soul of the community.” He attended every single one of numerous search parties for the missing children. Then the tone shifts—sudden illness, extended leave, privacy requested. No obituary, no farewell, just gone. You dig deeper and finally pull an address—on the far, far edge of town, past where the roads stop pretending they’re meant for cars. Deep in the woods, isolated. You write everything down in your journal. Name, address, dates. Margins filled with questions and arrows and underlined words. Whatever happened to him wasn’t natural. People like that don't just disappear, they don’t isolate themselves without saying goodbye.

You stood up crushing the bud under your heel. You make a mental note to pay Father Elijah a visit. If anyone could explain the strange pattern of missing children, the church seemed like the obvious place to start. Sliding your phone into your back pocket, you crossed the street, into the ally where you thought you’d seen someone moments earlier. You check behind the dumpsters and find no one, no footprints, no movement. No figure hiding behind the rusted metal bins. You let out a long breath.

“Shit.” Maybe it was the heat messing with your vision. The Louisiana sun hung low and merciless above the town, turning the air thick enough to drink, on top of that you haven’t eaten anything today. As if on cue, your stomach growled. The diner suddenly sounded like the best idea you’d had all day. But first you decided to walk along the Main Street, the one going from the forest to the church at the edge of town, cutting straight through it.

You walled by the dump ally way you’ve hidden that night, cold sweat dripped down your spine. It’s scary to think what could’ve happened if they saw you, if you stayed longer to see more, to hear more, what would’ve been the consequences. You shake your head—it doesn’t matter now you’re here and you’ll get to the bottom of this. You keep going down the road, heading for the forest—direction of where they came from that night. You find yourself at the foot of a forest. Sun hanging low, piercing through tree crowns making it look magical and way less threatening. You take a deep breath in, smelling the forest—damp and warm. As you walk through, pine needles muffled your footsteps but every snapped twig sounded impossibly loud, somewhere overhead a crow called once before everything fell silent. Suddenly you heard something, the undergrowth rustled in front of you.

“Hello?” You called out weakly, taking a small step back. Suddenly a white tailed deer jumps out so close to you, you could reach it, startled you tripped on uneven ground. When the deer noticed you it stoped mid step and froze. For a moment you both just looked at each other. Big, brown, round eyes stared deep into your face. It was small and wounded, a small hole in its back leg. Blood driping in one small line down. Then a loud gun shot pierced the warm air. Startled the deer ran beside you into the forest. Breathing hard, you started to look around. In front of you, under the heel of your shoe was a small patch of moss, it looked very out of place. It folded on one side under your fall, there was something peeking out of the freshly dug dirt. You reached for it when there was a loud sound of something hitting the tree, very close to you. Looking up you saw a hatchet stuck in a tree above your head.

“Fuck,” you gasped, with sweaty hands you pulled ant the fabric sticking out of the dirt. It was a small, dark green T-shirt, you could see a faint print on the front. A small, smiling dinosaur stared back at you. It was a child’s shirt. As you took your camera out there was another sound. Second hatchet landed near you, this one very close to your foot, next to the hole. Quickly and took two blurry photos—one of the tree and one of the hole. You made the decision of leaving whatever it was and ran for the road, you’ll check it out later. You need to prioritize your safety.

Ones on the road, you put your hands to your knees breathing heavily, when you straightened up, your vision blurred. The heat was really getting to you now, you need to eat something fast. You turn on your heel and head for the diner. It became your safe place, an oasis. As you approached it, you saw Eli standing at the back, a phone pressed between his shoulder and ear. He caught sight of you and offered a small wave, you waved back.

Inside, the ceiling fans hummed softly overhead, cold air washed over your skin bringing you slight relief. You slid into the same booth as yesterday and ordered an iced coffee alongside a plate of fried catfish and hush puppies. Comfort food—at least, that was what the waitress had called it. While you waited, you opened your journal and began scribbling questions you want to ask the priest. You wrote three when the waitress brought you your order.

You were halfway through your meal when the booth across from you creaked, you looked up and froze. The boy from yesterday sat opposite of you. Yellow tinted googles rested on top of his head, a black bandana covered the lower half of his face. Up close, his eyes looked darker than you remembered. For a moment neither of you spoke.

“Hi.” He said finally, you snapped your journal shut, the sound echoed loud through the diner. He glanced at it, then back at you. He smiled, you could tell from the little wrinkles that formed around his eyes.

“Hi?” You said quietly after a moment, eyes wide and your face stuffed with food. His eyes narrowed slightly like he was reconsidering this entire interaction.

“Y-you’re new h-here, right?” He said, the words coming out unevenly, tripping over themselves. “Figured I-I’d introduce my-myself” he leaned back, casual.

“Toby Rogers.” You just stare at him. “Well…” he pressed irritation creeping onto his voice, after another silence from your end he added, “What’s y-yours?”

“What?” You asked completely baffled by this situation.

“What’s your name?” He repeated, chuckling.

“Oh—“ you blink, “Y/N” you said after a moment.

“Pretty name.” He said, the words slipped out so naturally it took both of you a second to process them.

“Thank you.” You let out a little chuckle, red creeping up your cheeks. Across the table Toby went completely still, like he’d accidentally stepped on a landmine. He looked away, clearing his throat and adjusted the bandana with one hand.

“S-so…” he said leaning forward, his fingers drumming on the table. “What are y-you doing in this shithole?” Your eyes flicker up to his, you take a moment before you answer. He looks beat up, beside his face which you can’t see much of anyway, but his arms, hands and fingers. Theyre long and slim, each of them has a plaster on it. Faint, little scars decorating his knuckles and arms. His deep brown eyes look at you waiting. You look at the lower half of his face, at the bandana. His head suddenly snaps to the left exposing a bit of his neck, there you can see more faint scars, bigger then ones on his hands.

“Research,” you muttered finally, he tilts his head. His eyes are big and curious with deep eye bags, he reminds you of a deer or a tired puppy.

“Uh-huh,” he eyes your journal. “On what?” Your fingers tighten around it. If he’s part of the church it would be better to keep quiet, but there’s something about him. He looks just as miserable as you.

“This town,” you said, “It’s…history.” He straightens up, something in his eyes changed. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, shoulder hitching a bit.

“Y-you picked the wrong place,” he said lightly, “we don’t h-have much of that.” You snorted before you can stop yourself. “That’s funny, because everyone I’ve talked to acts like they’re guarding something.” Not to mention the ‘parade’ you saw last night. Could he be that oblivious or is he a part of it— whatever it is. You can see amusement flickering in his eyes.

“That’s j-just how p-people are here,” he said

“And yet,” you said, gesturing vaguely around you, “here you are, talking to me.” That makes him shrug.

“I like t-to know who’s w-wandering around my t-town.”he said, there’s a hint of possessiveness in his voice which surprised you. He’s so full of himself you starting to grow annoyed by his demeanour.

“What happened to your face?” You asked a little irritated, he blinks then huff a quiet laugh.

“That’s a hell of a question to a-ask a stranger.” You winced, your brows furrowed. He’s right, what possessed you to ask that? You feel goosebumps creeping up your neck, suddenly feeling a little shy.

“Sorry, occupational hazard.” You said embarrassed, looking at your hands.

“Which is?” Toby pressed. You hesitate just a bit too long. “Observation.” It’s not a complete lie, he smiles behind the bandana.

