peckenpaugh | HE IS HERE

the vines have run wild

it's over Everything is in shambles. Walls and floors torn and broken from roots and branches sprouting through. They block doors and crowd passages and pulse with sick life. The Thing sits in the center of it all, angry and starving, its trunk both still and moving in ways you catch only when it is in the corner of your vision. Branches that look less like bark and more like skin stretch in every direction, lush with shadowy leaves and dotted with bits of glowing blue. The ruined floor is littered with those little twinkling dots. Seeds. Everywhere, seeds. They hang on boughs, and rest on banisters in the upper levels. The one thing in this nightmare that doesn't radiate that awful, pervasive hunger.

The roof is gone, replaced with a writhing canopy of shadow and muck. Some parts of it are complex spiderwebs of tendrilly shapes, others solid formless movement. The only consistent thing about it is that it is terrible to behold, faintly nauseating to look at for too long. Ash rains down between gaps in its branches, and what glimpses of sky are visible are nothing but swirling gray clouds. What stars still shine are magic, man-made, floated between balconies by prom committee before the dance.

Those remaining begin to stir. Each one of you has heard Pocket's words, "Find the roots." And if you want to save your friends, your family, the holler — hell, maybe even the world — that's exactly what you're going to do.

You climb from protective cocoons of dying moss, push your way past walls of solid ice, emerging into utter destruction. Things move and make noise at the edge of your vision, but for now, at least, all is calm. What to do? Where to start?

it's ruined Among the twinkling maple seeds are the dropped possessions of students and staff, lost when they were pulled away. A compact mirror, a cell phone, a pair of glasses, cups of punch spilling across the floor. A single red heel sits at the edge of the jagged pit that peers down into the Sorting Path. The air here is hot. Too hot. If you jump, you'll surely be boiled alive.

Though locked when everyone tried to flee, vines and roots have torn the doors to the auditorium off their hinges. The splintered remains of heavy oak doors litter the entrance halls and stairwell alcoves, leaving an open path outside. Not that you'd want to flee, by the looks of it.

A cool night breeze is the only relief from the growing heat of the auditorium, yes, but even that is tainted by the heavy scent of flowers. Outside, vines and purple flowers have exploded over every surface. They climb up lamp posts, engulf buildings whole, hang from trees. It would be beautiful if it weren't horrifying. Campus is unrecognizable.

there is no hope Roots and vines clog the way to the Sorting Path, and most stairwells are completely obstructed by the growths of that horrible tree. Up above, something buzzes and wails, a mockery of a cicada's cry, and beyond that the twittering of birds nesting in the tree's highest branches.

Pouch coalesces in the middle of it all, a one-winged magimagicicada, weak and weary but undaunted. Resolute, if not reinvigorated. He bends down to touch a seed, and the moment his obsidian fingers light on it, a blue-white portal to somewhere else rips right through reality. A memory begins to play. Somehow, the bug seems to know what he's seeing.

She gave us what we need, the one who ran says to the gathered students, his voice in their heads as much as the air. Let's all not let her down, huh?

Find your friends. Find my siblings. It's time to fight.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Mary Grace takes a moment to fluff her boobs before casually making her way up to the others. There's a dead bug in her hair still and a rope wound around her torso like a sash, and she's pretty sure this is going to be an iconic Halloween look once this gets turned into the movie it deserves to be.

"We only gotta find the ones we like," she says with that deadpan arrogance that's hard to read. "Let the guys getting paid for this handle the rest."

“Oh, you look pretty.” This is said with at least three parts scorn, but she’s not lying. Apocalypse hot is a whole genre, and this is it. “Thanks for taking the time out of your day, then.” She assumes they all had found her, Mary Grace included. She can’t help but look a little smug about that.

Armani tucks her record under his arm and dutifully unzips her. Now he needs an outfit change, too.

"Oh, this is yours," he says, nodding toward the record. "We pulled this out of your brain."

Chanel slips out of her dress to reveal an elaborate undergarment setup that isn’t so far away from what she’d actually wear at parties for the fun of it. She takes pains to fold her dress carefully, and drape it over an auditorium chair, out of sight.

Only when satisfied that it’s going to be carefully preserved does she collect the record and examine it, with a little shadow of a smile. “...God, you were in my brain.” Ugh.

"Mary Grace ate your demonic brain bugs," he tells her very sweetly, in a way that is definitely mocking her suitor.

"But, here-- before we go, you should have this. Ours are pretty similar so it might work for you?" He holds out his wand, handle end toward her like passing a knife. So brave, so self-sacrificing, so stupid. "I also found a hockey stick if you want that."

HE IS HERE

MEMORY: Haunted House-COMPLETE!

MEMORY: Haunted House-COMPLETE!

MEMORY: Haunted House-COMPLETE!

MEMORY: Haunted House-COMPLETE!

MEMORY: Haunted House-COMPLETE!