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(font: "Freestyle Script")[<h2> Undying Gratitude </h2><h5>by E. J. Rosa </h5>
<h3>[[Play]]</h3>]
How would you define fairytales? []<definition|
<input type="text" name="definition" value="Answer Here"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('definition')">Submit Answer</button>
(live:100ms)[(set: $def = ?definition)]
Do you like them?
[[Yes]]
[[No]] Why do you like them? []<reason|
<input type="text" name="reason" value="Answer Here"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('reason')">Submit Answer</button>
(live:100ms)[(set: $reas = ?reason)]
Are you ready to [[create one?]]Why not? []<reason|
<input type="text" name="reason" value="Answer Here"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('reason')">Submit Answer</button>
(live:100ms)[(set: $reas = ?reason)]
Do you still want to [[create one?]]
There is magic in the world, both more literal and more subtle than one would expect. It seeps into the physical and the abstract, manifesting in more than just the fae and other sprite-ish creatures.
We see it in weddings, in births, in friendships. In the first laugh of an infant. In the surprise of a long-awaited proposal. We see it in life, so much so that even the strongest of skeptics may use "magical" or "enchanting" to describe it, without knowing the truth it holds.
Less often do we care to see it in death.
[[Are you ready to begin?|Start]]Once upon a time, there is a [[funeral]].//Pause.//
What is the dead woman's name? []<fname|
<input type="text" name="fname" value="Hilda"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('fname')">Enter</button>
[[Thank you. //Continue.//|Someone.]]
(live:100ms)[(set: $Name = ?fname)]There are approximately twenty(click-replace: "twenty")[fifteen](click-replace: "fifteen")[eight] people in attendance.
The funeral is serious in nature but apparently not in dress code, with only two people, including the funeral director, whose outfits are anything nicer than business casual. The rest of the attendees for the most part wear an assortment of clothing, ranging from a more modern take on Sunday best to a cleaner T-shirt and jeans. Across town, a boy makes a homerun in his first official baseball game.
A stressed student in their senior year receives an email announcing an award for academic excellence.
$Name's next-door-neighbor gets a new dog.
The weather is perfect for them.
It is obvious that, despite being chosen to deliver the eulogy, Warren was never close to $Name. He briefly discusses his dead roommate's interest in anime and Southwestern-American history, as well noting a strong appreciation for how clean the apartment always was, but never seems to mention anything regarding $Name's character.
None of it has any substance.
Outside of the funeral home, the weather refuses to match [[the solemn event]]. Rather than a covering of gentle, dim clouds and perhaps a timid rain, light streams from the windows, surrounding [[visitors]] and the coffin with a warm glow. Directly outside the funeral home, there are two cherry trees that have just started to blossom, the occasional petal floating down to a hot sidewalk.
The funeral has been slow, the eulogy taking longer than it should for [[Warren Hamm]], the deceased's roommate, to stumble out. His words echo like a fractured spell, bouncing against the walls and high ceiling of the [[funeral home.]]
Most information given is nothing new to the attendees, although none could be accused of knowing $Name particularly well. At least, they wouln't know her well //anymore,// with most being friends of hers from high-school or college that had [[drifted apart.|individual]]Sitting in the front row, there is a thirty-two-year-old woman shifting awkwardly in her seat.
//Pause.//
What is her name? []<fname2|
<input type="text" name="fname2" value="Agnes"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('fname2')">Enter</button>
[[Thank you. //Continue//|front row]]
(live:100ms)[(set: $Name2 = ?fname2)]$Name2 is the only one sitting in the front row, hands clasped in a polite fold on her lap. She is also one of the two individuals dressed formally, and is the ones sitting up the straightest in their chair.
Rather than from a strong affection with $Name however, this derives from a previous lack of knowledge of what to expect at the event. $Name2, having only briefly known $Name for a short amount of time, had thought earlier this morning that there would have been a larger crowd of weeping relatives. Now, sitting in an empty row of chairs with one of the other attendees nearly breathing down their neck, she now is realizing that $Name was not the sort of person people thought to [[dress up for.]]
Before her unfortunate demise, $Name had been considered to be quite beautiful(click-replace: "beautiful")[handsome](click-replace:"handsome")[ugly](click-replace: "ugly")[hideous](click-replace: "hideous")[fantastical in appearance](click-replace: "fantastical in appearance")[nice], something that has no longer mattered from the moment she was hit by the train(click-replace: "train")[truck](click-replace: "truck")[escaped rhinocerus].
[[If only she had more friends to attend this event.|Next]]A coffin sits mildly in front of a small crowd within a dimly-lit funeral home.
[[The deceased|Someone]] woman is a bit young for anyone's liking but is still old enough and boring enough that the newspapers kept the news of her death only in the obituaries. This is odd, as $Name had seemed like the sort of person to dress up for when she had met her; had seemed like the sort of person to mourn when $Name thanked $Name2 with a drink and a [[handful of cash]].
Now, it seems as though the two of them had had more in common than originally thought: few friends and family, and fewer friends and family with fashion sense.
$Name2 wonders whether this commonality was a newer development, or if that had been true even when they had [[met]]. This handful had consisted of four wadded-up ones and a single ten, and it was accompanied by a near-apologetic, wry smile on $Name's face when it was given.
It something that $Name2's step-mother had hummed and smiled at when $Name2 had told her about, but $Name2 hadn't been as pleased with it. For all the trouble that went into saving a life, at the time it hadn't seemed like [[//enough//.|/enough/.]] "Enough" is rarely in $Name2's vocabulary.
She has always //yearned//. For more. For [[something else.]]
All things considered, she has been very good at giving up "enough" for the expected amount.There is //always// something else.$Name2 had met $Name in more than odd circumstances six years ago at a zoo in Tampa, Florida.
$Name2 had, at the time,been continuing her brief stunt as an [[intern at ZooTampa at Lowry Park]]; essentially, as an unpaid janitor and chief overviewer of the [[Sprite Exhibit.]]
$Name had, at the time, been the dumb schmuch who couldn't [[walk right.]] Sprites: famously easy to keep alive but so nefariously difficult to manage.
It is a common misconception that the beautiful and oh-so-reflective balls of floating, near-terrifying light are like [[jellyfish]], mirroring others on reflex and a strong survival instinct only.
The truth is that these bouncing orbs are more predatorial than the cheery placard next to the glass wall of the exhibit would imply, making them incredibly [[dangerous]] to encounter in the wild. Even in captivity, kept sated and away from harm, they are just nerve-wracking enough to deal with that most keepers schluff the job onto anyone else potentially capable. Now, $Name2 knows that she had been grossly underpaid, but at the time, it had seemed like an opportunity to collect glowing references. Visitors love it whenever one of the sprites pause and shift forms, often waiting for half an hour or more to see if they can capture it on camera themselves.
Usually, the sprites simply mimic the fae. Other times, a favored zoo keeper - $Name2, after a while - or a visitor.
Rarely, a visitor's long-deceased mother, or the one child in the second-grade class who had not been able to go on the zoo fieldtrip due to illness.
It is these occasions that both fascinate and horrify the viewer, but cause any nearby keeper to perhaps double-check to ensure the enclosure had been carefully sealed.
[[//We're getting a bit distracted here, aren't we?// |met]]They do look like jellyfish, but without the long tentacles, and fuller.$Name had not been drunk, of course, just apparently [[particularly bad at walking]], a fact that Warren Hamm has not yet mentioned in his eulogy.This clumsiness had led $Name to trip, fall, and consequently land in a newly-installed Lazy River ride(click-replace: "newly-installed Lazy River ride")[fountain](click-replace: "fountain")[deeper-than-average puddle by the concession stand]; something that would otherwise have been mostly harmless if she had not hit her [[head]] on the way down. $Name had passed out on impact, unbeknownest to most passerby. Most had assumed she was drunk(click-replace: "she was drunk")[that the water wasn't deep enough to be a danger] and expected them to pop up moments later. Said guests had walked away before they could notice this wasn't the case.
$Name2, who had dutifully been attempting to stop one of the wandering peacocks from devouring plastic(click-replace: "dutifully been attempting to stop one of the wandering peacocks from devouring plastic at the time")[dutifully helping a lost kid find her parents](click-replace: "dutifully helping a lost kid find her parents")[dutifully getting a snack from the concession stand] at the time, had been the only one to stop for a moment and notice that the woman in front of her was [[actually in trouble.]]$Name had needed CPR, something that $Name2 had [[briefly learned one summer from her worrisome father.]] Later, the paramedics would briefly mention that $Name2 had saved $Name's [[life.]]