The waitress puts a coffee and something wrapped in paper infront of him without being asked, she doesn’t acknowledge you at all, you raised an eyebrow.

“So,” he continues after she leaves, “you h-here alone?” This makes you laugh, sharp and sarcastic. “Like I’m gonna tell you that.” You said looking at him.

“Right.” his gaze never leaves your face. “S-so you’re alone and staying at the B-bayou Moon.” There a hint of challenge in his voice. His smile growing bugger seeing your reaction.

“How did you—“ your hands are starting to sweat, you lean back crossing your arms. “You following me or something.” He meets your gaze without flinching.

“Would you know if I was?” Your lips part slightly, suddenly your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been chewing at cotton. Silence stretches between you two, heavy. Was he following you? You would have noticed, right…

“Why?” You asked voice quiet so he doesn’t hear the shakiness in your voice.

“T-town’s not safe.” He’s face is blank.

“That’s what Eli said.” You said that more to yourself, his expression changes, jaw tightens, his hands go still on the table.

“Eli talks too much.” Toby mutters, looking over his shoulder towards the kitchen. Your eyes flicker with interest at his reaction, that awful, known thrill fills you.

“So what happens after dark?” You pressed, “people keep disappearing?”

“P-people who a-ask the wrong questions s-stop asking them.” He said. That made you smile. Hes horrible at masking his emotion, maybe that’s what the bandana is for.

“Well,” you said softly almost flirty, “good thing I’m talking to the right person, then.”

He stands abruptly, “Eat your food,” he hissed, “And s-stop sticking y-your nose where i-it doesn’t belong.” You look up at him deciding to push him just a little more, use the fact you clearly have an upper hand right now.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He pauses. “W-what question.”

“Why did you decide to talk to me.” He looked at you for a second, then whispered. “S-sometimes lost s-souls need guidance.” Your smile softens, something almost grateful filling your eyes.

“Guess you’re stuck with me than, Rogers.” You said with the biggest smile on your face. His neck jerks to the side as he bends down to face you, he’s so close you can see small golden dots in his eyes. “Careful who you trust,” he said looking straight into your eyes, “salt and sugar look the same.” He doesn’t wait for your response, he just turns and without looking back storms out of the diner.

The second the bell above the door stops its wring your hands start shaking. Not a little—full on, fingers trembling like you’ve just stepped out of freezing water. You wait until you can’t see him out of the diners window, until the diners noise rushes back in and pretends everything’s normal, then you allow your self to breath, slow—deep inhale and exhale.

“Holy shit.” You whispered.

You don’t even finish your coffee, your hands launch for the journal so fast you nearly knock the mug over and start writing like the words might escape if you don’t pin them down.

Toby Rogers.

-local

-known by staff/ familiar with Eli (some disapproval?)

-why the bandana?

You flip the page and keep going.

-possibly hiding facial scaring/ scars on hands, arms and neck

-twiching in shoulders, jaw and neck

-slight vocal hitch/ stutters under stress?—Tourette’s?

Your pen pauses, why are you writing so much about him? You stare at the page, annoyed with yourself, then scribble a defensive note in the margin.

Part of the cult hierarchy?— justified observation.

Yeah, that’s it. Justified. He’s involved, has to be. Anyone that’s comfortable here is. Studying him is the same as studying the cult. Totally professional. You pack up fast and head back to the motel, mind buzzing so loudly it’s hard to hear your own footsteps. Ones inside, you spread everything out across the bed—notes from the diner, the shops, notes from the people who went silent when you asked the wrong thing. A pattern emerges in the absences.

No one names anything. No one denies anything. They just… don’t engage.

Briar Hallow isn’t hiding out of fear. It’s wired like this. It’s practiced. Like all the people here are running on a script. Like actors on stage, interacting only when you trigger the right lines. By the time you finish organising, your eyes burn and your head feels too full.

You open your laptop, your thesis looks back at you. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, eyes scanning the pages in front of you, after a minute you start to type:

*Chapter I. Can someone be guilty of terrible things if they were never taught another way to live?*

*This question lies at the centre of every discussion concerning coercive religious groups and high control communities. While criminal responsibility traditionally assumes the existence of free will and informed moral judgment, individuals raised within closed ideological systems often develop under conditions where alternative ethical frameworks are inaccessible. Their beliefs, values and perception of right and wrong are not freely chosen but systematically constructed by those in position of authority.*

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, your eyes glued to the photo you took that night—the two young figures walking behind the kids. Were they raised in this group? You scan over the poor kids, their hands griping onto the white rope, rage fills you, static going through your hands, you start typing again.

*This raises a fundamental dilemma: at what point does indoctrination cease to explain harmful behaviour and personal responsibility begin? Can an individual be considered morally culpable for actions they genuinely believe are righteous, necessary or divinely ordained? More importantly, is redemption possible without first recognising that one has been manipulated? Rather than viewing members of destructive cults solely as perpetrators or victims, this thesis argues that these identities frequently coexist. Understanding that duality is essential to understanding how ordinary people become willing participants in extraordinary acts of violence.*

A sudden memory fills your vision—sad, brown eyes, scarred hands and an answer: “Sometimes lost souls need guidance.” Burnout crashes into you all at ones—heavy and disorienting. You grab your cigarettes and step outside for some air. The sun is slowly starting to hide behind the motel reception. The swamp smells stronger at night—damp, sweet and rotting. You can’t let yourself get lost in your own believes.

“Just observation.” A remainder that you can’t get to close. You lit your cigarette, fire from the lighter illuminating your face for a second before you take a slow and deep drag, letting the smoke blur your vision. It was so quiet, your eyes scanning the almost empty parking lot. Then your eyes stoped on the bulletin board— it was almost empty, just one poster hung, one corner falling and moving with the soft wind. You walk closer, they took off the missing posers already? Ones you came closer, you took another drag of your cigg and with one finger held up the falling corner. In bold black letters you read the page.

MIDNIGHT MASS TONIGHT FOR THOSE LOST AND FOR THOSE SEARCHING.

You felt that familiar thrill filling you. This is just perfect, if you go you could observe their behaviour, what they’re feeding towns people and who even attends masses at a church like this. You’re going and you’ll document as much of it as you can. You have half an hour to prepare.

As you were about to head towards your room, the motel receptionist stepped out of the office, jingling a ring of keys in one hand. Gone was the faded blue shirt shed worn that morning. Instead, she was dressed in a pale yellow sundress that brushed her calves, a pair of white heels clicking softly against the cracked pavement. Her silver hair had been pinned into a careful bun, not a strand out of place. She caught you looking.

“Evening, honey.” You smiled, you started to like the pet names.

“You look very pretty ma’am,” she smiled “heading somewhere?” You asked, though you already new the answer.

“The service.” She looked towards the church. She said it as naturally as if she’d told you she was going grocery shopping. Your gaze drifted to the church bulletin still fluttering in the breeze.

“So.. everyone goes?” You asked looking back at her. “Almost everyone” she smiled.

“Is it a special occasion?” Her smile lingered, though something behind it faltered.

“They’re all special.” You frowned. “I’ve never heard of a church holding services at midnight.” You pushed.

“No.” She adjusted the strap of her purse. “Most don’t.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The cicadas buzzed somewhere beyond the tree line. You cleared your throat, nervously playing with the cigarette in your hand.

