Author’s Note~
Please be mindful that this is an 21+ content page.
If you are not of legal, consenting 21+ age, please move along.
💀 ι ωαѕ вσяη ωιтн αη ιηѕαтιαвℓє αρρєтιтє ƒσя ѕєℓƒ ∂єѕтяυ¢тιση 💀
Knock, knock, let me in. Let me be your secret sin.
Storm clouds gathered, dark and foreboding. Obstructing the starless universe from view until he’s swiveling those inhumanly void of emotion optics elsewhere. A delightful young femme with ambitiously blonde hair cut just shy of her shoulders parades herself around with a drink in one hand, stilettos in the other. She’s quite drunk. An easy target if the desire to bed someone this night called to action. But alas, Maere found little interest in the slurring broad.
Settling into the soft leather he tosses the wad of cash into the Torana’s glove box, shifting the vehicle into reverse and cruising out of the parking lot. Remembering that running over drunks wasn’t his idea of a good time on the way out. Once he’s back on the highway, he kicks the Torana into high gear, letting the metal beast purr soothingly beneath him. Light flickers, casting rich shadows across his bronze-kissed flesh. A true nightmare when glimpsed from certain angles.
His cheekbones looked sharper, angrier. Pools of vacancy sweep the open road, memorizing the feel of the asphalt beneath the Torana’s tires, the stillness that lay far beyond what the eye could see. Knotted muscles tightened beneath the leather confines of that leather jacket. A simple addition to his smart-casual ensemble. A faded red sign advertising the roadhouse loomed on the left of the horizon.
The roadhouse is busy tonight. A ghost of a smile curls the lips of the bartender as she eyes him from behind the bar, fixing a line of shots for a rowdy bunch of middle aged men that reeked of leather and intoxication. Giving the woman a two-fingered flick, he signals for a bottle and a glass to be brought over to his usual booth in the back, passing tables and chairs littered with patrons from all walks of life. Demons, like Maere himself, included.
Who am I? the Bedtime Spook
Meaning: “Nightmare” in Old English
Relationship Status: Single Available
Sex: Yes Male
яσσм 804, мσтєℓ 89
Motel 89’s sign flickered obnoxiously over Room 804.
Maere’s feet dangled over the edge of the shabby but comfortable bed. His frame elongated across the dimpled, musty covers, face partially buried in the lump, twice folded pillow. It’s warmer than expected for this time of year, and especially around these parts. Snow was forecast from tomorrow onward but all they’d seen was rain. Icy pellets of water descending from the broken skies. It was wet, miserable nights like this that would see him sleeping undisturbed. The brutish, demonic snoring drowned out by the bellowing thunder. His unconscious state could be determined by the amount of empty liquor bottles scattered around the room; propped up on the television stand, on the bedside tables, the bench tops. Hell, somehow he’s managed to get a handful in the bathroom sink, the water left inadvertently running at a trickle.
Maere wore confidence like the Devil wore a suit. With a rise of a shoulder in a nonchalant manner, he shrugs. ‘You may call me God if you wish, but I’d much prefer Daddy.’ There’s a glint of humour behind those void-filled eyes. 😈
Comments
Guess who's back... back again... Maere's back... back again!
Well, unofficially, as I have a newborn to tend to - therefore, please be kind to me!
I'll be returning gradually... for those that I owe replies too... My deepest and sincerest apologies. I remember nothing from our threads/plots, therefore, we may - or may not - need to start again somewhere.
If you wish to contact me, and are unable to do so through this account, then you can also find me on Fox's page!
- Maere's muse
Take your time, friend. I shall be here for centuries to come.
1963, 01:34 PM, Cassel Hospital, Richmond, England
Nothing is ever as cruel as memory can be. After all, in the mind's eye, in the most sacred of our cranial rooms, we can replay the past joys of our lives indefinitely, and from there we can look at them fondly and use them as groundwork to build upon our future. Yet when these memories are nothing but a distant thing, far in the past of our lives, then these joyful moments are nothing but a sadistic prank by the brain, a chorus of screaming synapses and a true mockery of the reality of the situation; that you are altogether rather empty. Alone.