This had meant something to $Name at the time, enough so to motivate her to [[go to the hospital and wait for $Name to make sure they were alright.|go to the hospital and wait for Name 2 to make sure they were alright.]]
It still means //something.//
It had been odd for $Name2 to hear of the death of the life she had saved. So she came to the funeral. It had seemed necessary, almost, to lay $Name to [[rest.]]Her father is terrified of the ocean. So much so that when he had brought $Name2 to Florida to move in with $Name2's at-the-time new step-mother, he had insisted on taking all precautions against it. This included CPR lessons should he, $Name2, the new Mrs. or either of her two daughters decide to drown.
At the time, this was something neither $Name2 nor her step-mom had expected to ever pay off.//What's the importance of saving a life to you?// []<life|
<input type="text" name="life" value="Answer Here"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('life')">Submit Answer</button>
(live:100ms)[(set: $lif = ?life)]That's how they had officially met, in $Name's hospital room, and then met later in the week for a drink. $Name2 couldn't say that they left friends, but she still has vague, pleasant memories of neon pink lights and an irritable bartender they had both enjoyed laughing at.Looking at the coffin now, $Name2 can't imagine it as anything restful.
It's nothing terribly fancy or ornate, just a simple, sleek wooden cover. A closed-coffin funeral, of course. Perhaps it would be easier to picture $Name as at peace if she could see her.
The funeral continues as planned, tragically short. The small crowd of guests soon head back to their cars, but something still feels uneasy about the affair. //Unfinished.//
[[A fresh wind blows by gently, as if whispering.|bleh]]$Name2's stepmother always tells her to listen for the wind; that it warns you of something. It tells tales in the wind, carried by the fates.
She says to never let a wind catch you by surprise, or else you'll be blind to where it leads you.
Wind, she tells her, is very much like the fae. Older than one would expect and still wiser than its years.
$Name2 isn't sure how much of it to believe, but feeling the cool air brush past her neck encourages her to [[walk faster.]]
Interesting.
//Thank you.// [[ Continue]]
(set: $fate to 9)Interesting.
//Thank you.// [[ Continue]]
(set: $nofate to 8) Double-click this passage to edit it.
//Pause.//
Do you believe in any kind of fate?
[[Yes.]]
[[No.]] She goes to the car she had rented for this trip, nearly pushed in its direction by another sudden gust of wind. She thinks more on their step-mother, and how she really should call her this Sunday.
If she had thought a little less, she might have noticed the reflection of a familiar, impossible figure in the window. She might have noticed how it (text-style: "rumble")[shook] before vanishing.
[[She does not notice.|They do not notice.]] The following game provides a reading experience in which you as the reader and player can make certain choices. Not every choice will affect //which// ending you receive, but rather //how you get there.//
1. Read as Carefully as You'd Want -- ^^I did not write this It's time to go home. This requires a three hour flight back to Houston and a bus ride back to her apartment building, neither of which $Name2 looks forward to.
//Which airline does $Name2 use?
[[Beanstalk Air]]
[[Pegasi Flights]]
[[Delta Airlines]]//
Home for $Name2 is a small apartment on the third floor. Having lived there for two years now, $Name2 can only describe it as cozy and well-decorated(click-replace: "cozy and well-decorated")[a minimalist's dream with only necessary furniture](click-replace: "a minimalist's dream with only necessary furniture")[definitely over-decorated](click-replace: "definitely over-decorated")[a raccoon's dream with heaps of trash].
$Name2 walks in through the front door feeling (if: $beanstalk is 1)[a bit of the leftover euphoria from Beanstalk Air that leaves her giddy and light-headed.] (if: $pegasi is 2)[comfortable, and it makes her see the apartment as just a little bit cozier; a bit lighter.] (if: $delta is 3)[feeling exhausted and worn, so much so that she forgets her luggage in the car, despite it containing her only toothbrush.]
It's been quite the [[day.]]Over-priced to the point of probable thievery, $Name2's flight is a combination of price anxiety and a magical experience. With long lines and expensive, over-sugared drinks, she lives a brief life in luxury. Flying in a glittering plane with golden cup-holders, $Name2 has one of the best experiences in her life while her wallet has the worst.
Like a fever-dream, the moments fade away as the plane lands, and $Name2 is left in the airport with nowhere else to go but [[home.]]
(set: $beanstalk to 1) $Name2's flight home isn't perfect, but it's fairly comfortable, for an airplane. The seats are a bit uncomfortable but she has some extra room and the peanuts are complimentary. The flight is very quiet, and the toddler sitting next to her does nothing more than stare at her for the whole flight -- unnerving, but silent.
$Name2 goes [[home|home.]] content after an affordable, relaxing flight.
(set: $pegasi to 2)The trip is awful. The seats squeeze $Name2's hips and she's constantly touching elbows with both of the other passengers, trapped in a hellish middle seat. There's a baby crying behind her ear.
$Name2 leaves the plane dizzy and disoriented from the overly-warm, confined space she'd been trapped in, with a pounding in her head.
She goes [[home|home.]], but not before making a stop at Wal-Mart for ibuprofen.
(set: $delta to 3)It's nearly 8:30 PM by this time. $Name2 (if: $beanstalk is 1)[snuggles up in her bed with her laptop and a glass of Wal-Market's best La Moneda Reserva Malbec to rewatch her favorite sitcom.](if: $pegasi is 2)[puts up most of the groceries, using the rest to make a nice meal.] (if: $delta is 3)[takes four Ibuprofen along with a bottle of water before falling into bed as she is, thoroughly wrinkling her nicest professional outfit.]
Somewhere else in the house, something [[creaks.]]$Name2 sleeps in until 7:30AM(click-replace: "7:30AM")[9:30AM](click-replace: "9:30AM")[3:00PM] the next day. When she wakes up, she feels (if: $beanstalk is 1)[groggy and like she might have had a bit too much wine last night.](if: $pegasi is 2)[like she wants to sleep for another two hours, but rested nonetheless.](if: $delta is 3)[miraculously well-rested after a dreamless, well-earned power nap.]
She walks to the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and heading straight to the cabinet with the cereal to pull out the box of [[Lucky Charms.]]It isn't until $Name2 sits down at her small, mahogany table that she sees the large, silver mug on the table. It looks like it's made of actual silver, not imitation, but she wouldn't know enough to be sure. Inside is a steaming liquid that looks and, well, almost smells like coffee, but there is something in its scent that is sweeter --- //saccharine.//
//What does $Name2 do?
[[Drink it.]]
[[Leave it there.]]
[[Look around for an intruder.]]//Whatever is in the mug, it isn't coffee.
It tastes //vaguely// like coffee, the same tinge of bitterness somewhere there in the aftertaste.
More than anything, it's almost like what $Name2 would imagine [[ambrosia]] to taste like. Rich and syrupy, but with a flavor $Name2 would not have been able to imagine before moments prior.
The mug itself is heavy. It might be actual silver. There's no engravings on it, or any marks. It seems new. $Name2 sets it down carefully after finishing the rest of the drink.
It isn't until after $Name2 is done that she finally wonders [[who]] made the drink.
(set: $drink to 4)$Name2 stares at it, recollecting that she most certainly locked the doors last night. Confused and more than a bit concerned, she leaves it there. She decides to eat at her [[desk]].
(set: $leave to 5)$Name2 stands, knees already slightly shaky as she considers whether or not she locked the door last night. Had she been too tired and forgotten? Too distracted? She grabs a knife from her drawer, but isn't really sure what she'll do with it. Something shimmers in the corner of her eye, but when she turns, there's nothing.
//[[Search the right half of the apartment first.]]
[[Search the left half of the apartment first.]]//$Name2 heads towards the bathroom and office, the knife secure in her grip. The lights above her head [[flicker]] slightly.
(set: $righthalf to 6)$Name2 starts in the direction of the living room, stopping to gingerly look into the kitchen and bedroom to see if there is anyone there. She even goes so far as to peer under her bed to see if someone could be hiding somewhere amidst the storage boxes neatly tucked underneath.
$Name2 searches the living room, then the rest of the house, but finds nothing.
//What now?//
[[Call the police.]]
(set: $lefthalf to 7)The police arrive on time, one kind officer taking $Name2's statement while the others search the apartment.
There are no signs of forced entry, and apartment building's security cameras show no one in $Name2's hall that day at all except for a few neighbors, who never even paused at $Name2's door.
They take the mug and an officer promises to have it analyzed, assuring $Name2 that they'll get back to her if they find anything. She isn't convinced that they will based on the officer's expression and unhelpful monotone.
$Name2 is reassured that she's safe, but there's a new feeling stretching in her chest --- like she's being [[watched.]]
