HFTH - Episode 211 - Doubts

Content warnings for this episode include: Animal death (Dogsmell as usual), Self-harm (Centipede tongue), Violence, Kidnapping and abduction, Death + Injury, Blood, Transphobia, Homophobia, Gun Mention, Static (including sfx), Emotional Manipulation, Bugs, Body horror, Smoking, Substance abuse (Centipede tongue?), Religious Violence, Lengthy monologues about the destruction of queer people, mention of circumcision, mention of lynching, use of ‘nympho’ as a derogatory term

Intro - The One True God

You have never believed what you were told. Your lifetime was filled with nothing but others offering their paths to salvation. Follow the signs of the gods, the priests said, and make your sacrifices so that the gods will be appeased and will not bring their displeasure down upon you. Doubts ought never to be voiced, lest the gods hear. Follow the law, the law-keepers said, and an eternal reward will be stored up for you if you are willing to be circumcised and abide by the covenant of Abraham. Questions were not to be tolerated, for a jealous god punishes quickly. Follow me, said the new-age revolutionary. Feed me and house me and I, the sole arbiter of salvation, can make even a Roman man clean in the eyes of God, although I myself keep constant company with prostitutes and homosexuals and the filthiest beings in this society. Queries were welcomed, on the surface, but only those that could turn into a clever parable or a good quote to relay to the masses as divine word. No, you thought. No, it is you who do not understand, because I have had a glimpse of the truly divine and I must seek it. I know there is truth that is neither mystery nor abstract, but concrete, as real as sand beneath your feet or the sky above. You sought it at the Great Library of Alexandria, where scholars of a real truth were desperately searching. Where they had obtained something secret, something spectacular: not a stone bust or a bronze effigy, but a real god, sealed in an alabaster prison. One that naively answered your questions, blindly opened your eyes to eternity and all the power that it held. For the first time, you found the truth:

That nothing matters. That you are as small in the cosmic scheme as a mustard-seed, and not all the faith in this world can save you. You dwell in a universe full of great beings who could not care less that the life in your world will light and sputter and go out like a candle-flame. That everything is in a slow state of reverting itself into nothing, and that the great, all-devouring dark, the endless silence at the end of everything, is the only thing that will survive in the end. The one true god is the end.

And you pledged that you would devote your life’s work to the only thing that mattered: the end.

There was at the library a stone, pulled carefully from the desert, deadly to the touch and sealed away. A warped and twisted thing, flung far through the reaches of time immemorial to reach your world. And when you reached out to touch it, as if it were the face of your one true god himself, it changed you. But it did not kill you. You were ready to receive his gift. Your weak flesh was peeled away in a shroud of flame and smoke, but your bones, porcelain white, were transformed into a wellspring of his power, and made into the god-slaying metal.

I watched the fires you started leap and bound through those rooms of scrolls. I watched you leave, satisfied that you alone held the truth and you alone would ever hold it. And now that you have reared your ugly head in my black pines, taken away what belonged to me, and worship my enemy, I hope you feel that each time you step outside a forest that hungers for your death says Hello From The Hallowoods.

Theme.

Right now, I hover above a single black pine. Or rather, the hole in space where a black pine used to be. Wind no longer moves its phantom boughs, or stirs the shadow of its cones. It is an afterimage, a memory, and like a memory, it is dangerous to the touch. I might consider descending a little, to touch it, but I have already lost more eyes than I can bear. Closeby, two men in masks work with gloves and wire, but each in their own way questions why. The theme of tonight’s episode is Doubts.

Story 1 - White Green Static

Cole Kane was ushered by his father into the Trailblazing Scout’s office. Somehow the long, low room, with its rows of spears on racks on the wall and its maps of the surrounding woods, was more menacing than their own home. It seemed like all the serious conversations that were bad were had in here.

“Listen, Cole,” Virgil said, hand rubbing his temples. It made Cole very much not want to listen.

“It’s just a costume,” Cole protested. “You’re supposed to be something scary for Halloween, right?”

“It’s not the same kind of scary when it’s something real that people have died to, son. Where did you even get this stuff?” Virgil said, squatting down and taking one of Cole’s lapels in his hand. Cole shoved his hand off and stepped back. He’d worked hard on it, after all. Virgil lit a lamp on the desk, and Cole crossed his arms, furious, still clutching his violin and bow.

He’d worked pretty hard on the Instrumentalist costume, down to the long red tailcoats and gold buttons, which he’d had to nick from the fabric shop. The long white hair of his makeshift wig had come from one of Scout City’s ponies. Before this the only things he’d ever sewn were the holes in his clothes back together, so it had taken weeks even to put all the parts of it together. Even if some of the red patches were different colors than others, it was still pretty good. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Maybe an impressed eyebrow from his dad at all the work that’d gone into it. Not this.