“I was thinking of going.” You said looking at her. The woman’s expression changed so subtly you almost missed it. She looked at you for a long moment before sighing. “You remind me of someone.” She said softly.

“Who?” There was a long pause. “My daughter.” You could see the sadness in her face. Your chest tightened.

“Does she still live here?” The woman looked towards the swamp and the forest beyond, then slowly toward the church. Steeple rising above the pines.

“…No” she didn’t elaborate and you felt it would be indecent to push her on this clearly sensitive topic. She stepped closer and reached out, gently brushing an invisible speck of dust from your shoulder. The gesture was almost motherly, then something shifted. It was so subtle you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it. Her smile faltered, the corners of her mouth trembled. Her eyes…changed. The distant, polite warmth you’d grown used to vanished, replaced by something raw, almost terrified. She took a tiny step towards you.

“Don’t go.” The words barely rose above a whisper. You frowned, your hands starting to sweat. “What?” You asked, voice shaking a little.

Her breathing hitched. For a second, she looked like someone trying to remember her own name. “Please…” she whispered. “Just leave.” Your pulse quickened, she blinked—once, twice. Whatever had surfaced behind her eyes disappeared as suddenly as it had come. The smile returned, perfect and practised, as though it never left.

“Sleep well, honey.”

She walked past you without another word, leaving the faint scent of amber perfume lingering in the humid evening air.

“What the fuck…” Your hands were shaking as you took another puff. “What the fuck is wrong with this place…” rocking from side to side you finished your cigarette and crushed the bud.

You go back to your room and locked the door twice. It feels different now, stuffy like it shrink itself. You grabbed your bag from the small table and emptied it onto the bed. Everything you own suddenly looked….inadequate. Notebook, pens, camera, voice recorder, spare batteries. You line everything up almost ritualistically. You grab your notebook and sit at the table. You open a fresh page and start writing.

MIDNIGHT MASS——> record sermon, note interaction between attendees, lay low. You underline the last part with a long sign. You check the battery in your camera and voice recorder. You move all the photos from the camera onto your laptop to free up as much storage as you could. You pack everything and sit on your bed, looking around the room. Nothing left to prepare. Anxiety hits you in big, suffocating waves. All you can do now is wait. You stand up and walk to the window, the church is visible in the distance like it’s mocking you. You see people begin walking towards it. Families, old couples, teenagers. Everyone dressed in their Sunday best. They look happy. Then you noticed that every single person walking toward the church is carrying….nothing. No bibles, no purses, empty hands. You frowned, glancing over to the bed. Your bag. You’ll be the odd one out, you look over to your notebook, your eyes darting over to the underlined sentence.

“Shit.” You said, and looked at the people again. What now? Your bag serves as protection but now it would do the opposite. If you go without it you’ll have no prof of whatever will happen inside the church but if you take it and someone notices it will most certainly cause you a lot of trouble. You take a deep breath, your hands brushing your hair.

“Ok.” You said under your breath, unpacking your bag. You put your phone in your front pocket of your pants, this should be enough. As much as you hate using your phone for stuff like this, you have no choice. You’ll record with your phone hidden in your pocket, that’s the safest option, and the best you can do right now. You glanced over at the bedside table, the clock on top of it read 11:45. With another sigh you straighten your blouse and grab the keys, heading outside.

You start walking towards the church, it felt like going to your execution. Your palms sweating, eyes roaming the people walking in front of you, your knees felt like jello.

“What am I doing?” You whispered hugging yourself, suddenly feeling very cold. You heard the dull chorus of cicadas hidden somewhere beyond the tree line. The church grew larger withe every step, its white steeple cutting through the dark sky like a needle. In front of you families drifted towards the entrance in slow, unhurried groups. Elderly couples walked hand in hand. Mothers adjusted the collars of sleepy children. Teenagers whispered to one another, suppressing laughter. No one looked frightened. Your fingers instinctively brushed against the outline of your phone hidden in your pocked. The recording app was already running. You swallowed, a little girl skipped past you, no older than eight, clutching her father’s hand. She looked up at you and smiled, then her smile faded, her head tilted ever do slightly. She opened her mouth to say something to you but before any sound left her her father gently tugged their froward.

“Don’t stare,” He murmured. “Im sorry,” he called over his shoulder with an apologetic smile. “She’s shy.”

You watched them disappear through the church doors. The little girl never looked back. The heavy oak doors stood open, warm candlelight spilling onto the church steps.

You paused at the threshold. The building seemed smaller from the outside. Inside, it swallowed people. But the first thing you noticed wasn’t the crowd, it was the smell. Malted candle was, old wood and lily incense, sweet enough to make your stomach turn. Beneath it lingered the unmistakable scent of damp stone and aging hymn books. You stepped inside, the floorboards groaned softly beneath your shoes. Nobody looked at you or at least, that’s what it felt like. Conversations continued in hushed voices. Elderly woman embraced one another. Children fidgeted in stiff Sunday clothes while exhausted parents smoothed their hair back into place. Somewhere near the front, someone sneezed. It could have been any church in America. You felt a little embarrassed for expecting robes, masks and something sinister. Instead you found ordinary people.

The motel reception lady caught your eye first. She was chatting with another lady in the front row. A few pews behind sat the librarian, hands folded neatly on her lap, her face unreadable as ever. Near one of the stained glass windows stood the waitress from the diner, laughing quietly at something an older man has said before crossing herself. You searched the room almost instinctively.

No Eli.

For some reason that made your breathing slow a bit. You were glad he wasn’t there. He’d been the first genuinely kind person you’d met here, thank god he wasn’t participating in this. But you couldn’t help and feel a little sting in your heart, seeing one familiar face might have made this feel a little less like a horror movie. Your eyes landed on the altar, then you saw them. The man and the woman. The same two who had walked behind the line of children that night. They stood on either side of the altar, perfectly still. Watching the room. They both wore all black, neither of them smiled nor spoke. Yet somehow they seemed more out of place than anyone else. You lowered your head slightly and stood behind the very last pew.

From here you could see everyone, your fingers brushed against your pocket. The recording on your phone still running. You rested your hands at your sides and forced yourself to breathe normally. The church bell tolled once, the chatter stoped instantly. It was as though someone had reached into the room and switched the sound off. The silence was so complete you could hear the candle flame crackle. Then you heard footsteps, measured, unhurried. Someone was coming.

The footsteps echoed against the wooden floorboards, each one impossibly loud in the stillness. A man emerged from the side door behind the altar.

He looked no older than forty. Dark hair combed neatly away from his face, sleeves of his black button up rolled just bellow his elbows despite the late hour. A simple white clerical collar rested against his throat. No robes, no golden crosses, nothing extravagant. He looked normal, more than that—handsome.

Not in the polished, movie star kind of way, but the sort of face people trusted instinctively. The kind that belonged to a family doctor or the teacher everyone remembered years after graduation. His features were sharp without being severe, softened by a smile that reached his eyes with effortless ease. He stopped behind the pulpit, resting both hands against the worn oak. He didn’t speak, he just looked at the people, one by one. His gaze lingered on an elderly man in the front pew, accompanied by a small nod. The old man smiled back, shoulders relaxing. Then a young mother bounced a restless toddler on her hip. The preachers expression softened almost imperceptibly. The child stopped fussing.