After the police leave, $Name2 grabs a knife and keeps it on the coffee table in front of her as she huddles up with a blanket and the TV remote. It isn't until 5 minutes later that she starts to consider what would happen if a stalker got a hold of it.
She [[hides|uneasy haze.]] all of her knives.$Name2 looks at the above lightbulb as the light twitches (text-style: "fade-in-out")[in and out] a few times. Odd, as she could have sworn that the apartment's wiring was fairly new after recent renovations, as was the light.
She looks back at the hall, and the [[knife slips out of her hand.]]In front of them stands $Name. At least, what she can [[assume]] is $Name.
A trembling, glitchy figure, $Name is holding the same silver mug out to her, hand reaching further and further. It seems to stretch more than it should until the mug is only inches away from $Name2's face.
$Name's entire body (text-style: "shudder")[shivers] and fades alongside the lightbulb, but the mug remains solid, the scent seeming to get stronger the longer $Name2 waits. The smell reminds her of the sprites as they shifted into tiny reflections of something real: a shimmering mimicry of genuinity.
As $Name2 stares, she can only feal a strange adrenaline(click-replace: "a strange adrenaline")[a strange, pure fear](click-replace: "a strange, pure fear")[a strange sense of calm]. There seems to be only one option here.
[[Drink it.|Drink it 2]] It looks like $Name, with the same dyed-red hair. But she's only for the brief moments in between the rapid blurring, moving so fast it's hard to recognize her form. More than anything else, there's just something there that makes it clear to $Name2 that it //must// be $Name other than her appearance.$Name2 gingerly takes the mug and puts it to her lips. The brim is freezing cold against her mouth, but the drink itself is comfortably warm, so much so that it heats her stomach in a way that would normally be comforting if not for the... thing in front of them.
The [[ghost.]]
Presumably.
Despite this thought, the event still disturbs $Name2 in a way that leaves her sick to her stomach. She finds herself checking the kitchen throughout the day, but nothing appears.
Rather than having a productive Saturday filled with chores, a bit of paperwork, and finally, an evening binging Golden Girls, $Name2's day is spent in an [[uneasy haze.]]The mythological food, not the salad that her mother had made once and //only// once. She'd read about it for fun, having always enjoyed myths and impossible stories.
Normally, the thought would have made her sick to her stomach, but the only feeling in her gut is a comfortable warmth. Her head attempts to go into overdrive as to who left the mug and what it was, but all she feels is a [[muted,]] mellow feeling of content.
As $Name2 lowers the mug, $Name's figure flickers [[out.]]$Name2 doesn't [[sleep]] that night. Lying in her bed, eyes wide open, she thinks she can hear something rustle in the kitchen.What has been given has not been(click-replace: "has not been")[cannot be] given away.She comes back an hour later to find it gone. After a brief check that nothing is missing, $Name2 makes a note to talk to her landlord about checking the security tapes later.
Perhaps she'd only [[imagined]] it.Later, she wakes up in the middle of the night, awoken by a noise that she tells herself came from [[outside.]] (if: $lefthalf is 7)[She stays in bed for what feels like an hour before she gets up to retrieve the knife again, stashing it under her [[mattress]].]The next day, there's another mug of steaming liquid on the table. This time, it's gold. The liquid inside is an almost-transparent silver color, much different than the creamy brown of the previous day.
(if: $leave is 5)[//[[Drink it.|Drink it 3]]//]
//[[Leave it there.|outside]]//The next day on her way to work, $Name2 finds a one-hundred dollar [[bill]] in her coat pocket that most certainly wasn't there before.
//[[Keep it|before.]]
[[Leave it.]]//The mug is ice cold even as the drink warms her stomach, just like the first. However, the taste is entirely different.
It tastes like the hot chocolate her uncle made for her when she first came home with a black eye. Like the sundae she shared with her first date --- her first heartbreak. The candy bar she had split with her first best friend, Mandy, in kindergarten.
It tastes like [[memories]] she hadn't even remembered.
She makes a slow investigation of the house, but she can't seem to bring herself to be upset [[enough]] to put in too much effort. On Saturdays, $Name2 typically does not consider herself to have much of a schedule other than visiting a friend(click-replace:"visiting a friend")[going birdwatching](click-replace: "going birdwatching")[sitting and contemplating existence](click-replace: "sitting and contemplating existence")[practicing chess](click-replace:"practicing chess")[going downtown for a movie alone](click-replace: "going downtown for a movie alone")[looking at car commercials and considering a mid-life crisis early]. However, $Name2 finds that her mind is calm, collected, and content to get a lot of(click-replace:"lot of")[massive number of](click-replace:"massive number of")[truly unbelievable number of] tasks finished that she had been procrastinating.
Though emotionally relaxed, her [[mind]] seems clearer and more focused. Thoughts of concern about the drink start to seep into her mind once more as she heads to bed. The drink's effects slowly seem to fade, leaving her [[weary|a break in.]] with nothing else but questions of the mug's origin. She wakes up to find that her apartment is cleaner than it was when she had originally moved in, everything tidied and put into place. Checking the door, she finds no signs of a break in. All windows shut, locked, and unbroken.
After a quick look in each room, she can only stare at the pristine living room for a second before the [[severity]] of the situation sets in.Grabbing a robe and a pair of slippers, she quickly rushes out of the apartment. She has to force her legs to only walk rather than run, attempting to appear [[normal.]]
She goes downstairs, heading straight to her landlady's [[office]] near the front of the [[building.]]Although encountering neighbors in their pajamas in the hall would not be abnormal, none of them so far have ever done so at any speed faster than a lethargic shuffle to the old, worn-out vending machine in the hall's center.
$Name2 makes eye contact with a middle-aged man, Jonathan Boehmer, as she passes by. A spark of curious judgment flickers across Boehmer's eyes as he watches her awkwardly rush past the vending machine to the staircase. She knocks on the door, rubbing the toe of one slipper back and forth on the carpet.
Her landlady opens the door slowly, raising an eyebrow at $Name2's presence and reaching up to straighten her bright blue glasses. "Is this about rent again? I told you, $Name2, I can't push it back another two weeks past the due date. I have to draw the line som--"
$Name2 interjects, putting up a hand. "Nonono, not - that. ...This time. Ms. Pycke, I was more wondering if the security cameras had picked up anything... weird, last night?"
Pycke tilts her head, mousey brown curls bobbing to the side. "I can check the tapes. What time would this 'weird' be occuring?"
$Name2 scratches her head. "Anytime between eleven PM and uh.... what time is it?"
"Nine-fifteen."
"Right. So between eleven and nine?"
"Uh-huh. What am I lookin' for?" A pause. "If your askin' me to delete tapes because your worried about getting caught with a lover..."
"//Definitely// not that. Someone might've broken into my apartment."
"Interesting. Didn't call the cops?"
"I'm not sure if they'd believe me. I woke up and the house was cleaned. I didn't hear anything last night when I was asleep. It doesn't look like anything's missing, and there's no sign of a break-in."
There's a soft thumping of Pycke's foot against the short carpet as she stops to process the sentence. "Don't suppose you got anyone who might want to surprise you with something nice?"
$Name2 squints. "No."
She waves a soft, aging hand in the air. "Alright, [[alright.]] I'll look at the cameras."While the previous landlord had stayed in one of the apartments closest to the lounge, the current landlady, Ms. Isa Pycke, lived with her sister across town. As such, the previous landlord's apartment was converted into Ms. Pycke's workspace.$Name2 finishes goodbyes with Pycke only after barely avoiding a longer conversation regarding trash policies in the apartment building, one that she completely agreed with but had heard many times. She goes back to her apartment with promises from Pycke that she'll let $Name2 [[know]] what she finds. If there is anything on the cameras, there's at least proof. Although $Name2 had used the lack of proof to excuse why she hadn't called the police, truthfully she isn't sure what to think of it [[herself|themselves.]]. (if: $severity is not 11)[What if she'd cleaned the apartment herself, and just hadn't realized how much she'd actually done? Reflecting on yesterday leaves it as a blur of action and task-completing.
She //had// done a lot yesterday. She had cleaned some. Her memories don't seem to match up with the amount of "clean" the apartment is, but it didn't make sense.]
[[None|nooone]] of this made //sense.//(if: $severity is not 11)[However, even if her cleaning spree had resulted in all of this, it didn't explain the [[mug.]]](if: $severity is 11)[However, no explanation she can come up with explains the [[mugs|mug.]].](if: $severity is not 11)[The silver mug that had been sitting on the table yesterday was not going to be explained away through false memory. Someone had been in her [[house.]]] (if: $severity is 11)[Neither mug is going to be explained away through false memory. Someone had been in her [[house|house.]].