“You didn’t have a problem when I was supposed to play music and pretend to be the Instrumentalist to scare the froglins away,” Cole said. “Remember that? How I almost died? But when I’m just having fun it’s a problem? Kids are out there dressed like froglins and night-gaunts and Mr. Friendly and those have killed people too.”

Virgil sighed, and there was something in the sigh that piqued Cole’s interest. His dad looked away—something he only did when he knew Cole was right. His dad would do this thing sometimes where he disciplined Cole because he thought it was what good dads did, rather than because he really felt that way, and Cole could tell the difference.

“Why would you even want to dress up like this guy,” Virgil said. “He was sick. He tortured people and carved them up, you know? He killed old Walter Pensive. He made that ghost boy that you hate from school.”

“It’s just a costume,” Cole said quietly. “He’s dead now. It’s just supposed to be a costume. I worked really hard on it. I don’t have another one.”

“You could borrow my cowboy hat,” said Virgil. “And my silver star. We could be a cowboy and his deputy. You wanna be a deputy?”

Cole looked at his father in a way that indicated he did not at all want to be a deputy. A half-assed deputy in normal clothes with a cowboy hat stuck on, at that. He wanted to be something spooky.

“Be honest with me,” Virgil said, eying him narrowly. A little bit of excitement came up in Cole and he tried not to show it. It was opportunity. “Did you pick this costume just because you know it’ll get a rise out of Al and that McGowan boy?”

Cole froze. He hadn’t really thought about that. Just about how shocked the faces of those two would be. How maybe they’d give him a little bit of a wider berth.

“No, dad,” Cole pleaded. “I don’t care about what they think. I just... I wanted to do a good job.”

Virgil sighed, and stood up, as if to weigh the case, and he strode over to the window, where the thin blue trickle of moonlight sparred with the warmth of the lamp. The night was already wasting as far as getting the good candy was concerned, but Cole didn’t dare voice that concern on the precipice of such an important verdict. Any breath could tip the scales unfavorably.

“I don’t personally have a problem with it,” Virgil mused, half to Cole and half to himself. “It’s all in good fun. Hell, maybe it’s what the old bastard needs. To be made fun of. He can’t hurt no one no more. It’s just... other people may think it’s in bad taste.”

“If they say something I can change it,” Cole said quietly. “I worked really hard on it.”

“Alright,” said Virgil, sighing in defeat. “Fine. But we get a complaint and it’s right to being a deputy for you. Deal?”

“Deal,” Cole said, trying to hide his inward elation, and strode pompously into the lamplight, and put back on the glasses he’d made out of wire. He picked up his violin bow and waved it in the air. “My evil music will fill the night!”

Virgil shrugged, and waited a moment before putting out the lamp. “You know what kid, it is a pretty good costume.”

Drum stood, a decade and a half later, still in costume. This time his costume was darker; full-body black, loose clothes, black leather gloves, steel-toed black boots. A hood covered his ears and neck, and a mask shaped like a drum, white fabric stretched tight, hid his face behind its clean white skin. He could see through the fabric, which granted him better visibility than any of the others, he guessed. Their masks were all hard, with narrow slots for eyes. He felt like the skin shrouded him. The world had to pass through it to get to him, and it could only take from him—through words alone—what he chose to give. In here, in this chamber of white fabric, it was his private purgatory.

“Hold that,” said Brass, and Drum took the end of the wire he was handed, held it taught as Brass applied a final twist with another cable, and then Brass took it back and snipped the end to make a cleaner-looking join.

“I would say we’re about done,” said Brass, stepping back. Drum joined him, coming to stand side-by-side. It was more of an art piece than anything functional. A massive web, like a spider’s, of rusted cable that stretched out across the grounds of the Old Chapel like a wall, suspended between a huge black pine on either side of the corner of the chapel grounds. The Old Chapel was almost an afterthought in the large square clearing, placed in the far corner, but the new chapel that had occupied most of the clearing’s opposite side had been long burned to a pile of blackened boards. The forest seemed incapable of intruding on the church grounds, though; the titanic roots around them grew tall at the border and yet left the small black fence undisturbed. The web of cable was a garish addition; obvious.

Drum stood, staring at it, probably longer than he should have. He found himself zoning out a lot of the time. His own heartbeat was a drum, hypnotizing. If there wasn’t another noise, it would grow and grow until it was a deafening wardrum in his head, pounding each of his ears. Ba dum. Ba dum. Ba dum.