It shouldn’t have impressed you yet somehow it did. Looking down at your phone to check the recording, you made a mental note: charismatic, exceptional eye contact, builds connection before speaking. You looked up again. His eyes met yours, only for a heartbeat, he smiled. The same warm smile he’d offered everyone else. No suspicion, no hostility. You hated how effected by this you were. He finally drew a slow breath.

“Good evening.” His voice carried effortlessly through the church, low and steady. Gentle enough that every person leaned in to hear him.

“I’ve missed you.” A murmur rippled through the pews. He folded his hands. “There are new faces among us tonight.” Your stomach tightened, you couldn’t tell if he meant you or if he always said that. His gaze drifted across the room without stopping.

“If that’s you…” he said with another small smile, “…you’re home now.” This made you shift your feet uncomfortably. You caught yourself wondering how many grieving people had walked through these doors desperate for someone to say exactly those words.

He let the silence linger. He locked eyes with an older man sitting in second row.

“You look tired.” He said looking at the man, a few quiet chuckles drifted through the pews. “I know.” He continued putting his hands up. “The world has a way of doing that.” He stepped away from the pulpit, hands loosely folded behind his back, walking slowly along the front of the altar.

“It tells you to work harder.” He took another step, looking at the people. “To pray harder.” He took another step.

“To be better.” His eyes swept across the congregation. “And when none of that is enough…” He stopped. “…it teaches you to blame yourselves.” You shifted slightly, everyone was still and silent, listening to his every word carefully.

“I’ve met people,” he continued softly, “who have spent years punishing themselves. They wear their grief like chains. They collect scars because pain is easier to carry than guilt. They cry out to a God who never answers.” A woman in the front row lowered her head, quietly wiping at her eyes.

“But tell me…” his voice dropped lower. “…how many times has your God answered?”

Silence. He looked around the room, genuinely waiting. An elderly man whispered, “…Never.”

The priest nodded as though the answer pained him. “I know.” He rested one hand against the wooden pew nearest him. “I know because I asked Him too.” You felt cold all of a sudden. That was so clever of him, he wasn’t speaking above them, he was speaking beside them. You looked down at your pocket.

“I begged.” He continued,

“I screamed.” This earned a couple of nods from the pews. “I waited.” There was a pause, as he looked at every and each person present. Then he added quietly.

“And He remained silent.” The room had become impossibly still. You glanced around, people were looking at him, hanging onto every word. Then his expression changed, not dramatically, just enough that warmth gave way to conviction.

“But silence…” he smiled, “…is not proof that no one is listening.” He took a small step.

“There is a God who listens.” Your stomach tightened.

“There is a God who does not ask you to earn His love. He does not ask you to bleed for His attention. He does not turn His face away from your suffering.” His eyes lifted toward the vaulted ceiling.

“He answers.” A soft murmur rolled through the church, his smile widened almost imperceptibly. “Yes, he answers.”

He turned towards the rows of people. “So tell me..” his gaze drifted lovingly across the congregation. “When your children disappeared…” several heads lowered.

“When your husbands died… When sickness hollowed your wives from the inside…” you heard a quiet sniffle near the pew you where standing, you saw the waitress with her eyes closed and her head lowered, wiping her nose.

“Who stayed beside you?” He asked, this time the congregation answered together.

“He did.” Not shouted but spoken almost tenderly. You felt goosebumps rise along your arms. The preacher allowed the words to settle. “Our God.” He said softly, the phrase hung in the air.

You looked around the room. At first, you expected to see blind devotion, something obvious, something you could point out and write down. Manipulation, mass delusion, fear based control, but what you saw was far worse. He’s giving them relief. The woman in the pew ahead of you had tears running down her face, but she was smiling. The old man beside her held his wife’s hand tightly, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The librarian sat perfectly still, eyes closed. For a brief moment you understood. Not believed but understood. This wasn’t how you imagined it. Nobody here looked forced, nobody looked afraid. They looked like people who had finally found somewhere to put their pain.

The priest returned to the pulpit. “I know what some of you have been told.” His voice softened. “That suffering makes you weak. That grief is something you should hide.” He took a pause. “That grief is something you should hide. That wounds you carry make you less worthy.” His fingers rested against the wooden surface.

“But I ask you…” he looked across the room. “Who taught you that?” There was a silence, no one moved.

“Who convinced you that your pain made you unclean?” His eyes moved over the congregation. “Was it God?” A few people shook their heads.

“It was people.” He looked down for a moment, as if saddened by the thought. “It was the world.” His expression hardened slightly.

“The world that takes and takes and takes…” His hand closed into a fist. “…and then tells you is was your fault.”

A woman near the front began crying, the priest noticed and stepped away from the pulpit.

“Mary.” He called out to her, the woman froze. You felt your attention snap towards her. She looked terrified, not of him but the sudden attention.

“Come here.” For a second she didn’t move. Then the people beside her gently encouraged her. A hand on her shoulder, a whispered reassurance. She slowly stood and walked toward the altar with shaking hands. He met her halfway and offered his hand. She took it.

“How long has it been.” His voice was soft and gentle. Her lips trembled. “Two days.”

A murmur passed through the church. Two days. You felt your fingers curl around your phone—still recording.

“My son…” her voice cracked. “I just want him back.” The room was silent, the preachers full attention was on this woman.

“I know.” He said his thumb gently caressing her knuckles. He looked genuinely heartbroken for her. Then he turned towards the congregation.

“Look at this mother.” You felt hairs on your arms slowly standing up, like they wanted to have a look themselves.

“Look at what the world has taken from her.” His hand gently squeezed hers. “She did everything right.” His voice lowered. “She prayed. She begged. She cried until she had no tears left.” The mother broke down and the congregation broke down with her. People began crying, whispering prayers, touching their necklaces, holding each other. The priest waited, then said

“And yet..” he looked toward the empty space beside the altar. “…she still believed.” The entire room leaned closer. “This is faith” his eyes lifted.

“Not believing because you have been given proof.” He looked at her, and gently with his thumb, he wiped her tears.

“Believing because you have suffered enough to understand what it means to hope.” Suddenly he lowers himself. Kneeling in frot of the mother, he took both of her trembling hands.

“Tell me his name.” the mother looks at him, new tears falling from her face.

“Andy.” She said quietly, he nodded then he turned to the congregation.

“Andy.” He let the name hung. “A child.” Another pause. “A son.” His gaze drifted across the room, then his eyes locked on you. “A lamb.” He said finally, his eyes still on you.

“Our God has never been afraid of the impassible.” He smiled, you felt a shiver going down your spine. You looked down, is he insinuating ‘his God’ can bring that child home? Ridiculous, there’s no god and he’s just feeding those poor people some made up crap for his benefit. You clenched your jaw at that thought. He’s very charming you can give him that, you did get a little touched by his way of speaking and handling this poor woman, but promising such a miracle is just cruel.

Nothing happens, the mother’s desperate cry fills the heavy air inside the church. Fifteen seconds go by and you relax. He was just bluffing. You could feel the pews growing a little frustrated by each second.

Then there was a loud knock, one heavy knock on the churches doors. The whole congregation freezes. Nobody turns around, except you, almost as if they’ve heard it before. Another knock fills the room, this time louder, you turn your head to look at the preacher only to find him already looking at you, hugging the mother who’s breathing became more ragged. He smiles, then turns his head to the woman standing on one side of the altar.