After drinking the contents of the gold one, she isn't sure if that someone is even human.]It isn't until she puts the mug down that she realizes she's been [[crying.]]She's not //sad//, per se. There's a certain type of joy to it.
A certain kind of (text-style: "smear")[magic.]
One that $Name2 is not entirely [[unfamiliar]] with.It reminds her of the [[sprites]] that would shift into tiny apparitions of her mother, long dead for twenty years. There's the same clouded aura of something outside of "normal;" something there that glitters and warps beneath the surface of reality. Magical happenings and the like are rare, so much so that the thought hadn't crossed her mind Saturday with the first mug. An aching chill raises the hair on her arms, goosebumps forming.
Part of her wants to believe it's just a stalker with interesting barista skills (and maybe drugs). Stalkers, the police can deal with.
Magical beings tended to require more [[personal|Personal 2]] interaction.$Name2 can only hope that it isn't [[brownies or any kind of household spirit.]] Despite their fairytale-lookalikes, they never came to a house at night to clean for //free.// Heavy-handed deals, money, and in some of the darker rumors of stories spread across the internet and common folklore, the firstborn were only a few of the things that might be necessary to satiate creatures inviting themselves to ones' home.
As $Name2 stares at the mug now sitting in the sink, she starts to consider the [[severity]] of the situation.
(set: $severity to 111)Your Name: []<fname|
<input type="text" name="fname" value="Unknown"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('fname')">Update Name</button>
Your Job: []<fjob|
<input type="text" name="fjob" value="Unknown"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('fjob')">Update Job</button>
[[Second Passage]]
(live:100ms)[(set: $yourName = ?fname)(set: $yourJob = ?fjob)]Second Passage
Your Name: $yourName
Your Job: $yourJobIt doesn't take long before Pycke calls, informing $Name2 that there was not anyone near her apartment or even anyone unfamiliar seen lurking around the apartment building last night.
It takes a bit longer for Pycke to call back after $Name2 immediately requests that Pycke check to see if anyone came in two nights before, or perhaps three. Again, once Pycke finally responds with results, she again confirms that //no one// was seen entering her apartment, from either the door or from the alley.
When $Name2 asks that Pycke checks to see if anyone snuck in at anytime that month, Pycke formally -- sarcastically -- invites her to check the tapes [[herself.]]
The next day on her way to work, $Name2 finds a one-hundred dollar [[bill]] in her coat pocket that most certainly wasn't there [[before.]] She has it checked by the bank close to her office building. As skeptical as the teller is by her story that the bill had just appeared there, he confirms it's legitimate.The following day, she goes to pay her rent. (if: $leave is 5)[Her landlady, Ms. Isa Pycke,](if: $drink is 4)[Pycke] only watches at her for a moment with a worried expression, tells her that she already paid her rent by slipping a check under her door.
When $Name2 asks to see it, she is shown a check with the same floral background that her checkbook has. The signature is identical to her own.
She goes back to her apartment after making an excuse about just having forgotten about it due to tiredness. Later on, she checks her bank account to see that the transaction for rent money is there. Her balance, however, doesn't reflect it, holding the same amount of money as it would've without the rent being paid.
When she calls the bank about it, they tell her that everything seems to be [[in order]], but they'll look into whatever technical fluke might be causing an issue.Everything seems to be more in order than it was to the point of being [[unbelievable.]]The next morning, there's a book on her office desk that she's never seen before. Next to it, a crystal mug filled with something that looks like Pepto-Bismol.
It has a bright yellow cover featuring a white, cartoony ghost on it. Writen in black block letters is its title: //The Dead: Can They Come Back, and Why?: A Mortician's Guide into the Unfinished Business.//
//[[Read it.|Read 2]]//$Name2 looks at it in her hand, before dropping [[it]] and walking away quickly. Likely a fake planted when she was distracted getting coffee as some kind of prank, or some kind of [[scheme.]]Abandoned, the bill falls to the gutter. It (text-style: "fade-in-out")[flickers out into nothing.] A day later, she goes to pay her rent. Her landlady, Ms. Isa Pycke, only stares at her for a moment with an odd expression before telling $Name2 that she already paid her rent that morning by slipping a check under her door.
When $Name2 asks to see it, she is shown a check with the same floral background that her checkbook has. The signature is identical to her own.
(if: $leave is 5)[//[[Accept it]].//]
//[[Leave it]].//
Later on, she checks her bank account to see that the transaction for rent money is there. Her balance, however, doesn't reflect it, holding the same amount of money as it would've without the rent being paid.
When she calls the bank about it, they tell her that everything seems to be [[in order]], but they'll look into whatever technical fluke might be causing an issue.$Name2 stares at the check, surveying the numbers on the check and trying to see if they line up with her bank information. Giving up quickly, she simply rips it up and lets the pieces fall to the [[floor.]](font: "Arial Narrow")["Although there are many fairytales that like to tell different versions of the so-called "grateful" dead, after delving into some serious self-reflection with my own possible encounter with such a spirit and further research of accounts of those who may have as well, I have arisen to a different conclusion. These "grateful" dead are not so grateful at all (or, perhaps, grateful to a large extent but not enough to cause them to willingly be present), but rather trapped in servitude.
In Chapter Two, I have thoroughly discussed for fifty-seven pages of this book that this concept of "unfinished business," as we so like to refer it as, may often trap a ghost to this realm. The grateful dead are thus trapped by some form of life debt that they failed to repay when they were alive.
It is from this concept that I theorize that while common folklore mischaracterizes this type of ghost as cunning and eager servants, the reality is that these beings may have no other choice until the life debt is paid."] ^^----//Dr. Thomas Costeur, Ch. 5, page 102//^^She hands Pycke the //real// check, assuring her this must've been some type of prank or scam, before going back to the apartment. As she walks down the hall, the lights overhead [[flicker gently]].She reaches her apartment door, fumbling to find the correct [[key.]] The light directly over her door starts to hum, bits of electricity crackling lightly. It's slow and soft at first, so much so that she gets the key in the latch before she really notices it, before it grows louder.
(text-style: "fade-in-out")[The light surges, flashing //brighter.// So bright it's hard to see, so much so that $Name2 drops her hand away from the door to shield her eyes. The light, previously a dim, soft yellow is now a harsh white, blinding and then-- ]
The light bursts, glass tinkling down to the hall's thin carpeting.
Unscathed but not unshaken, $Name2 quickly steps over the mess before [[rushing]] back to Pycke. $Name2 tilts her head, teeth grinding, before she grabs the mug immediately. With one quick dump, whatever is in it goes straight down the sink. She turns on the tap, then the garbage disposal, listening to the sound of water rushing and metal grinding for a few long moments before finally turning it off.
After a few minutes of $Name2 struggling to push the window open, the mug is flung out into the [[alley|Leave it 2]]. Double-click this passage to edit it.Double-click this passage to edit it.$Name2 had grown up hearing old stories, variations of stories, and modern retellings of stories surrounding the idea of the princess who woke up from sleeping on a pea to prove she was real. $Name2 isn't quite sure what it [[proves]] to be a CPA sleeping on a weapon.//Pause.
If ''you'' wrote the fairytale of a woman who sleeps with a knife under the mattress as a parallel of the Princess and the Pea, what would it prove?//
[]<prove|.
<input type="textarea" name="prove" value="Answer Here">
<button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('prove')">Enter</button>
//Thank you. [[Continue|uneasy haze.]]//
(live:100ms)[(set:$prove = ?prove)]Before the trip to $Name's funeral, it would've seemed stupid to lock the door for a five-minute walk to drop off a rent check.$Name2 pounds her fist across the [[wooden door]]. It's an accident, really; she only meant to knock but her knuckles hit alongside the pace of her heart.Pycke opens up, seeming unimpressed with the ruckus. "If you're here to rip up another check, I'm going to say no."
$Name2 shakes her head, rubbing her temples with her fingers. "No, no, no. Um... The light over my door just shattered? And, ah... I was hoping you'd be able to, um, deal with that later?"
"Of course, so long as you don't continue to break my door down for an electric problem."
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
Pycke waves the apology [[away.]] "None of that."The conversation ends sooner than $Name2 would expect. It doesn't take long for the mess in front of her door to be taken care of, but the light itself will be [[out]] for a while.The next morning, there's a book on her office desk that she's never seen before. Next to it, a crystal mug filled with something that looks like Pepto-Bismol.