Robin imagines himself now, digging through happy memories to place himself back again on the sandy plains of Whitby’s shores, feeling there how with every motion forward there was some backward and down, just like walking in freshly fallen snow. Yet, unlike the crystalline blanket of white during the wintertime, the fine grains under his naked feet gave him warmth. And the beautiful waves rolled in, spreading themselves like fine lace over the beach after they crash in their soft way. He can still hear his mother from atop the cliff, calling for his attention as lunch stands ready for their enjoyment, and how his father rustled the newspaper as he turned a fresh leaf. He imagines himself with a red bucket and spade, with nothing to worry him, no fears, no responsibilities…oh happy memories.
“Robin?” A gentle hand closes around his wrist, wrinkled skin against his silken smooth. He snaps out of his thoughts, brought back to reality. He moves in his chair, leather jacket creaking as he slowly views his hospital surroundings, his gaze settling finally on his mother, who lays in bed before him, tucked away under a snow-white cover. She looks comfortable, but he imagines she is anything but; he can practically smell death on her. “Yes, mother?” His voice is soft, meek, and apologetic.
He wished he could form tears for her, that he could feel more sadness for her obviously decaying body. Yet looking at her; she’s practically a shadow. He did still love her, she was his mother, after all. But the emotions were hollow, and mostly out of reach. He felt great shame he couldn’t access them fully, felt guilty over not feeling more for the pitiful creature that had once been his mother, and still was. He was scum.
“I am proud of you.” She pats him softly, interrupting another dark train of thoughts from overtaking him, a smile forming around the wrinkles on her face, which all lift in unison. She looked so weak, so fragile, surrounded by modern contraptions meant to keep her alive. So far removed from the woman he once knew. Those soft kind eyes, however, while worn by time, were still fierce and strong.
Her features become more serious, yet the smile remains. "Your hands may be cold,” she begins, and Robin can feel how she carefully studies his sharp nails. Eventually, her fingers intertwine with his. She lifts his hand just a bit, and he feels her elderly muscles struggle to do so, and so Robin takes over, leaning in and grabbing her hand with both of his, holding her tight, yet gently. Her lips widen further, wrinkles deepening, a warm glow in her eyes. She continues; “But your heart is not. And whatever you are, you are still MY son. Please do not ever forget that you are still human at heart. No matter what HE says to you, please remember my son, my darling boy. And promise me that you'll not bend to his evil, that you will at every turn that you can, choose to do good instead? I love you so very much. And I always will....my sweet, sweet boy." She sounds so tired, yet never had so much care been poured into words. A mother’s love never dies.
Robin’s eyes shut to a close, his body tensing. After all those years, hearing her say those words elicited an almost unknown reaction within him, like a strange resurgence of something long lost and gone. Something he didn’t know he still had. A powerful feeling overwhelming him. It felt good, felt human. “I love you too.” He cries. He does not dare look at her, he does not deserve it. “And I promise you, I promise you that one day I will be free of him. I promise to be good. For you, mother, and for father.”
A promise made, he opens his eyes only to be met with eyes that stare blankly into his.
“Mother…?”
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
On top of the roof of the hotel
One hour later….
His mother and father now both were gone. Robin stares blankly ahead, his soul feeling empty, more so than usual. That human feeling he felt before having since slipped through his fingers, passing through them like running water. It was a strange sensation, one that he couldn’t explain properly or make sense of in his brain. And he wouldn’t have the time to do so, contemplate and make peace with his feelings, because he had a mission. The reason he had initially come here in the first place; intercept and at any means bring back a particular person of interest. Maere. It was not a priority mission, but Robin knew failure was never an option with Dracula. He sighs, relenting to his fate and what he has to do.