“Open the door.” He instructed her. She nodded and walked towards the doors. Your pulse is racing now. Every instinct tells you to run and not look back. There’s loud ringing in your ear as the doors creak open, moonlight spilling into the church, and standing there, barefoot, mud drying around his ankles is a child.

“Andy!” You can hear the mother scream out as she ran and hugged her son. “Thank you! Oh God thank you.” She cried frantically checking her son, then she looked back at the preacher, he smiled and opened his arms. She picked him up and slowly started walking back. As she walked through the church, people in the pews reached out to touch Andy. The congregation erupted with broken prayers and tears.

You just stood there watching, you saw him before, his face seemed familiar. Then it downed on you, your hands started shaking, your breath quickened as you put two and two together. He was one of the kids you saw that night, one of the kids gripping the white rope dressed in medical gown.

This wasn’t a miracle. It was staging. They’ve hidden him, probably drugged him and god knows what else.

Andy didn’t hug his mother back, his arms remained at his sides. The mother still crying, now kissing his face. Then his eyes slowly found yours. There was no emotion in his face, his eyes just as empty as that night. You took a step back startled, your back hit against the door.

Andy’s eyes were still locked on you as he raised his little hand and pointed directly at you. The room suddenly becoming too small, too loud. You felt like passing out, your vision becoming more blurry with every ragged breath.

Then, without a warning, an arm locked around your waist. Before you can gasp, another hand clamped firmly around your mouth, swallowing the scream in your throat. You were ripped backwards as the church spun. Your shoulder struck a heavy wooden doors, then your body lurched down the stone steps. Pain exploded through your hip as you hit the pavement, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. By the time you managed to look up, the sanctuary had already become a narrow strip of warm light between the closing doors. For a briefest instant something yellow caught the candlelight. A dull, amber glint. Then the doors slammed shut with a deep groan, swallowing the light. The hymns and cries continued on the other side, muffled now by thick oak. The mother’s sobs rose above the congregation before dissolving into a chorus of fractured prayers.

You stayed where you’ve fallen, chest raising and falling with each heavy breath, staring at the closed doors.

“What the fuck?”

[velvet-onyx]

The Order of the Tall Man

Summary: You came to Louisiana looking for a story. A forgotten town. A decaying church. A cult that worships something older than God. What you finds instead is a place where everyone knows more than they say, where the fog never seems to lift, and where a strange boy with yellow-tinted goggles keeps appearing wherever your investigation leads. The deeper you fall into the town’s secrets, the harder it becomes to separate truth from folklore, faith from fear, and curiosity from desire. Some places don’t want to be understood. Some want to be fed.

Characters: Ticcy Toby x Female Reader

Warnings: adult content, physical violence, blood, cults, eventual smut, religious trauma, idk what else I will add as I write this fic

(This will be multiple chapter fic I also post on AO3 so check it out there if you prefer)

Chapter One: Watcher in the pines

3:07 AM.

The dorm is quiet in the way buildings full of sleeping people ever are, strangely peaceful. You can hear your roommates quiet snoring, her lamp is off and her phone face down like it’s ashamed of how early it is. You haven’t moved from your desk since ten, your legs are numb, eyes burning and your coffee cold, long forgotten. You’ve been scrolling for forever, doing research. Your laptop fan hums loudly like it’s tired of you, thirty tabs open—academic journals, forum pages and archived threads that look like they haven’t been touched since Obama was in office. Every legitimate source dries up the same way—footnotes that go nowhere, references to “local myth”, “urban legend”, “ unsubstantiated claims”. A sigh escapes you, you should have picked something better do to with your time. So many papers to do and many exams to study for but you always ignore them until it’s too late. You hear your roommate shift in her bed.

You rub your eyes again. It’s starting to get very hard to make your eyes focus for more than five seconds. Another forum. Another username with too many numbers. Another post that starts with “its probably fake but—“ and then you see it.

ORDER OF THE TALL MAN

(Marked for deletion)

Your fingers still on the touchpad, that familiar, awful thrill fills you. The one that always hits when you know you’ve finally found something. The thread is old, seven years at least— the timestamps jump erratically, people kept coming back after long silences, leaving fragments behind. Most of the images are broken links. The text half-corrupted, post replying to things that aren’t there anymore. It’s looks scavenged. The first video takes forever to load. When it finally loads you let out a loud groan.

It’s blurry, shaky, filmed vertically, overall just awful to look at. You can see stretch of trees at night— tall pine, moss hanging like drowned hair, fog thick enough to blur the beam of flashlight into a dull white smear. There’s a sound, bearly auditable— coughing. Then camera jerks. For half a second, you think you can see a shape between the trees but the video cuts before you can decide what it is. The comment underneath are headache inducing.

That’s not him!

Idk i can’t see shit

How about we shake a little more the video is not blurry enough.

Delete this.

“Jesus” you sigh, you’re so tired of this bullshit. Why is it so hard to find concrete evidence of cult activity, I mean most of them are proud and loud about their believes. Your finger hovers over the touchpad, stiff and starting to hurt. You check the metadata, something your now sound asleep roommate thought you how to do. It’s not as hard as it’s sounds, actually it’s pretty easy. The location is scrambled but not enough, like whoever masked it got bored mid job. Coordinates flicker in and out when you cross-reference them with archived data.

Louisiana.

Not New Orleans proper, not the city everyone romanticises, but farther out. Swamp land, a nothing place, a dot on a map with one road in and one road out. You feel the exhaustion peel back replaced by something close to excitement. Finally something you can base your reaserch on. You scroll further and find another video. This one was filmed in daylight, white wooden church standing alone in a clearing, paint peeling, windows black. There’s no graveyard, no signage just structure. The camera zooms in on the doors, they’re open. The post attached to it is short, “Mortui vivos docent”.

“Of course” You scoff at the latin fraze, leaning back in your chair.

You’ve read countless pages about cults like this. Fragmented belief systems, borrowed mythologies, entities without dogma, only rituals. Those kind of cult that survive only because they silent enough not to be challenged. Choosing remote villages with sickness already rotting them to preach salvation.

You start saving everything, screenshots, the two videos, some articles and maps. The chat logs are harder to read, most of the usernames gone— deleted, banned or inactive. The survivors speak carefully, like they’re scarred of being overheard even now. One user—watcher_in_pines—uploaded a shitty poem with a photo attached.

“Normal is an illusion.

What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.

Which are you, sweet creature?

Pulvis et umbra sumus”

The photo is not dramatic if anything looks like a normal photo taken on a road trip. A stretch of swamp road at dusk, fog curling low over the asphalt. Trees pressing from both sides, in the distance, barely visible, a figure standing where the road bends. You have to squint your eyes to even notice, it’s too far to see details but the figure is too tall to ignore. You pull the image into a separate program and start stripping it down—contrast, saturation, layers anything to see the figure more clearly, but it dissolves the harder you push it, but the background sharpens. The tree line, angle of the road, crooked sigh half hidden by vines.

You recognise it. Not personally— academically. You’ve seen similar road layouts in floodplain studies. Old logging paths repurposed into country roads and then abandoned when the water reclaimed them. It takes you forty minutes and three different map overlays to confirm it. The photo was taken about three hours north of New Orleans.