It has a bright yellow cover featuring a white, cartoony ghost on it. Writen in black block letters is its title: //The Dead: Can They Come Back, and Why?: A Mortician's Guide into the Unfinished Business.//
(if: $leave is 5)[//[[Read it.]]//]
//[[Don't read it.]]//$Name2 opens the book, glancing through it. There's a rather lengthy preface from the author, Dr. Thomas J. Costeur, explaining his [[supposed]] encounters and research for various types of ghosts. Based on the width of the book, however, $Name2 does not assume there can actually be that many. (if: $leave is 5)[$Name2 lifts the book and examines its cover, before immediately slamming it back down. The pink stuff to its right sloshes out of the mug to the desk.
She grabs her phone.
//[[Call the police]]// ](if: $lefthalf is 7)[$Name2 grabs her phone for a moment, before setting it down. The police didn't help last time. She shoves open her window, and nonchalantly drops both the book and the mug out. She waits to hear the satisfying smack, bang, and shatter of the items across the sidewalk, but it never comes.
Ignoring it, she closes the window before getting [[ready]] for work.(set: $police to 12)]
(set: $didntread to 555)The police arrive later than $Name2 would expect, so much so that she has more than enough time to call into work to let them know she's taking a personal day.
When a couple of squad cars finally pull into the apartment lot and go to her door, she's greeted with only a brief, polite question regarding whether she is or is not $Name2 before they are pushing past her and into the apartment. An impatient officer takes $Name2's statement while his partner briefly searches the apartment.
There are no signs of forced entry, and apartment building's security cameras show no one in $Name2's hall that day at all except for a few neighbors, who never even paused at $Name2's door. After asking that they check a bit further into the cameras, they inform her that no one other than her has entered her apartment in weeks.
They take the mug and the officer promises to have it analyzed [[half-heartedly]].
(set: $call to 22)(if: $sincerely is 10)[She gets a confused and upset email from Rita during her lunch break that afternoon. Rita is clearly not involved in it, or a better liar than $Name2 anticipated, which is unlikely.
$Name2 is going to have to [[apologize]] once she has enough time to type up a thorough response.
Perhaps Rita would enjoy books about ghosts?](if: $brush is 11)[She'll have to text her friend about it later, if she remembers, to see if there's any information she can get about a potential prank. Until then, $Name2 might as well just stick around for the [[ride.|apologize]]](if: $police is 12)[The police haven't even gotten back to her about when she'd called them the first time. She understood it hadn't been that long, but the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes how [[little|apologize]] they can likely do without more proof.]
(if: $call is 22)[$Name 2 goes to work the next day, feeling [[unsettled and anxious|apologize]]. She'd rather stay home and lie in bed.]As someone who actually works with sprites, $Name2 would never consider herself to be one of the conspiracy theorists who refused to believe in anything supernatural. Every so often, the news would report a death or case allegedly involving a [[household spirit or brownie]].
However, other than sprites that might be seen in zoos, supernatural occurences involving humans were rare, so long as one was careful and followed all the rules posted outside of hiking trails and similar areas. As such, skimming through the preface, it is a bit difficult to believe that Costeur would actually have this amount of [[experience.]]In some folklore, these creatures would come in and secretly clean or bring gifts to those they deemed virtuous.
In reality, they never came to give anything for //free.// Ghosts, especially, made the book's claims a bit dubious. Cases involving ghosts were the most rare, which $Name2 assumed was because most were perfectly content to stay [[dead.]] Poltergeists and ghouls seeking revenge were common plots of movies, books, and fairytales, but as much as each film and novel would love to claim they were based on true stories, there was little evidence to back them up.As $Name2 is about to skim to the first chapter, she notices the [[Table of Contents.]]Chapter 5, "The Possibility of Grateful Dead," has been circled [[three times]].Rather than being circled with a pen or marker, someone has scratched and ripped into the page three times. The oval containing the chapter title is barely still on the page, held there by a few sections of the scratched circling that don't connect to the rest.
//[[Look at Chapter 5.|Read]]
[[Stop reading.]]//$Name2 spends the rest of the day periodically checking places. Under her bed. In the closet. The shower. She's never felt so paranoid of monsters since she was fourteen, when she finally got over a longlasting phobia of the dark(click-replace: "the dark")[the unknown](click-replace: "the unknown")[Elmo.] The idea that this might have just been a prank from her friends crosses her mind. Rather than removing fear, it only makes her feel [[alone.]]
The chapter's contents are fairly vague, focusing mainly on Costeur's own experience. Costeur writes that he supposedly was haunted by a "benevolent and overly-generous" ghost that only disappeared after Costeur [[almost fell]] backwards down two (click-replace: "two")[five](click-replace: "five")[twelve](click-replace: "twelve")[twenty](click-replace: "twenty")[thirty-one](click-replace: "thirty-one")[fifty] flights of [[stairs]].$Name2 shuts it immediately, tossing it into the trash before sitting down at her laptop to [[email]] her friend, Rita.----^^(font: "Arial Narrow")["I found myself walking up the stairs to my destination, happily content in the new coat that had merrily been bestowed upon me that morning, when I found my foot slipping from where it was supposed to go. I was only a few steps from the top when I felt my entire weight lean more backwards than it should ever go.
I feared in that moment that it would soon be myself on the mortician's table. However, I did not fall.
Rather, what felt like a large hand pressed upon my back and I was soon straightened properly. Peering around, I found no sign of any welcoming strangers or helpful assistants.
However, the happy helper that had been gifting me with such beautiful things and wealth outside of my dreams (some of which has been poured into the making, publishing, and distributing of this very tome), was never to show any evidence of their presence again."] ^^----//Dr. Thomas Costeur, Ch. 5, page 102//^^$Name2 sets the book down after skimming through the chapter. Essentially, it described the idea of a ghost that in some way became indebted to a human, and had to pay it off before moving onto a final stage of existence, whatever that might be. The idea is mostly foreign to $Name2, though she has vague memories of [[folklore]] with a similar concept.
The writng itself is so old-fashioned in contrast to the cover that it feels as though it had to be written as a [[joke]]. (font: "SimSun")[(text-style: "condense")[^^To: Rita Swarhz
From: $Name2
Date: []<date| <input type="text" name="date" value="Date Here"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('date')">Submit Date</button>
Subject: Book Prank^^]
Rita,
I got a book this morning and have been getting weird liquids in mugs recently.
I hate to be making accusations, but if you, Carroll, or Mike have been playing a prank, I am calling the joke here. I apologize if it isn't you, but at this point I am not sure what else to think.
[[Sincerely]],
$Name2]
(live:100ms)[(set: $date = ?date)]$Name2 vaguely considers whether or not Rita would want the ghost book back if this did turn out to be a very late April Fools thing (it would not have been the first time). She leaves it in the trash before getting [[ready]] to go to work.
(set: $sincerely to 10)The fact that she hasn't heard of it in school before suggests that there is a likely chance that the "grateful dead" only exist in fiction.
Countless authors over the years have attempted to argue that beings like trolls and werewolves also exist, driving for fame and fortune with well-organized chapters filled with conspiracy theories and blurred photos. It is generally considered by society that the days of researchers discovering the reality of species previously only heard of in fairytale to be extremely slowed. There hadn't been any new discoveries since 1892.Everything about this feels like this could all be some odd prank to make her believe that she's being haunted; someone will burst out with balloons and an "I GOT YOU."
As she weighs ideas as to what to do with the book and information in her mind, she needs to decide whether to to [[brush it off]] or [[take it seriously]].She dumps [[it|ready]] in the trash.
(set: $brush to 11)After work, she goes to the library, finding every book she can on [[ghosts.]](if: $sincerely is 10)[Rita isn't quite convinced by the apology. $Name2 drops a call on her way [[home|Rita's]].](if: $brush is 11)[$Name2 isn't even two hours into analyzing the casefile of her firm's latest client when she gets a [[call]] from the front desk.](if: $police is 12)[$Name2 isn't even two hours into analyzing the casefile of her firm's latest client when she gets a [[call]] from the front desk]
(if: $call is 22)[$Name2 isn't even two hours into analyzing the casefile of her firm's latest client when she gets a [[call]] from the front desk.
She doesn't want to talk to anyone right now. She almost lets it continue ring, finally answering at the last moment out of obligation.]...
//
"Hi, Rita, listen -"
"[[Make it quick]]."
//
...$Name2 opens the book, glancing through it. There's a rather lengthy preface from the author, Dr. Thomas J. Costeur, explaining his [[supposed|supposed2]] encounters and research for various types of ghosts. Based on the width of the book, however, $Name2 does not assume there can actually be that many. ...
//
"Hello, this is $Name2; how can I help you?"