“It’s not easy,” said Brass. Unlike Drum, he hadn’t repaired the damage he’d sustained to his mask, and a ghost’s handprint had warped the brass surface of his mask, ruining the line of saxophone keys on one side.

“It’s easier than it used to be,” Drum said, shaking his head. “Once you get used to the way the cable bites back, it...”

“The job, I mean,” said Brass. Drum stood in silence at that.

“You see this as a job?” said Drum.

“Sure. Job’s the tip of the iceberg,” said Brass. “We’re not showing up in the morning and leaving at night, we’re saving every future generation that comes out of Scout City. But it’s definitely work. Every day for most of a year now.”

“You’ve been in action that long?” Drum said, looking over at the masked man. “The killings only kicked off a few months ago.”

“Cullings,” said Brass. “When you’re thinning out the weak in a population of animals, it’s not killing, it’s culling. But we were planning a long time before we made ourselves public. The messaging, the targets, even the layout of the traps—it was all carefully planned. We had to be sure that every trap could be escaped, if the offender was willing to repent. So far, though, we’ve only had one who was willing to go all the way and live through it. Most might start, but not get far enough. Bleed out, or kill themselves in the process.”

“Shelby Allen’s your survivor,” Drum mused. He scraped the inside of his teeth with the centipede legs of his tongue. “What happened there?”

“We’re not sure. Keys and I weren’t expecting that. Not everyone deserves a chance at redemption. Taking care of Shelby was supposed to be quiet, efficient. Not for show. But Fiddle had other plans apparently.”

“You two didn’t get a say?” Drum said. “I still haven’t met Fiddle.”

“And you probably won’t until all of this is over,” said Brass. “But yeah. Fiddle is our mastermind. Indrid gathered us, but her dreams of bringing some kind of repentance to Scout City were dead in the water until we got Fiddle on board. When Fiddle has an idea, you don’t ignore it. It’s been difficult not having him here, but he’s undercover in Scout City now and we can’t jeopardize that. Pushing things in the right direction for tonight.”

Drum nodded. In his own way, he supposed, he understood. He hadn’t meant to test his father. But passing the test would have been easy. Standing aside. Letting him work. But Virgil Kane, Sheriff of Scout City had failed the test. He was going to let it all linger. The corruption, the monsters. He was going to look the other way, to wait until someone complained to take action. To ignore the spirit of the city crying out for justice until it stopped screaming.

“It’s not easy,” said Brass.

“What’s not easy,” grunted Drum. He was trying not to go back there, lately. To the day that he... that Cole, that Drum, were the same. One chapter had ended. A new one had begun. He couldn’t afford to think of himself as the same man, the same son, the same child. They weren’t the same at all. He had been reborn. He had to think of it that way, to put the evil in the past, to put the coming action that would be required into context. Two weeks ago, he had tested his father. Tonight, he would test all of Scout City’s greatest monsters.

“Losing people,” said Brass. “I know it’s been tough on you. But you should know that we’re proud of you. All of us. For having the strength to do what you did.”

“Fuck you Ben,” said Drum. “Your sister is alive and your dad still sells junk at the Wet Market. Who have you lost?”

Brass was silent at that.

“That’s what I thought,” said Drum.

“I haven’t had to kill either of them,” said Brass. “Yet. But I’ve lost them, all the same. There’s no going back. My name is out there. Public, thanks to that dream witch. They’ve heard by now, I’m sure. I’m dead to them. They could never possibly understand why we do what we do. They’re believers in the status quo. Scavengers. They sell junk to get by and they have never once stopped to think whether they want to live in a world full of the people they sell the shit to. They’re content to survive in a festering world instead of trying to shape the future. That’s what this is about. You and I are part of something bigger than our hurt or who we have or haven’t lost. We’ve both given everything we have to this. And Scout City may never thank us, don’t get me wrong. Don’t expect a day where they pat you on the back and tell you you were right. We’re always going to be villains to them. They may never look back on the day the monsters were driven out of Scout City and never came back, on the day that the lesbians and nymphos running the government all disappeared, on the day that they began to fear evil again, and realize it was the day of their salvation. But it’s going to change things. In ten years time, in fifty years time, Scout City will still be standing because of what we’re doing tonight. So it’s out of love for those good people, the people they could become, that we do it. We take the fall. We do the hard work for them. It’s thankless. It’s excruciating. It takes away everything that you are. But it’s the most selfless act we can offer this place. And I may not be a deputy, but that’s what you promise, isn’t it? To lay down your life to protect law and justice. To serve your city. If we don’t do it, no one will, and Scout City will lose itself and any hope we have of a pure strain of humanity surviving this chaos dies. So. That’s what I mean by, it’s not easy.”