Your thesis proposal is still open on another tab, untouched for weeks. Modern Cult Dynamics and Mythic Entity Worship in Isolated Communities. Your advisor had raised an eyebrow when you pitched it.

“You should narrow your scope. Focus on something more manageable.” This is manageable, it’s perfect. A break from the same four walls of your dorm would do you good, plus you really need to start writing your thesis. Your thoughts are interrupted by a buzz from your phone, you pull it’s out of your pocket, 2% battery warning. Finally you stand up from your desk, a little too fast as your vision blurs and stars dance behind your eyelids, you plug your phone in and open notes.

Tall Man Project.

You write everything you remember from the chat logs—dates, location, usernames and the connection between them all. You don’t write much, close to nothing. You jot down some questions so the note doesn’t look so empty.

Why Louisiana?

Who’s the Tall Man?

How many?

Who’s still there?

Why.

Somewhere between 4:00 am and 4:30 your computer goes dark. You stand up from your bed to check what happened, brushing your finger on the touch pad. The screen lits up then goes black again. “What?” you whisper as to not wake your roommate up. The forum goes dark then the page refreshes on it’s own, the thread disappears broken links turn into error messages. Every tab connected to it crashes at once, your stomach drops. For a moment, you just stare at your reflection in the black screen— pale, wide eyed, hair falling out of its bun like you’ve been pulling at it without noticing. Then your laptop reboots, everything you saved is still there including the last photo.

“Okay” you exhale slowly, hands shaking a little. You should stop, go to sleep and email your advisor in the morning, change your thesis to something else. But you don’t, instead you open your calendar and start planing a trip, field research, you tell yourself. Nothing dangerous just observation, just documentation.

After few days and many other assignments, your calendar finally cleared up. You made your way back from your last class to your dorm.

“Hey” your roommate greets you as you walk in. She’s glued to her laptop, typing something. You make your way to your small wardrobe and pull out a small suitcase. “Going home already?” She asked looking up from her work.

“Yeah not exactly, I already finished all my assignments and have some time before classes start.” You said already tired of this conversation. It’s not like you don’t like her—you do. It’s just that you’ve been living in a constant stress and lack of sleep for a good month now and she always asks too many questions. It irritates you, she reminds you of your mother.

“So vacation?” She’s looking at her laptop, typing again. “Something like that.” During this exchange you already packed most of your clothes moving on to your bag. Notebook first— the thick one with wrapped spine and pages swollen with writing. Pens, sticky tabs— you barely use them but always keep them close. Your laptop and charger wrapped tight, the digital camera you brought secondhand because you don’t want your phone anywhere near all of this. Two external hard drives gifted to you by your mother and books you half memorised— Cults Dynamics in Post-Industrial Communities, American Folk Belief and volume VI of current manga your reading— Embalmer by Motsukazu Mihara—something to read during late sleepless nights.

By the time you zip your bag the sky outside your dorm window is just starting to darken. You exchange quick goodbyes with your roommate. “Good luck with your paper!” She exclaims “you too” and with that you’re out the door, heading outside to the parking lot.

Three hours doesn’t feel like much on paper, in reality it stretches. The city thins out, buildings turn into trees and trees into walls of green so dense it feels like the road was craved through them by force. The air grows heavier the further north you go. Cell service drops to one bar then none and the gps keeps recalculating like it’s unsure you should be allowed to continue. You could really use a cigarette now but you made a promise to your mother not to smoke in this car and there’s no way you’re going to stop in the middle of unknown forest at this hour. Right on cue you see a gas station sign— sun bleached, sagging in the middle of nowhere, pumps rusted into place like they’ve been there for ages. One of the letters on the sign is missing and the windows are dark but the door’s open. You pull in, lighter already in hand. You get out of your car and instantly get hit with hot and sweet smelling air, you light one and note to buy more as there’s two cigs left in the pack. As you inhale the smoke and stretch your legs a bit, you take closer look at the gas station before you. It looks abandoned if not for a man sitting infront smoking, guessing that must be the worker by his blue uniform shirt, that—just like this gas station— had seen better days. He’s old with skin like dried leather and eyes that don’t blink often enough. The man throws away the bud and disappears inside, after two more drags you make your way inside as well. The bell above the door jingled when you step inside, sharp and loud. The place smells like oil and something sour. The man, now behind the counter looks up at you annoyed, like you interrupted something important.

“Evening” you say to which he grunts. You buy a bottle of water and a pack of blue Camels. As he rings you up, you clear your throat.

“I’m looking for a town nearby,” you say, casual, handing him the money. “ maybe you can point me in the right direction” his hand pauses on the register.

“What town.” He’s looking straight at you now.

“Briar Hallow” you answer quietly.

The reaction is immediate, he spits, not at you— but close enough that it splatters on the floor near your shoe. He looks you up and down, slow like he’d measuring how long you’d last if he told you.

“That place is evil” he says flatly, your stomach tightens, but you keep your face natural. “I heard it was quiet.”

He snorts. “Quiet don’t mean safe.” There’s a longer pause as he hands you your change. You wait him out. Finally, he sighs, tired— resigned like he’s done this before.

“Take the road east till the trees start leanin’ in,” he says. “You’ll pass houses that haven’t been lived in since before you were born. Don’t stop. When you see the diner, keep straight, town’s just past it.”

“Thank you.” You say. He doesn’t answer.

When you step back outside, the air feels thicker than before. Water in one hand and new pack of cigs in your back pocket you open your car door and get in, locking the doors out of habit, and pull back into the road.

The houses come first. Abounded, half-swallowed by vines, porches collapsing inward like broken ribs. Some still have furniture visible through the broken windows. A child’s bike rusting into the dirt. Wind chimes that still move, though barely any breeze. You keep going, the diner comes next just like he said. Low, wide, painted faded mint green that might have been cheerful once. Chrome trim dulled by age, a neon sign flickering unevenly like its on it’s last breath. EAT WELL— STAY A WHILE.

You remember the man’s words and keep driving. Briar Hallow announces itself without a sign. The road widens, shops appear— antique stores with almost nothing in the windows, a bait shop that you can smell the rot of even from a closed window car. A place selling candles and charms that looks more like a shrine than a business. The church stands at the edge of town, white wood stark against the trees, paint peeling like old scabs. Its doors are locked, bounded by old, rusty chain. The town looks like a normal small town, nothing scary or unsettling, its the people that make your hands tighten on the wheel. They stop when you pass— mid-step, mid-conversation. A woman holding grocery bags, a man leaning against a storefront, a teenager on a bike who puts one foot down and just watches. They all just watch you go by. Their faces blank, not hostile, not really curious, more like they assessing. Like they’re trying to decide what you are.

The motel is on the far end of town, squatting beside a stretch of swamp. It’s one story, u-shaped, pale yellow paint flaking away to reveal old wood beneath, each door has a small porch light, most of them dead. A flickering sign buzzes overhead.

BAYOU MOON MOTOR INN

Inside, the lobby is dim and cool. The woman at the desk smiles too quickly when she sees you. She couldn’t have been much younger than fifty, she had big, amber brown eyes set in a narrow, weather face, with fine wrinkles branching from their corners like river tributaries on a map. There was something oddly endearing about her appearance— the kind of face a child might draw from memory and get almost exactly right.

“Passing through?” She asks.

“research,” you say before you can stop yourself, blaming the sudden honesty on tiredness. Her smile falters for hal a second, then its back.