"Hi, $Name2. I'm just calling to let you know that someone left flowers for you at the front desk."
"...As a joke?"
"Oh, I don't think so. They're very lovely. Feel free to pick them up when you have the time."
"Right. [[Of course]]. Thank you, James."
//
...
She's not sure now whether there is anyone who could help her. It almost feels as though she's [[losing|ready]] it.$Name2 stops by the front desk on her lunch break.
Sitting right by James' computer is a large vase filled with [[orange-pink astroemerias]] that are accomanied by various greenery and [[little white anenome flowers]]
James gives a short wave of a hand before standing to grab the vase with both hands and hold them out to her. The flowers are so big they hide his entire face. "These are for you."
"Ah, thanks." She takes them, putting one hand on the bottom of the vase and stabilizing it with the other. The flowers press into her shirt, tickling under her chin. "So, who brought these?"
James pauses as he sits back down, his youthful face twisting as he thinks back. "Hm? Oh, they were brought by..." His voice trails off, something very blank appearing in his eyes. "That's funny. I don't know."
"You don't know?"
He just looks at her, a loss for words. "Is there a [[note]]?"
Astroemerias. They meant devotion, or perhaps wealth and good fortune.The anenome flower could mean anything from protection from evil, the death of a loved one, or a bad omen.
$Name2 explains everything.
Some of it was already given in her reply to Rita's confused email, but she comes clean about everything else: the stress, the odd noises, the little odd things she's found on a day-to-day basis that are getting harder to rule as coincidence...
By the end of it, Rita seems to be sated and gives her [[advice]]. None of it is particularly new to $Name2, some being what she has already tried and others what she definitely can't afford. As someone who actually works with sprites, $Name2 would never consider herself to be one of the conspiracy theorists who refused to believe in anything supernatural. Every so often, the news would report a death or case allegedly involving a [[household spirit or brownie|hs/b2]].
However, other than sprites that might be seen in zoos, supernatural occurences involving humans were rare, so long as one was careful and followed all the rules posted outside of hiking trails and similar areas. As such, skimming through the preface, it is a bit difficult to believe that Costeur would actually have this amount of [[experience.|exp2]]In some folklore, these creatures would come in and secretly clean or bring gifts to those they deemed virtuous.
In reality, they never came to give anything for //free.// Ghosts, especially, made the book's claims a bit dubious. Cases involving ghosts were the rarest, which $Name2 assumed was because most were perfectly content to stay [[dead.|dead2]] Poltergeists and ghouls seeking revenge were common plots of movies, books, and fairytales, but as much as each film and novel would love to claim they were based on true stories, there was little proof to back up this theory.As $Name2 is about to skim to the first chapter, she notices the [[Table of Contents.|TC 2]]Chapter 5, "The Possibility of Grateful Dead," has been circled [[three times|3 times]].Rather than being circled with a pen or marker, someone has scratched and ripped into the page three times. The oval containing the chapter title is barely still on the page, held there by a few sections of the scratched circling that don't connect to the rest.
//[[Look at Chapter 5.|Read.2]]//
The chapter's contents are fairly vague, focusing mainly on Costeur's own experience. Costeur writes that he supposedly was haunted by a [["benevolent and overly-generous"|af3]] ghost that only disappeared after Costeur almost fell backwards down two (click-replace: "two")[five](click-replace: "five")[twelve](click-replace: "twelve")[twenty](click-replace: "twenty")[thirty-one](click-replace: "thirty-one")[fifty] flights of [[stairs|stairs2]].^^----(font: "Arial Narrow")["Although there are many fairytales that like to tell different versions of the so-called "grateful" dead, after delving into some serious self-reflection with my own possible encounter with such a spirit and further research of accounts of those who may have as well, I have arisen to a different conclusion. These "grateful" dead are not so grateful at all (or, perhaps, grateful to a large extent but not enough to cause them to willingly be present), but rather trapped in servitude.
In Chapter Two, I have thoroughly discussed that this concept of "unfinished business," as we so like to refer it as, may often trap a ghost to this realm. The grateful dead are thus trapped by some form of life debt that they failed to repay when they were alive.
It is from this concept that I theorize that while common folklore mischaracterizes this type of ghost as cunning and eager servants, the reality is that these beings may have no other choice until the life debt is paid."] ^^----//Dr. Thomas Costeur, Ch. 5, page 98//^^$Name2 sets the book down after skimming through the chapter. Essentially, it described the idea of a ghost that in some way became indebted to a human, and had to pay it off before moving onto a final stage of existence, whatever that might be. The idea is mostly foreign to $Name2, though she has vague memories of [[folklore|folkl]] with a similar concept.
The writng itself is so old-fashioned in contrast to the cover that it feels as though it had to be written as a [[joke|joke2]]. $Name2 was always a lover of fairytales -- specifically, the ones that everyone generally believed were fictional. Not the ones that could have been describing real life scenarios. Until now, she'd considered most of the stories involving any kind of ghost or undead to fall under the same category.
After all, countless authors over the years have attempted to argue that beings like trolls and werewolves also exist, driving for fame and fortune with well-organized chapters filled with conspiracy theories and blurred photos. It is generally considered by society that the days of researchers discovering the reality of species previously only heard of in fairytale to be extremely slowed. There hadn't been any new discoveries since 1892.Everything about this feels like this could all be some odd prank to make her believe that she's being haunted; someone will burst out with balloons and an "I GOT YOU."
As she weighs ideas as to what to do with the book and information in her mind, she needs to decide whether to to brush it off or [[take it seriously]].She finally stops hiding from under the blankets when the sun starts to seap through the beige curtains of her bedroom to go explore. There is nothing in the kitchen.
Rather, there's a book on her office desk that she's never seen before. Next to it, a crystal mug filled with something that looks like Pepto-Bismol.
It has a bright yellow cover featuring a white, cartoony ghost on it. Writen in black block letters is its title: //The Dead: Can They Come Back, and Why?: A Mortician's Guide into the Unfinished Business.//
//[[Read it.|Read 4]]//The chapter's contents are fairly vague, focusing mainly on Costeur's own experience. Costeur writes that he supposedly was haunted by a "benevolent and overly-generous" ghost that only [[disappeared|af4]] after Costeur almost fell backwards down two (click-replace: "two")[five](click-replace: "five")[twelve](click-replace: "twelve")[twenty](click-replace: "twenty")[thirty-one](click-replace: "thirty-one")[fifty] flights of [[stairs|stairs5]].^^----(font: "Arial Narrow")["I found myself missing the dear ghostly fellow only days after it had vanished. Although //grateful// myself (pun intended) for having my life so thoroughly saved, I do miss the convenience of such a friend.
Perhaps this is the burden of the grateful dead --- to be thoroughly appreciated by the living it serves only so much as it is providing for them. It does, in reflection, seem to be a cruel fate that these undead spectors would spend such an amount of their afterlife attempting to pay back a debt they likely never asked for.
However, whether these beings are happy and giddy to serve or perhaps morose and doing so only out of obligation, the truth of the ungrateful dead seems to stay the same. The grateful dead are those whose life was saved once in their lifetime, but who never successfully paid their savior back //enough//. In recompense, they must serve this living individual until they have paid back this debt by saving the livng's life, or by providing an amount of wealth that is enough to substitute."] ^^----//Dr. Thomas Costeur, Ch. 5, page 102//^^$Name2 sets the book down after skimming through the chapter. Essentially, it described the idea of a ghost that in some way became indebted to a human, and had to pay it off before moving onto a final stage of existence, whatever that might be. The idea is mostly foreign to $Name2, though she has vague memories of [[folklore|folkl1]] with a similar concept.
The writing itself is so old-fashioned in contrast to the cover that it feels as though it had to be written as a [[joke|joke3]]. Something in the back of her brain can't get past how //unreal// it all feels, like the figure she saw was made with a projector and someone with too much time on their hands.
But the image of the... of $Name that is trapped in her skull is too real, and the feeling of the mug against her lips is too heavy, and the only option is to [[take it seriously]].$Name2 opens the book, glancing through it. There's a rather lengthy preface from the author, Dr. Thomas J. Costeur, explaining his [[supposed|exp3]] encounters and research for various types of ghosts. Ghosts. Cases involving ghosts were the most rare, which $Name2 assumed was because most were perfectly content to stay [[dead.|dead3]] However, the only option she can consider to make sense of last night is that it was $Name.
The only option she can consider to make sense of why the book is here is that $Name is trying to send a message.As $Name2 is about to skim to the first chapter, she notices the [[Table of Contents.|TC 3]]Chapter 5, "The Possibility of Grateful Dead," has been circled [[three times|3 times2]].Rather than being circled with a pen or marker, something -- $Name? -- has scratched and ripped into the page three times. The oval containing the chapter title is barely still on the page, held there by a few sections of the scratched circling that don't connect to the rest.
