The Curse of Crockett Hill

Crockett Hill, stardate 79048.7:

The inn is located not too far away from the direct center of the village. (The actual direct center belongs to a wolf preserve, which might be in bad taste all things considered. Then again, Blake has found that the universe often has a mean sense of humor.) Upon entering the inn, Blake convinces the owner using several incantations that not only do they have a room available, but Blake doesn't need to pay. That's the common understanding Blake has had with various hotels, hostels, inns, and other such places that say they pay upon departure. Especially when they leave in the wee hours of the morning.

They put the room down under a fake name. Just in case someone figures them out. The game requires anonymity and mystery. Lies and deception. And, perhaps, just a little bit of murder. Just a few days, and then move on to the next place. Immediately upon entering the room, Blake collapses onto the bed and sleeps for a few hours. When they awake, refreshed, they survey the town. The inn is to the south of the direct center. To the north of it, equidistant to the inn, was the spot where Lena Duchannes was executed. To the East, Jeanette Duchannes' house.

Which left the west to be explored. The map said it was a simple street of no real importance. No historical event occurred there. No murder by wolves, no witch's execution. Not even a drunk driving incident. There was magic in this town, and Blake would play a part in its culmination. But it would either begin or end on Mactíre Lane.

The only thing Regan could do, other than panic, was prepare for his first day at the academy. Routine helped soothe the mind - but it couldn't stop the distraction. He had already learned about some of the lore behind the town. Some kind of punishment went wrong, the sources didn't agree on the details. Too Christianized in some, biased on other ways. Light and dark ... Both made as much sense to him as "medium roast", but all he could do is wait and see. 

Perhaps another trip to the library might help clear things up more? 

The Crockett Library was a small, unassuming building at first glance, but when you go inside, you would find a veritable treasure trove of books, including a very well-stocked genealogy section. Some might say that the library is bigger on the inside, but the librarians have never confirmed this.

They look more into the official documents from around the time of the founding. More of the same, but Regan felt something nagging at the back of his mind. 

Why does this seem familiar?

He's never been to this town up until moving in and he's read up repeatedly ... but ... why ... 

In short order, a librarian approaches Regan. "May I help you with something?"

Regan is startled by the query (visibly so). "Oh. Sorry, yes. I'm looking more into this Lena Duchannes person. Is there anything that might be of help?"

"Ah! For that, you'll want these documents." The librarian guides Regan over to the geneology section - the books on the Duchannes-Ravenwood families take up two entire shelves. "What do you wish to know about her?"

"I'm trying to understand the conflicting accounts surrounding her death." Regan paused. "I hope requesting about such isn't too sensitive a matter to discuss, but I wanted to see what might have been written closer to her death."

The librarian shakes her head, "The circumstances regarding Lena's execution have always been a matter of public record - Mayor Jeanette does not believe in secrets."

She sifts through the record and uncovers a very old piece of paper - the final words of Lena herself. Written in ink, they read thusly:

 “Good evening, foolish Mortals.”

 “You may have managed to kill me, the most powerful Cataclyst of all time, but let’s see how your victory tastes! Is that blood on the floor? Do I see corpses? Could it be?”

 “YES! WE DID KILL TWO OF YOUR ALLIANCE! It’s only fair, after all. You killed me and Harrowhark, so we killed Ace and Witch Three in return. Something ‘wicked’ this way comes, indeed. And there will be more witch blood to spill tomorrow.”

 “Put another way? Caster vengeance is a dish best served hot.”

 “Now, then. I can’t speak for my fellow villains, but I can tell you why I came here. And believe it or not, the reasons weren’t even entirely selfish!”

 “First thing? My boyfriend, Ethan Wate. I received a prophecy that said YOU PEOPLE were going to attack Gatlin, where we live, and kill us both! I couldn’t let that happen… so I came here and hid myself among you, pretending to be Light. You know the rest.”

 “But there’s another reason too. Our great and powerful friend Aífe has a future, and she can’t get to it unless the rest of you all die! Sounds weird, I know, but that’s the way time works. Or so I’m told.”

“Last thing: to my teammates, good luck. Harrowhark and I will do what we can to assist. Remember: Never give up, never give in.”