Drum sighed. “You still think all that, with Tiberius around?”

Brass nodded. “Tiberius is a wildcard in this equation, but he’s after the same goal. He sees it too. Where else can you find a concentrated populace like this, one that’s isolated enough to actually shape into something and have it retain its form? You couldn’t do this kind of social rebalance in Liberty City, people bleed in and out too much and it’s full of the scum of the earth. Here there’s still hope. Most of the souls in Scout City haven’t made up their minds yet. That’s why they can still be tested. Still be saved. Tiberius recognizes that as much as anyone else does. But we didn’t have power like his before. Can you imagine if tonight’s gambit had to hinge on...”

Here Brass plucked the web, and it resounded with a fraught snap and metallic warble. “We’d need an Orchestra instead of a Quartet. He evens our odds. That’s why Indrid sacrificed herself to bring him back. You didn’t get much of a chance to meet her, but she was like that. Willing to give anything to help the cause.”

“What do you think he’s doing to Johannah in there?” Drum said, nodding towards the chapel. Her muffled shrieks were still coming, although slower and quieter than in the first hours.

Brass was silent for a moment.

“To piano, you mean?” he said. “She agreed to this. I’ll admit, I’m a little jealous. Fiddle and I have been part of this longer. But you can’t argue with her devotion. So it makes sense that she receives her gifts first.”

“Right,” said Drum.

His father was there, standing in the night, eyes lit by distant fire.

Begging with his gaze.

Let’s leave this behind, son. Let’s go trick-or-treating. Your costume doesn’t bother me. It might bother the neighbors, is all. I don’t want them to be afraid.

His father’s blood, red on his hands.

Cole touched the roof of his mouth with the venomous mandibles of his centipede tongue, and pressed until it drew blood, until the mandibles punctured the pink flesh and released their payload, and everything became hazy. The pace of his heart descended from a rapid staccato drum beat to a slow, pulsing rhythm, the memory of his father’s face a blur, fading out into serene white green static. Being in purgatory wasn’t so bad if you couldn’t think.

“Would you look at that?” came the muffled voice of Brass, echoing through his mind. There was a blast of some bitter sensation. Cold.

“What?” Drum muttered blearily. He looked over to find Brass with a leather glove poised in the air, with a single speck of white lingering on his fingertip before it disappeared.

“I’ll be damned,” said Brass. “It’s snowing.”

Interlude 1 - Blizzard Warning

Attention, citizens of the Northern and Southern Hallowoods. This may come as surprising news given that it is only the end of August, but there is a blizzard warning in place for the oncoming day. Dark clouds, centered on a mysterious point in the forest north of Scout City where there is absolutely nothing to be seen to the naked eye, have begun to gather in slow, sweeping spirals that blanket the sky all the way out to the desolate ruins of Ottawa.

A weather event like this has not been seen since the drought-breaking thunderstorm that arrived in the Hallowoods two weeks ago to extinguish the raging wildfires in Scout City. At this point most of the operable vehicles in this area are tread-based hybrid vehicles and so a warning to drive safely in your automobiles while there is snow on the road only applies to automotive Ray Marley. Drive safely, Ray. You of all people should remember that. For those travelling on foot, wear layers, and be aware that hundred-foot pine trees can hold a lot of snow, which can quickly descend in strong winds to bury unsuspecting passersby.

We go now to one who does not feel the cold.

Story 2 - Out of Control

Olivier Song was out of control, and that was a strange sensation. For the first twenty years of his life, he’d done nothing but try to get control back over the power that coursed through him. It was like blood. It was blood. And blood was not something you needed to control; it had its own pathways through the body, and was best left to attend its own course. Except, of course, when the blood was leaving the body.

The power was bleeding out of Olivier, certainly, into the sky and the atmosphere. And over Grandmother Briar’s funeral procession, where her favorites among the coven carried her stretcher towards the Prophet Tree in the center of the coven’s clearing, a light dusting of snow had already begun to settle across the grass, in the raven-filled branches of the tree, on Friday’s head. Friday stood back and behind Olivier’s right shoulder, and Penny to his left.

“It isn’t your fault,” Penny whispered. “She was old and dying.”

“She might have lived weeks, months even,” said Friday. “I wonder if any of our sisters had made their goodbyes yet.”