//[[Look at Chapter 5.|Read 3]]//She invests in a "spirit box" -- one of those odd devices that were used on television to "listen" to ghosts. Supposedly, the spirit box communicates with spirits by scanning radio frequencies fast enough that the ghost can communicate with it.
She isn't sure if it'll work, or if there is even //actually// a ghost. However, at this point, she will try most anything if it means getting [[answers.]]
Even though Rita's words don't necessarily help, it feels nice to be [[heard]].
$Name2 goes home to find a [[bouquet]] of flowers on the table.There's a large vase filled with [[orange-pink astroemerias]] that are accomanied by various greenery and [[little white anenome flowers]] just... [[sitting]] there. She grabs the vase and pushes the whole thing into the [[trashcan.]]A few days later, when she takes the bag out, it makes a satisfying [[shatter|work.]] at the bottom of the dumpster.$Name2 was always a lover of fairytales -- specifically, the ones that everyone generally believed were fictional. Not the ones that could have been describing real life scenarios. Until now, she'd considered most of the stories involving any kind of ghost or undead to fall under the same category.
However, the vivid imagery of a blurred figure is ingrained in her brain, and now she cannot consider anything else.[[There is not a note.]](if: $call is 22)[
$Name2 feels as though she might vomit.](if: $brush is 11)[//[[Keep the flowers.]]//]
//[[Get rid of them.]]//As soon as $Name2 gets home, she immediately digs out [[the book]] from the trash.She plants the vase on a [[coworker's]] desk when he's on a break before going back to [[work.]]Clyde Meur, one of the older CPAs at the firm, had recently lost his wife. Today is his first day back after having taken a few days off last week.
He can appreciate the flowers much more than $Name2 ever would.[[There's another vase of flowers on her kitchen table the next day, accompanied by what looks like a book on the undead.]]After work, she goes to the library, finding every book she can on [[ghosts.]] Then, when she gets home, she pulls Costeur's guide out of the trash.$Name2 [[throws|throws them both away]] them both away.Double-click this passage to edit it.When she does so, she can almost see something in the corner of her eye.(click-append: "eye.")[ She goes to bed, and something starts to [[rattle]] in the kitchen.]She doesn't [[sleep|12]] well.The next day, there's a lottery ticket lying on the couch by the TV remote.(click-replace: "The next day, there's a lottery ticket lying on the couch by the TV remote.")[She tears it up.](click-replace: "She tears it up.")[She almost thinks she sees someone behind her in the mirror the next time she goes to the bathroom. There's [[no one]] there once she turns.]//1. Something shows up in her apartment, or her office at work. Some kind of gift, ranging from simple items to ludicrously expensive products.
2. She gets rid of them.
3. She hears noises.//
[[Rinse and repeat.]]After another day of this, she picks up on the [[pattern|tears]].This goes on for a year.(click-replace: "a year")[two years](click-replace: "two")[three](click-replace: "three")[four](click-replace: "four")[five](click-replace: "five")[[[six|[six]]]She gets married and moves out of the apartment.(click-append: "apartment.")[She almost thinks she'll leave whatever it is behind once she moves the last box in to her new house.](click-append: "house.")[ She does not. It follows her there.]
Her spouse, Robin, a loving engineer, is patient with the strange affair and mysterious gifts, but believes it's a ghost and tells her she should probably do some research to fix it.(click-append: "fix it.")[ $Name2 would love to, but it's busy season at work and and with the move, she doesn't have the time.](click-append: "time.")[ She never has the [[time]].] It continues for another year.(click-replace: "year")[two years](click-replace: "two")[three](click-replace: "three")[four](click-replace: "four")[five](click-replace: "five")[six](click-replace: "six")[seven](click-replace: "seven")[eight](click-replace: "eight")[[[nine|[nine]]]During this time, $Name2 has one daughter. She and her family end up making a game out of finding whatever item was left in the house and throwing it out. (click-append: "throwing it out.")[ Somehow this becomes [[normal.|133]]]Another two years.(click-replace: "two")[four](click-replace: "Another four years.")[She eventually retires.](click-replace: "She eventually retires.")[She has not woken up to the noises in the dark for years.](click-replace: "She has not woken up to the noises in the dark for years.")[Everything is peaceful. She lives a modest [[life]].]$Name2 is given the exact length of time anyone could possibly hope for.
Years pass.(click-append: "Years pass.")[ Eventually, she [[passes]] with them.]The last "gift" left is a [[silver mug]] on the small table by $Name2's bed. Double-click this passage to edit it.$Name2 isn't sure what she'd expected the afterlife to be like. (click-append: "afterlife to be like.")[
She certainly hadn't expected it to be a light purple void decorated by the occasional bursts of teal and yellow pulsing around her.](click-append: "her.")[ She feels as though she's standing upside-down, but not necessarily unpleasantly.] (click-append: "unpleasantly")[
She forces her eyes shut and open a few times before she realizes that, every few moments, she can see a brief outline of her room. She [[turns]] around.]There are two things $Name2 notices when she looks behind her:
A) There is a large, glowing circle standing out from all of the purple.
B) A couple of yards away from the circle is a vague, (text-style: "rumble")[[[shaking figure|[shaking figure]]] of a woman with dyed-scarlet hair.It isn't until $Name2 really looks at the vibrating figure in front of her before she looks down at her own hands to see them trembling rapidly as well.
"Is this hell?"
The woman - who looks strangely familiar - tilts her head. (text-style: "blur")["It's not anything.]
"Am I a ghost?"
The woman bristles. (text-style: "blur")["Yeah. Yeah, you're a ghost. Like me. It's almost [[karma]]."]$Name2 ignores the last part of that sentence. "What's the portal thing lead to?" She points at the odd circle to the right.
(click-append: "right.")[For the first time, the woman looks confused. (text-style: "blur")["Portal thing?"]
"The glowing thing. Looks like a circle."
(text-style: "blur")["...Oh."]
"You don't see that?"
(text-style: "blur")["No."]
[["Why not?"]]
]The red-head (text-style: "rumble")[shakes] harder. (text-style: "blur")["I suppose you're not actually a ghost then. You get to walk through that thing and reach a genuine afterlife."]
$Name2 takes a few steps towards it. "You can't?"
(text-style: "rumble")[(text-style: "shudder")[More shaking.] ]
(text-style: "blur")["What can I say. I have unfinished business I wasn't able to [[complete]]."]$Name2 crosses her arms. "What business is it? Anything I could... help with?"
For a moment, the ghost almost seems to still before shaking even harder than before. (text-style: "blur")["Oh, //now// you want to help?"]
It is approximately at this moment when $Name2 realizes why the young red-head in front of her looks [[familiar.]]Decades ago, $Name2 would have been able to recognize her immediately.
"Wait." $Name2 squints, trying to focus on the constantly-moving form in front of her. "$Name?"
(text-style: "blur")["Aaaand circle takes the square!"]
"Why are //you// here?" $Name2 has vague, passing memories of a funeral so many years ago. It had been the most boring one she had even attended.
(text-style: "blur")[You saved my life once, so my unfinished business is apparently that I had to either save yours or pay off the debt in gifts."] It's difficult to see her face, but $Name is obviously not happy.
(if: $brush is 11)[$Name2 has a sudden flashback of tossing a certain book into the garbage, even after reading it. "The grateful dead. That's a real thing?"
(text-style: "blur")["Oh, so you did read the book. So nice to know that my efforts to make this easier on you and less creepy were [[helpful]].]](if: $sincerely is 10)[$Name2 quickly remembers every book she received on the matter of ghosts, and suddenly regrets not taking Glenn's advice to take time to pay attention to them. "That... ah, would have been the type of [[helpful]] information I could have found in a book, I'd imagine?"
(text-style: "blur")["//Yes.//"] ](if: $didntread is 555)["Oh. How's that work?"
$Name looks frustrated. (text-style: "blur")["I... tried to give you countless books on the subject, and you don't even - recognize the concept? I'm one of the grateful dead. Subclass of ghost?"]
$Name2 can only pause, and then shrug. "I don't like reading, for one."
This comment does not seem to have been [[helpful]].]
"What was I supposed to do?" $Name2 starts to explore the area, circling around the portal to a supposed afterlife. The portal gives off a certain warmth, and for a moment she thinks she can smell fresh baked bread. She's assuming it's the "good one," but perhaps that's a bit assumptuous. She turns back to look at $Name. "Try to //die?// That's what you needed, right? Life for a life?"
