peckenpaugh | THE UPPER LEVELS

up into the balconies

you climb The breathing boughs of that nightmare tree crowd into the upper balconies of the ruined auditorium. You have to duck and bend to get by them in places, sometimes through spaces that seem to grow smaller as you press through. These branches are warm to the touch, some of them uncomfortably so, pulsing with something that isn't quite life.

You've climbed these stairs more than once in your time here; to take your place after your sorting, to watch new students find their House, or perhaps just for an assembly. This building always seemed so sturdy, so safe. It was a place to go for shows, for celebrations, and hell, to just get out of class. Now, the floorboards creek precariously, split and splintering where vines have crept through. Benches are broken, overturned and tossed aside to make room for the auditorium's new king: the malignant maple. Up here, the glowing blue seeds hanging from branches are close enough to pluck. Those that have ripened litter the floor and railings, filling the balconies with an eerie blue twinkle.

The air is muggy, clogged by falling ash. It stinks of coal and sulfer. But you keep moving, anyway. Keep opening portals and pushing on. Just a little bit higher, and then maybe you'll be able to plunge into the depths.

and you fight By now there's a plan, and with it, a slowly growing brigade of people, of beings, of bugs, who are gathering to push back against inevitability.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The door creaks open a few inches, but no monsters come through. A dark hallway stands on the other side, the one at the back of the Zippy Dip leading to the restrooms. There's a silhouette of a man just barely visible in the shadows, big and burly but familiar, not threatening, and also frozen in time.

Equipped with very little of value besides her wits, Viola decides it's best if she hangs back by Mr. Zebrowski's desk in case she needs to duck for cover. "Can you see who it is?" she asks. She doesn't sound concerned. She has watched enough Quidditch games to know that Ramona can deal some serious damage with a bat.

Ramona hesitates to answer, or even to say it's safe. Nothing familiar in these memories is really that familiar. Everything is just a little off-kilter.

"Not... quite," she says. But it really doesn't feel dangerous, or like she's about to be ambushed. Her grip on the bat slackens as she takes another few steps forward towards the figure, examining, careful. "All frozen," she relates, still not turning back to look at Viola. "Anything shiny in there?"

Hmm, memories are so odd. Of course, Zippy couldn't have known who was knocking at his door but he might remember it in retrospect. The space doesn't feel dangerous though. Just heavy with grief.

"Nothing is sparkling on sight," she reports and begins touching the paperwork on Mr. Zebrowski's desk in the hopes of changing that. "He does have a thing for personalized stationery though." Her fingers light across the bank statements, official mayoral letterhead, the Zippy's Lips notepad, and land finally on the crumpled up speech.

The crumpled speech glows a soft gold as Viola's fingers brush the page. While some of Zippy's stationery has a glowing charm on it, this seems to be of the supernatural sort.

"Nevermind. I've found it," Viola tells Ramona and picks up the golden copy of the speech to inspect.

Snippets jump out as Viola inspects the parchment.

"... The loss of our neighbors in Paw Paw ... dark times in our great town as a creeping dread descended ... the heroic sacrifices of a few ... prevented unfathomable loss ..."

More is crossed out underneath, illegible. Looks like a speech no one ever wanted to write.

Ramona doubles back, hesitant to turn her back on the shadowy figure but too curious to ignore the linchpin.

"What does it say?" she asks even as she draws up by Viola's shoulder to read over it. As she scans the words, a second and more important question forms in her mind. "Do you understand what happened?" she asks Viola. She doesn't, not really - she only has these disparate bits of the story, and it's a puzzle she can't quite put together. There's nothing more irritating to her.

"Is it done?" Zippy asks, quiet. His voice sounds hoarse. Empty. Unraveled. Not like the Zippy that greets students every Move In Day with hot dogs and ice cream and cat hair garnish.

"Yeah." The voice on the other side is quiet, too. Gruff, but warm. "It's done."

Zippy sits there for a moment, sparing a glance for the speech on his desk, and lets out a long, aching sigh. He pushes back from his seat, weaves his way through the boxes all over his floor, and leaves.

As the door slams shut behind him, a stack of boxes tumble to the floor, revealing a bright pink curtain that looks an awful lot like the entrance to the Zippy Dip’s photobooth. The curtain sways in a sudden breeze, and behind it you see Peckenpaugh’s auditorium.

THE UPPER LEVELS

MEMORY: After The Sealing

MEMORY: After The Sealing

MEMORY: After The Sealing

MEMORY: After The Sealing

MEMORY: After The Sealing

MEMORY: After The Sealing

MEMORY: After The Sealing

MEMORY: After The Sealing

MEMORY: After The Sealing