 “And as for you mewling quims? Get ready, because we’re going to make your lives a LIVING HELL! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! THE DARK FIRE WILL COME FOR YOU ALL, AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO TO STOP IT!”

Regan nods. ”Fair enough." Reading through the words, they couldn't help but feel the bitterness and anger leave the text and into his soul. The sensation was unpleasant, grating, like a metal fork to ceramic. Regan had to force himself away from the paper. 

His skepticism had him thinking that this was someone's hyperbolic recollection, but, what with vampires and werewolves and unicorns and demons, they had cause to consider that this was very real, and that this person was not someone you wanted for an enemy. He hailed the librarian, fearful of mishandling the old paper.

The librarian carefully puts the paper away. "They say Lena was quite a nice girl before she went mad. No one knows how it happened - one day, she was as Light a Caster as could be imagined, and the next... pure evil. All we know for sure is that she was corrupted, and died that way."

Regan could only nod as the librarian spoke. "Are there any copies of official and unofficial records regarding her life before that?" It was one thing to "go mad" due to Lena's purported circumstances - it was another to become whatever he sensed from that paper.

The librarian produces surprisingly modern-looking birth certificates and school transcripts - Lena was born centuries after she was died, and her teachers all found her to be very intelligent, and a pleasure to have in class. 

One wrote they expected her to make valedictorian. In short, no indication whatsoever of criminal wrongdoing, or anything else that may have marked her as having a troubled home life. "If you're wondering about the dating discrepancy," says the librarian, "All Mayor Jeanette said was, 'Time travel.'"

Regan nods once more. At this point, no other explanation would make sense. It was jarring, but it was logical. "Thank you, I think I'll need time to digest this, but thank you."

The librarian smiles. "You are quite welcome. If you have further questions, don't hesitate to ask. In fact, we have recently come by a small cache of documents that may be of interest to you."

"I will take you up on that offer tomorrow, when I'm certain my brain won't be brought to flames by Lena's anger.” A resigned laugh from Regan. The question of the cause of her damnation would likely bother him later, but he knew it was better to take these in doses. Madness comes with zealous study.

The librarian nods. "Very well. Goodnight." She then wanders off to go re-organize the botany section.

A question slammed into Regan’s mind. "Actually, forgive my troubling you, I think you might be able to help me with one last question but it might require a book."

The librarian turns around, "No trouble at all! It's my job to answer questions, after all. Ask away!"

Regan cleared his throat. "I heard about Light and Dark and Casters. I'm afraid I don't know all the terminology and the who's what, and I would appreciate anything that might give me a CliffsNotes summary of what I may be looking into." 

"Ah! Well. Light Caster is a term for Casters who are Claimed for the Light, and use their magical powers for good ends,” explains the librarian. “Conversely, Dark Caster is a term for Casters who turned Dark and use their powers for evil, as Lena did. Light Casters have green eyes, while Dark ones have gold eyes, much like a cat's."

"What of Casters?” asks Regan. “It seems pretty evident to me we're talking about magic and magical ability, but how would one ... know?" A stumbling of words. "I'll admit I'm curious, but I had an ... encounter before, and I'm not entirely sure how and why I'm still here, so is there a way we would know, like a sign, or would it be more of some kind of insight?" Regan sheepishly paused. "I'm just nervous about that particular encounter coming back to haunt me."

"Casters are simply a term for humans who can use magic," the librarian explains. But at Regan's second statement, she looks curious. "This encounter... what happened?"

Blake witnesses this conversation. They do not say anything. They are not seen. They simply watch from behind a bookcase, writing in a notebook. The library holds many secrets, many stories with powers of their own. It is a danger to cross the contents of a library as mystical as this one. Even a lowly assistant can topple the well laid plans of mice. All one needs is a reason.

Blake had known this all along. Blake had held the library of Alexandria in their hands before it froze into ash. They had seen what power a tale, true or false, good or bad, can wrought upon the world. They skimmed one such tale, a history of the village, published back when monarchs reigned supreme. The history may be out of date, but the implications held meaning.

Regan hesitated. "I'm still not entirely sure myself, but ... back in my old town, I think I saw what you might call a ... werewolf?"

Upon hearing the word, "Werewolf," Blake's ear's pricked up. Listening closely, they placed the book into their jacket pocket.