(text-style: "blur")["Either by saving your life or by giving so much that it's equal the worth."]
$Name2 takes pause at that. "How does one determine the worth of a life?"
A shaky hand runs through translucent bright red hair. (text-style: "blur")["I don't know. Honestly, I don't understand most of the details. All that matters is you //never// accepted anything I gave you, so I couldn't pay it off. I gave you lottery tickets! Winning ones! You could have been sooooo rich, but no. You couldn't trust the lottery ticket even once!"]
$Name2 opens her mouth once or twice before pursing her lips. "Do you not see how that was creepy to me? To know something was in my //house?// Your presence made my life hell for years! I was only happy after I learned how to cope with it! And even then --"
(text-style: "blur")["Your life was hell? I was doing everything I could to get out of your hair faster, but that was my only shot to..."] $Name [[trails off]].
It takes a week before the [[spirit box]] arrives. At that point, $Name2 has received multiple mysterious gifts, including the newest IPhone.(click-replace: "the newest IPhone")[an envelope with enough money to pay for her bills for a year](click-replace: "an envelope with enough money to pay for her bills for a year")[a pet kitten that she has named Sir Rafael] $Name2 waits for $Name to finish her sentence, but $Name instead just folds her arms and sits down on seemingly purple nothing.
(text-style: "blur")["You know what? Nevermind. You can't fix this now. Just go through the portal over..."] $Name looks around, as if trying to find where it is. $Name2 right in the eye, wearing the same odd smile she had when $Name2 had gone to the bar with her so many years ago. (text-style: "blur")["..Wherever. I think it's time you go now."]
$Name2 looks over at the portal. Now that she's staring directly at it, she can almost -- //almost// -- make out a green field.
//[[Reconcile.]]//
//[[Leave.]]//$Name2 takes a few steps towards the portal before she stops and turns back around.
She remembers each year of having to throw mysterious things away, even to the point of accidentally throwing out a surprise bouquet of roses Glenn had actually bought her on Mother's Day. No matter how much she and her family got used to it, it was hard to live with what she now realizes was $Name hovering over their lives.
However, she can only imagine how much harder it must be to live alone for so many years, fighting and failing to find peace.
"I'm sorry." The phrase is succinct, but it's the only thing she can think of to say. //Sorry for never using the lottery tickets. Sorry that you've been stuck here. Sorry for your loss.//
$Name made it seem as though there was no way to get her through that portal. However, $Name2 was going to put that to the [[test]].$Name2 looks back at $Name just for a moment. She almost feels bad leaving the ghost here, but she'd have no idea how to fix the issue. Even then, staring at the redheaded figure in front of her only reminds her of every night she spent tossing and turning waiting for the rattling noises to stop.
$Name2 walks through the [[portal.]]//You Got:
''Ending 1 out of 3:'' "Ungrateful"
[[End]] ////At the beginning of this story, I asked you what your definition of fairytales is.
You said: //
$def
//Did this story count as a fairytale, according to your definition?
[[Yes|12444]]
[[No|1122455]]
////Why does it count as a fairytale to you?//
[]<fairy|
<input type="text" name="fairy" value="Answer Here"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('fairy')">Submit Answer</button>
(live:100ms)[(set: $fairy = ?fairy)]
//[[Thank you for your honesty.]]////Why is it not a fairytale?//
[]<definition|
<input type="text" name="definition" value="Answer Here"><button type="submit" onclick="customScripts.submitName('definition')">Submit Answer</button>
(live:100ms)[(set: $def = ?definition)]
//[[Thank you for your honesty.]]////[[Play again?|Menu Page]]//Double-click this passage to edit it.//You Got:
''Ending 2 out of 3:'' "Hopeful"
[[End]] //It takes a while to learn how to use it, but she figures it out.
It makes a static-y //[[chhkk]]// sound each second.
Although she knows this is the type of thing one is supposed to have the lights out for, she's turned on every light her apartment has.(text-style: "rumble")[ // chhk chhk chhk chhk//(click-replace: "chhk chhk chhk chhk")[chhk chhk chhk chhk](click-replace: "chhk chhk chhk chhk")[chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk](click-replace: "chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk")[chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk](click-replace: "chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk")[chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk](click-replace: "chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk")[[[chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk|chhkchhk]]]](text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhkchhkchhkchhkchhkchhkchhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[(text-style: "upside-down")[Hello?]]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blur")[(text-style: "upside-down")[Hello?]]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
$Name2 hears what she thinks is a quiet greeting, but it's so [[garbled]]... She pauses, unsure if it is actually anything or just something from the radio that the box picked up.(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[Hello?]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[Help me.]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blur")[$Name2. [[Help]] me.]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
$Name2 sits up straight as soon as she hears her name, face pale. "Hello?" (if: $righthalf is 6)[She pauses, hands trembling. "...$Name?"]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[It's $Name.]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"$Name?" (if: $righthalf is not 6)[It's good while since the funeral, but not so long that $Name2 doesn't remember that's around the time this all started. She supposes it makes sense.] She grips the spirit box tighter in her hand. "What do you want with me? Are you a - a grateful dead?"
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
That can't be the actual term for it.
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
Definitely not the actual term.
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"A ghost, I mean. Like in the book, because I... saved your life?"
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[[[Yes.|[Yes.]]]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[Help.]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"How?" $Name2 pauses after she opens her mouth, trying to think of what the book said about it. "You... Wait, let me think."
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"You're an ungrateful dead - ghost. Spirit." She isn't sure what the //actual// politically correct term for ghosts are. She's never met one before, and no one has been writing any amount of rhetoric on the subject. "So, you're here because you didn't [[pay me]] for saving your life."
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//](text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blur")[I gave you fourteen dollars!]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"...Right. That." $Name2 crosses her arms, thinking. "And - now you're here, waiting to either save my life or pay off your debts through weird drinks and books?"
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[And cash - and stuff.]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
It's hard to hear $Name, but $Name2 manages. "...And cash and stuff."
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"How does one determine the [[worth]] of a life?"
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
$Name doesn't answer the question, and for a few moments, $Name2 is left to reflect with the harsh static of the spirit box.
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//] (text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//] (text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
As much of a confusing, hellish experience as this has been for $Name2, she's struggling to imagine what it would be like for $Name.
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"$Name, You've been alone this whole time?"
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[Yeah.]
//[[Make this right.]]//$Name2 turns the spirit box off and sets it down, before double-thinking it and picking it up again. "Okay then."
She grabs her apartment keys and exits into the [[hallway]].Technically, residents are not supposed to have [[roof]] access. However, the lock preventing people from going up there has long been broken and never replaced. The roof's general night-time inhabitants are typically just the occasional group of rebellious college students, but $Name2 would be a liar if she said she hadn't gone up there once or twice for the sake of it.
$Name2 gets up to the roof, and goes straight to the edge. The apartment building isn't anywhere close to the tallest building in town, but certainly has enough stories to kill her.
[[She turns on the spirit box.]](text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"So, all you need is to save my life, right?"
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//](text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"$Name. Right?"
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[Yes.]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"And you're going to catch me, right?"
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[Yes.]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
$Name2 steps on the ledge, hovering over it. "Okay. Listen, I wanted to say I'm //sorry//."
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"I can't help but feel like this might have also been on me. I didn't feel like the fourteen dollars were //enough//. I felt like I was owed more. Maybe I jinxed it."
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blurrier")[Maybe you were owed more. I could have stayed in touch.] (text-style: "blur")[Maybe we could have been friends.]
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
(text-style: "blur")[[[I'm sorry too.|[-Yes]]]
$Name2 tries not to think about it too hard, simply leaning forward and taking a step into nothing.
[[She waits for a fall that doesn't happen.]]$Name2 has barely leaned forward at all before something pushes her out of the way and far from the ledge. She stumbles a bit to keep from falling, looking around. She can't see $Name.
She turns on the spirit box one last time. "Did it work?"
(text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//] (text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//] (text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//] (text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//] (text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//] (text-style: "rumble")[//chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk chhk//]
"$Name?"
[[She turns off the spirit box.]]
$Name2 shrugs, dropping the spirit box and leaving it on the roof as she carefully makes her way back to the apartment. All she can assume is that $Name has finally found peace, and because of that, $Name2 can finally have some [[peace]] and quiet of her own.$Name2 walks into her apartment. There is a lottery ticket sitting on the table that she certainly didn't buy herself.
Just //somehow//, she thinks it might be a [[winner.]]//You Got:
''Ending 3 out of 3'': "Grateful"
[[End]]
//