Suddenly, he leaps forward, for a moment soaring through the air like his namesake before landing effortlessly and gracefully into a crouching position on the balcony ledge.
Waiting patiently..
May 22, 2022. 2:15AM
Amari didn't have a problem with working the overnight shift in the ER tonight, she didn't have any plans, hell she didn't even have a life other then going to work and going home to rest and work again the next day, but the good thing was that she had an off day tomorrow from working the ER. Though tonight have been a slow night for her honestly, not that many injured people were coming in which was a good thing, the last thing she wanted to see was someone laid out on a stretcher fighting for their life, she had seen it all too many times dealing with young people whether it was from gun violence or a robbery gone wrong, she had seen the worse of the worse and even had people to die in her arms cause they didn't want to die alone in a room full of people that they didn't know and were trying to save their lives. The last person to have came thru the ER earlier was someone who was apparently shot in the head by a jealous girlfriend; luckily the man survived the shooting but she knew that he was going have some memory lost when he woke up but nonetheless, she managed to save one life tonight right?
She was currently sitting in her office finishing up some paperwork that she wasn't able to finish up earlier that day while she was working, just the normal paperwork involving some of the people that she had seen today as well as signing people out the hospital, not to mention that she had to perform surgery today and needed a report on how the surgery went with the patient that was being operated on. She placed her pen down and leaned back in her chair, head tilted back as she let out a heavy sigh, glowing lavender eyes stared up at the ceiling of her office until she heard a slight noise in her office. She rolled her eyes as she sat up in her chair again and went back to writting something down on the paper that was in front of her then something strange happened. Call it weird but Amari wasn't alone in her office as most people would think she is, she had company with her but the only thing was couldn't no one see the enity that cling to Amari other then beings who had a connection to hell of some sorts.
"Aiden, chill out okay? I'm trying to finish my work, we'll be home soon okay buddy, just give me some time to finish up my work again?"
The enity's name was Aiden, someone that clung to her and refuse to leave her side, though she grew to accept that Aiden wasn't leaving her side no time soon, she had to make extra room to share her body with a creature and an enity that made it upon itself to move right on in without warning, but she doesn't seem too bothered by it though. She knew that her friend Aiden was ready to go home, having to been around nothing but humans all day didn't settle well with the enity, he was ready to leave but she had work that needed to be done before she left so he would have to wait a bit longer until she was done. Just when their night couldn't get any better, the sirens of the amblunace rang into the air, Amari turned in her chair quickly and looked out the window to see the truck pulling into the ER center part of the hospital. Great, someone else just had to be that one person to end up the ER tonight, getting up from her chair, she grabbed her coat and placed it on her arms as she made her way out the office, quickly making her way downstairs towards the ER center to meet with the paramedics on who was being brought in on this lovely night tonight...
All the commotion makes a swell of embarrassment bloom in Zach's chest. Some onlookers who'd missed the beginnings of the event have concluded that Maere drunkenly shoved Zach to the ground. It certainly is an incriminating scene. A man in a suit is asking Zach if he is okay as Zach is lifting himself onto his knees. He tilts his head higher and looks at, or rather, looks through the hotel employee and gazes at the shadow looming over an awfully angry-looking man.
"Fuck off, I'm not drunk!" he hollers.
Before long, the offended man is being gently escorted across the room. Zach cranes his head around another concerned bystander and lifts himself onto his feet so he does not lose track of Maere. Their gazes lock. For hardly even a second, Zach observes Maere's eyes with something akin to an owlish blink. Then Maere is promptly tossed onto the street and a hand settling on Zach's shoulder catches the redhead's attention.
"Sir, are you alright?"
"Huh? Yes. Who was that?"
A slight hesitation, then, "are you sure? You collapsed so suddenly, perhaps I should call a-- Wait, Sir!"