"I didn't get a chance to see who it was,” Regan said. “All I know is that they became a regular person, and I can only guess they didn't see me.”

If he's dead by dawn, then they did, thought Blake.

"This was some time before I received the job offer to come here to Crockett Hill, so I would think that enough time's passed for the threat to be minimal,” Regan continued, “But I think you might understand my concern." 

“It is possible that you saw a werewolf,” said the librarian. “Unfortunately, very few live to make such a determination, and those that do often stay silent about what they saw. What I will say is this: if you need sanctuary while you’re here, the library can provide it for you. We have protections against marauding wolves.”

Regan smiled awkwardly. “I can only hope that I should not need to take up such an offer." A brief beat. "You're the first I've told. It's not like anyone else would believe what I saw, or what I see here." 

The library is located on the perimeter of magic that spells either doom or salvation for Crockett Hill. Not quite the axis point of meaning, but still a place of power. But in the game of life and death, of the con artist's trade of narrative substitution? Power don't mean much when the wolves come in.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't have said it so loudly." Blake moves from behind the bookcase, putting away a tome they did not read. They approach with curiosity. It's best to keep people on their toes. The librarian needs knowledge when playing the long con.

"Jiminy-" exclaimed Regan.

"Alas, I am no cricket of conscience,” said Blake. “I be but a humble traveler."

"Florid prose flows only from philosopher and merchant,” said Regan. He tensed and relaxed, controlling his breathing. “But, what exactly did you hear?"

The trick with a good con is to know the other person. Sometimes, you can misread a situation. Misunderstand whether one is being honest and true or lying through and through. The role the person before Blake is playing is that of a mild paranoia. Don't reveal everything. Just enough. "It sounds like you saw a werewolf recently,” Blake said at last. “I've seen a few in my travels. They aren't to be trifled with. Especially on a night like tonight."

Regan nodded. "Perhaps, but this was a good month ago. Would a werewolf track for that long and this far, even for petty prey they might not have noticed?"

"Rather, I hope I wasn't noticed. Otherwise I think I'd be dead by now."

"Depends on the wolf,” said Blake. “Some might go so far as to track until the ends of the earth. Others are content with remaining in their woods. Of course, just because it isn't your wolf doesn't mean the other wolves won't kill you anyways."

“Considering how I learned since then of things I thought were impossible,” Regan commented, “I wouldn't doubt that you're right."

"Then again, most things in this world can kill you,” said Blake. “If you started to jump at every shadow, there'd be no place ta hide. Best ye ken which shadows are best."

Another resigned laugh as Regan said, "True enough. But it is late enough as it stands and it is better that I do not chase shadows that are not there."

The librarian nods in agreement. “I quite agree. Goodnight, and do rest well.”

Regan nods. "I'll make an effort - thank you, ma'am. And to you," his eyes towards the new figure, "fairer travels."

"May you live in interesting times." Blake left the library, unaware of the steely gaze the librarian was giving them.

The librarian throws a library card at them. Several in fact, and they circle them like vultures, pecking incessantly. 

Blake catches one in between two of their fingers, tosses it back to the librarian with a small note with the name of the book and a brief message.

You'll do just fine.

Be seeing you.

-BTM

Regan catches theirs with a stumble and a sheepish laugh.

When the librarian looks back at the library card thrown back at them, it's gone.

“Curiouser and curiouser…” The librarian wanders off again.

As Blake walks back to the inn, the pull out a cigarette. They snap their fingers, lighting it aflame. Of course, the story can only end one way and one way only: With Lena in the past, the future a flat circle.

As they think that, the smell of lemons and rosemary blows in on the wind, and cruel, malicious laughter fills Blake’s ears. "Don’t bet on it, Mortal.”

In response, Blake thinks :This is the song that doesn't end. Yes, it goes on and on, my friend. Some people started singing it, not knowing what it was. And, they'll continue singing it forever, just because... Until the presence leaves. It doesn't even last one round. Wimp.

“I have better things to do than listen to repetitive Mortal music,” says the ghost of Lena Duchannes. “Like planning murder.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” Blake replies.

The presence disappears… for now.

Regan's walk home was uneventful, though he could not help himself but utter a bible verse in Hebrew, taught to him by a family friend to say in the face of danger or death - 

"Shema yisroel ..."