“Room seven’s open.” She says giving you a key.

The room smells like bleach and damp carpet. The bedspread is thin, patterned with flowers that have long since lost their colour. The window looks out over the swamp , the water doesn’t move. One small coffee table with a small vase, fake flower inside and even smaller nightstand with an old clock on it. The room is small, the bed is taking up almost all of it, opposite of the bed is a door. You open it, inside you see the bathroom, lit by one lightbulb hanging from the celling. Mint coloured sink with an almost plastic looking mirror above it, next to it a small bathtub also mint. You can see some hair left in its drain. You wash your hands and turn the light off and turn to the front door. You grab your small suitcase from the car and as you make your way back across the small parking lot you see bulletin board next to a vending machine. The board is filled, almost overflowing with posters. Intrested you take a closer look and notice that all of them are missing person posters, tens of them. You touch one with a photo of a little kid and it falls to the ground, you pick it up with the intension of putting it back on but as you straighten up, you see another missing poster behind it.

“Fucking hell” you murmur, it’s unsettling how many people went missing around this town. You take your digital camera from your bag and snap a pic. As you head back to your room you can see a curtain move in room five.

Inside your room you unpack all your clothes just to make you feel better, your sent taking up the room slowly. Hunger hits you all at one, sharp and dizzying. You check the time, late afternoon, you haven’t eaten since you left collage. You grab your notebook, cigs, camera and keys and put it all in your shoulder bag.

The diner’s neon sign hums when you push the door open. Inside, it’s exactly what it promised—vinyl booths, checkerboard floor, a counter lined with stools bolted into place decades ago. It smells like grease and coffee and something sweet underneath. A few people look up when you enter, they don’t stop staring until you slide into one of the booths. You choose one that’s most further out. You set your notebook on the table and look out the window you catch your reflection in the glass— tired eyes, jaw set too tigh. For the first time since you left campus, the thought lands heavy and real in your chest, what have you gotten yourself into? First field assignment, and you’re out here alone, completely alone. You can hear someone clearing their throat next to you.

The waiterss looks like she’s been tired longer than you’ve been alive. Mid forties, maybe. Hair piled up in a messy twist that’s given up on pretending to stay, a cigarette hangs from the corner of her mouth, ash too long. She doesn’t bother with a menu— just plants one hand on the table and looks you over.

“What’ll it be.” Her voice is rough, lived in, smokers rasp.

“Coffee,” you say. “And—uh—whatever’s good.”

She snorts. “That narrows it down.” She opens her mouth and starts to name a few things but you don’t hear a word coming out of her mouth, instead your attention is on the bell that hangs over the door. It rang—sharp and short—announcing a new costumer. You looked up out of habit but then couldn’t avert your eyes.

In walks a boy, around your age. Tall, lean in a way that looks earned rather than cultivated. Medium dark brown hair brushed the back of his neck, pushed away from his face by a pair of yellow-tinted goggles resting on top of his head. A black bandana obscured the lower half of his face, making him difficult to read. He wore a black hoodie beneath a washed-out jacket, faded jeans, black boots scuffed at the toes. Everything about him looked worn-in, as though he owned the same version of these clothes for years. Maybe it was the goggles or the bandana or maybe it was simply the fact that, since you arrived in town, everyone you’ve met had been old enough to ask whether you were eating enough vegetables and he look your age.

For the first time since crossing the city limits, you caught yourself wondering if this whole trip might not be as impossible as you convinced yourself it was. If he knows anything…. If he grew up here…

As though sensing it, he’s eyes shifted towards you, brown and steady. He looked at you the way locals look at unfamiliar cars parked outside familiar places—trying to figure out what they were doing there. You dropped your gaze second too late. He turned towards the counter. A big man behind it emerges from the kitchen wiping his hands on a grease-stained shirt. He’s massive. Hairy arms inked with tattoos that disappear into the sleeves, a net holds back his hair. He grins when he sees him.

“Tobias,” he booms. “Good to see you, man. The usual?” The name lands heavy in your chest. Tobias gives a single nod. No words.

The man duck back into the kitchen and returns quickly, handing him a brown paper bag folded tight at the top. Tobias takes it, tucks it under his arm. Before he leaves, he looks at you again, this time longer. Still no emotion, no expression, just slow, deliberate sweep—face, hands, notebook laying in front of you at the table. Then he turns and pushes the door open. The bell rings again, the sound lingers after he’s gone.

“Darlin’. ” you blink. The waitress snaps her fingers in front of your face, annoyed. “Did you listen to anything i said? ” you didn’t.

“Sorry, “ you mutter. “Um—eggs. And toast. Please.” She scribbles and moves away.

You force yourself to breathe, unclench your fingers from the edge of the table, you didn’t even realise you’ve been gripping. When she comes back with the coffee and food, you muster the most genuine small your tired body allowed you to and decide to try your luck.

“The guy who just left,” you say, casual, “he comes here a lot?” She sets the mug down a little harder than necessary.

“Eat your food.” She’s visibly annoyed by your question

“I’m just asking.” Her eyes flicker towards the door he disappeared through, then back at you.

“You ask too many questions for someone who just got to town.” You take a sip of your coffee, it’s bitter and a little burned.

“What about the town, then?” You try again. “Its…. Quieter than i expected.”

“That’s how we like it.” With that’s the conversation is over. She turns to leave, then pauses.

“You ain’t from here,” she adds, not a question. “Better remember that.” And with that she walks away.

You sit there alone with your coffee, horrible eggs and dry toast, the smell of grease and the hum of a ceiling fan. Outside, the swamp presses close, patient.

You open your notebook. You lose time the way people lose sleep—slowly and then all at once. The coffee keeps coming, you don’t remember the refills but the mug is never empty for long. The diner hums around you in low, repetitive motions: sizzle from the kitchen, the clinch of cutlery, the muted voices that never rise above a murmur. You’ve spread your things out across the table claiming the space—notebook open, printed screenshots weighted down by the camera. You read, underline, cross things out and write them again in different words. Outside the window, Briar Hallow moves at its own pace. A man sweeps the same patch of sidewalk twice, a woman exits a shop, pauses, looks at the road, then goes back inside. A truck passes, slow enough that you can see the drivers eyes flick towards the diner. The town exhales. You don’t notice when your notes stop being academic. Somewhere between page three and four of your journal, the margins fill with shapes instead of words. Long lines, angles, a familiar silhouette—tall, narrow shoulders, the suggestion of goggles pushed back on a head you dont quite draw the face of. You write his name without thinking. Tobias. You underline it once then again. Something about him pulls at you, recognition maybe, like you’ve brushed a thread and your fingers are itching to follow it. You need to know what he is to this place.

A heavy hand lands on your shoulder making you nearly jump out of your skin. You look up to see the man from the kitchen looming over you, expression puzzled rather than angry. Up close, he’s even bigger—broad shoulders, thick arms, grease stains still clinging to his shirt. His eyes tired but kind.

“Oh—sorry,” you blurt, heat rushing to your face. He jerks his thumb towards the front. “We’re closin’ soon, sweetheart.”

You blink confused, and glace at the clock on the wall. 11:54 p.m. Your stomach drops.

“Oh my god,” you say. “ I’ve been sitting here for—“ you trail off, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.” He chuckles, low and warm. “Happens.”