The mechanical whir of the hotel entrance door clicks when Zach bolts through it - the cool air on his cheeks is harsh and he feels his hair flip into a wild mess. There is a gentle buzz of adrenaline in his veins as he takes quick, sure steps toward Maere. Without so much as thinking, Zach reaches a hand out to the stranger. His eyes are wide, almost star-struck, but his hand freezes just shy of Maere's bicep. "Hey," Zach says, the desperation in his voice surprising even himself. He drops his hand.
Although he doesn't know what he's doing, there is a certainty that hums in his bones. Very quickly, Zach's gaze flickers between Maere's face and the invisible shadow that chirps next to the man. It feels wrong to be here in the same way it feels wrong to stand on the ledge of a tall building. He knows it is dangerous, stupidly so, and yet, something about that very danger makes him feel alive. "What did they throw you out for?" He asks, grasping at straws here for a conversation.
Meanwhile, a suited woman has repositioned herself at the hotel's entranceway where she is able to observe Zach and Maere from a safe distance. She twirls a loose strand of hair around a finger, subtly murmuring into an almost invisible earpiece. Zach is none the wiser, eyes glued on Maere and his back turned to the watching eyes.
The ballpoint pen crushes between the fingertips of a woman. She exhales heavily through her nose as she is forced to listen to the familiar voicemail for the third time in a row. Zach's recorded voice is so cheerful that she thinks she's going to burst a blood vessel. In all honesty, managing Zach isn't the worst job in the world. He's rather pleasant in most regards - which is a lot to say given the type of people she can encounter in this business. But, God all mighty, does she wish he wouldn't go M.I.A all the time.
Once the voicemail ends and beeps, she levels her voice and says, "answer the phone or I'll crush your head." A nearby man who had been eyeballing her since she snapped the pen, widens his eyes at her in horror. She quirks a brow at him then leans a forearm on the desk between them. She sighs again; she's been doing that a lot recently.
"Since you won't tell me what room he's in.."
"Miss, I apologize. It's hotel policy-"
She raises her hand to silence him, "just, can I leave a message for him?"
"Certainly."
---
Zach had a nagging feeling that something was very wrong. It's been days since the anxiety surfaced in the pit of his stomach and nothing seems to chase the feeling away. Part of him feels childish for sulking the way he has been these last 24 hours, but he's being stretched beyond his emotional ability with his sudden workload.
Seeking advice or some moral support from a friend hadn't gone the way Zach had anticipated either. The man had promptly thrust an orange container of pills in his direction and swore on his mother's grave that they would make him feel better. At first, Zach had every intention of using the medication. Something, or rather, someone, insisted he didn't.
The shadow humanoid figure loomed over Zach as he uncapped the lid from the pills. Its large indiscernible head swayed from left to right almost as if the weight of it was too much for its neck to hold. Zach hesitated and stared up at the creature. It seemed unwavering, intent on crowding over Zach like a threatening presence. When Zach set the pills aside, the figure drifted away from Zach and resumed to its spot in the corner. Silent.
Desperate for a change of pace, Zach had left the hotel and sought after some fresh air. Naturally, the figure followed him. He didn't return until his fingers grew numb from the cold and his eyelids felt heavy with sleep. The journey back to the hotel was slow, but Zach was rewarded with a gust of warm air once he stepped inside.
Ah, he thinks blearily, I'm falling.
Zach drops to the hotel floor like a sack of potatoes. A stranger having suddenly collapsed on the hotel floor rouses some concern from whoever is nearby. People flock to him. Well, this is embarrassing. His lack of consciousness lasts all but mere seconds before he bolts back up to his hands and knees. The first person he sees is the hotel staff who is placing a reassuring hand on Zach's back. He thinks he is saying something to him, but Zach can't hear it. He's too busy looking off in the distance where his shadow-friend is drifting toward a stranger in the room.
Alex, as the shadow has been nicknamed, hunches forward with its arm dangling long and heavy in front of itself. It sways and a gentle clicking radiates from it like a confused whisper. People ignore the shadow - nobody sees it except for Zach. It hovers over to Maere; silent, but menacing.