You start shoving your things into your bag fast, papers crinkling, pens clattering. In your haste, you didn’t notice when your journal slips from the table. Before you can stop him, he picks it up, flipping it open with a curious hum. His eyes scan the page—and then he laughs. It’s a good sound, unexpected, deep and genuine.

“That boy ain’t husband material, hun,” he says, tapping the page where Tobias’s name is underlined. “ no, no.” Your face burns.

“No—no, it’s not like that,” you stammer, reaching for the journal. “ i just—“ you try to grab it but he pulls is out of your reach, still smiling.

“Relax,” he says, handing it back. “I’m teasin’. ” you clutch it to your chest, mortified—and then, strangely, relived. He doesn’t feel threatening anymore. If anything, he feels like a wall—big, solid, safe. An opportunity.

“Can i ask you something?” You say quickly, before you lose your nerve.

He eyes you for a second, then shrugs and slides into the booth across from you. The vinyl creaks under his weight.

“Name’s Eli Broussard,” he says. “And i ain’t got much to say—but i got more than most.”

“Y/N,” you reply. “Thank you, really.”

You ask about Tobias first, carefully. Elis smile fades a notch.

“That one keeps to himself,” he says, quietly. “Runs errands for the church. Helps folks who don’t wanna be seen asking for help.”

“For who?” You ask. He takes a deep breath putting his hands on the table. “People of this town. When my wife got sick he would help me around the house, brought her food and run errands for her when I couldn’t.” He pointed at the kitchen, you realise that him and the waitress are the only two people working this dinner. “ That’s as far as i go.” He adds after a second.

You ask about the town. He exhales through his nose. “Briar Hollow takes care of its own. Always has. Folks don’t like outsiders pokin’ too hard. Makes’em nervous.”

“Why?”

His gaze flicks towards the window, the swamp beyond it. “Some things round here are better left watched than named.” It’s confusing statement but it’s more than anyone has given you by a mile. When you stand to leave, he does too, walking you to the door like it’s instinct.

“Be careful out there,” he says, voice low. “Town ain’t safe at night, not for someone like you.” You smile at him. “I’ll be fine.” He doesn’t smile back.

Outside, the air feels thicker than it did this morning. The moon hangs heavy over Briar Hollow, casting long shadows that don’t quite match the shapes that makes them.

As you walk back towards the motel, your heart feel lighter than it should. You didn’t just get information, you made an ally maybe even a friend and in a town like this, that might be the most helpful things of all.

After walking for some time, you stop next to an antique store, four minutes away from the motel. You can see it from where you’re standing. You reach into your bag and pull out a pack and a lighter, pulling one cig and lighting it. Your head is spinning from the amount of thoughts raging inside. Your half into the cigarette when you hear the bell ring. It’s deep and sounds old, not loud but heavy, like it’s sinking straight into your bones instead of the air. One toll then another, slow and measured.

Everything around you reacts at once.

People a the street stiffen like they’ve been shocked. A woman, who’s been smoking next to you, drops her cigarette and crutches it under her heel without looking down. A man all but sprints towards the nearest doorway. Storefront lights snap off one by one. Doors slam. Windows are dragged shut with a sharp, final sounds. Someone yanks a curtain closed do hard the rod rattles. Panic flares in your chest.

“What—?” You whisper, spinning in place. No one answers. They’re all moving—faster now, nervous, purposeful, like animals responding to a sound they don't quite understand but all instinctively fear. In second the street empties, swallowing them whole.

You’re alone.

The bell stops and the silence that follows is somehow worse. It presses in on you, thick and suffocating, like the town itself has stoped breathing. Even the swamp seems to hold still, no insects, no wind, nothing. Your pulse roars in your ears, move!

Then you hear footsteps—slow, unhurried, multiple.

Finally your body listens and you move. You duck into a narrow alley between two buildings, pressing yourself into a brick wall behind some garbage bags. It’s damp, cool and smelling faintly of mildew and rot. You clamp a hand over your mouth, terrified your breathing is too loud. Your fingers shake.

The footsteps grow closer, you can’t help yourself, you peek out. They’re walking down the centre of the street towards the church at the far end of town. At the front is….something tall. Too tall.

His limbs are long in a way that makes your brain stumble over the proportions. Arms hanging almost to his knees. Legs thin and endless. He’s dressed in blak and white fabric patterned like a clown’s costume, though nothing about him is playful. His head tilts a he walks, from beneath his breath comes chanting. Not english, not anything you recognise. The words roll and twist, syllables stretching unnaturally, punctuated by soft, breathy laughter that crawls along your spine. In one hand, he holds a thick white rope—knotted and heavy, it trails behind him. Four…no, five people follow, each gripping the rope with both hands. You peek out a little more… they’re kids. Dressed in white gowns that look almost medical, fabric hanging loose on their bodies. Their faces are slack, eyes unfocused—moving but not present. It’s like they’re dreaming with their eyes open, like something else is walking them. Behind them come two more figures, a man and a woman. They don’t look entranced, if anything they look bored. The man kicks a pebble as he walks, hands shoved into his pockets. The woman rolls her shoulders like she’s impatient, glancing towards the church. They’re talking quietly, you strain to hear.

“…said we need to be more careful.” The woman mutters to which the man scoffs. “I don’t care besides….”

“He watches more than ever before….” She adds.

“Ah i hate this fucking job…” he murmurs “i know that.” She says.

You lift your camera with shaking hands and take a photo. The shutter clicks—loud in the silence. You freeze but thankfully no one reacts. You take another and another, your pulse hammers so hard they probably can hear it. Then the woman stops, just for a second, her head turns slightly, her eyes sweeping the street. Your breath catches, you don’t wait to see more. You turn and bolt, running as fast as you can to the motel.

Your hands shake so badly you drops the keys twice, after finally opening the door you run in and slam them shut. When you step away from the door you let out a breath you didn’t realise you where holding, your hands are still shaking, sweat dripping down your spine.

What the hell was that?

What was that thing leading them? No, that must’ve been a human in costume..right? Who were the kids in white?— you remember the missing person posters.

Why did they looks so empty?

The man and the woman. Who are they?

What the fuck is going on in this town?

You’re full on pacing now, one hand in your hair, picking at the scalp. You can’t stay. This is just too much. You sit on the edge of the bed, you need to pack and get out. But as you’re sitting there, camera clutched in your hands, hear racing, thoughts spiralling faster than you can catch them. Fear coils tight in your chest but underneath it, sharp and undeniable, is something else. Fascination. Whatever this town is hiding you just saw it walking in plain sight. You know you should leave but imagine your thesis, how groundbreaking it could be.

You crawl into the motel bed fully dressed, lights off, staring at the ceiling. You’ll think it over in the morning, when you’ll be able to think more clearly but deep down you already know the answer—you’re staying.

[crashingonneptune]

[velvet-onyx]

Is Pinterest broken??? Where’s my personalized feed?!

[velvet-onyx]

Going to see the new silent hill movie today.

[velvet-onyx]

And for my final act I will worship something mortal and act surprised when it decays

[velvet-onyx]

Genuinely nothing compares

[velvet-onyx]

[velvet-onyx]

They hate when u serve modest exterior with a perverted interior

[velvet-onyx]

I’m gonna end up in the psych ward before I get that degree

[velvet-onyx]

[velvet-onyx]

Today I’m serving can’t

[velvet-onyx]