Olivier might have smiled, if the circumstances were not so crushing. Friday’s sense of humor had a way of warming him even now.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

The Omen stirred from the boughs of the Prophet Tree as the witches brought Grandmother Briar’s body towards it, and kneeled, lowering her stretcher bed to beside the tree. Snowflakes caught in the old woman’s wisps of greyed hair, on her dark eyelids. The Prophet Tree seemed to rumble in response, as if acknowledging the body laid before it.

“Olivier?” said Penny, drawing a bit closer. Olivier turned to find the woman was watching him with a worried expression, head tilted. Friday was more occupied with the funeral. “What happened in there? Are you alright? What were you two talking about?”

“I just wanted to know,” said Olivier. “If she knew anything. All that time I spent away... I didn’t hang out in France for a decade because I wanted a vacation. I was given a mission. I know that. I know that the Weather brought me there, kept me there for that reason. To keep something horrible under lock and key. It was so dangerous when I first arrived. Basically leaking out into the world. I had to bury it under a wall of binding runes just to keep it from singing too loudly to the residents. And even then I wasn’t totally successful, but I tried. And then I failed. It was set loose, and I just wanted to know... how bad is it. How much will that mistake cost. And it seems like... a lot. It seems like everything.”

“Olivier, I have some bad news,” said Friday, and suddenly he found that the woman was facing him, holding the straps of his coveralls, looking up seriously with her all-black irises. “The world was ending already. The Blackwood Coven calls it the Spring. Downing Hill calls it climate change. Whatever you’ve done, I guarantee you haven’t put more evil into the world than Penny and I have recreationally.”

“Downing Hill is far away,” Penny cautioned. “So is the CPE Institute. We buried the entrances. The only place for them to go is out into the weird dimension where everything is unfolded.”

“You’re not helping my point,” Friday said under her breath.

“It’s an important distinction,” said Penny. “There are some things we left behind there that I would never put back out into the world.”

“Really not helping my point,” Friday continued. “We’re just trying to make sure you’re alright after killing our second mother.”

“Of course,” said Olivier. “I’m fine. I’m really not the one you need to worry abou-”

“Because you’re making a blizzard,” Penny added, pointing upwards. Olivier turned his gaze up to the sky. He’d barely noticed the swirl of dark clouds above them, the faintest tinge of blue lightning somewhere high in the snowclouds. He stared up until he closed his eyes, face to the sky. Please, he thought. Today is so out of control already. Wherever you’re leading me, please don’t make it worse. He was beginning to realize something he hadn’t before: that at least in France, no matter how the weather moved him, there had been very little opportunity for collateral damage. All of the people he truly cared about were an ocean away. But here, they were all dangerously close, and for better or worse, the flashes of the weather’s inspiration directed his steps through a minefield of his friends old and new.

The snowflakes that fell across his cheeks did not comfort him.

Marketing - Battle Begins

Lady Ethel Mallory

The hunt has begun. We four contestants duking it out in what I’m sure will become a time-honored tradition to select the next Queen of America. Only one of us walks out of here alive. I thought of other ways to try and winnow the competition, but this seemed the simplest. The vast majority of politics is spectacle. And if you think it isn’t, probably your political opponents do spectacle better than you do. Spectacle wins elections. Wins hearts. Wins wars. Wins the hearts and minds of America’s dreaming populace. The awake populace, well. They’ll see my billboards. They might catch inklings of my political ads in their dreams each night. But they can’t love me like you do, my happy dreaming family. I’m out here fighting for you.

Truth or Consequences is a very flat town. Most buildings are wide apart, arranged in lateral lines, low and dusty and beige. It’s not filled with ideal hiding spots for me. There’s no vertical structure to put up a proper web, or enough cover to hide me standing up without making me a highly visible target. So if you can’t go up, go down. The shell of one of these buildings has become a convenient camouflage. I can carry it almost completely wrapped around me, while I wait inside, moving to a more advantageous position every so often. I know you’re listening in on this, Mandy. But what am I wearing? Am I that convenience store at the end of the block? Am I a church? Am I the childhood home of my supposed best friend Nathalie who humiliated me on my first day of high school? You’d better guess right or you might walk right past me.

Meanwhile, I have visibility on everyone. You might think it’s not very sporting, but let’s be honest. My ability to watch the current events unfolding in America through my vast network of Botulus Corporation camera drones is what would make me a powerful queen of America.

Otis Moloch stands in all his balding, grotesque glory. I’m amazed he’s able to stand at all. The gasoline baron is shouting to the night air, and... oh. He packed a bazooka.

sound of bazooka

It’s clear he wants to chat. He’ll have to wait his turn. Dinah Dealey is lurking in the shadows behind a motel, waiting for the other candidates to make themselves clear. She appears to only have packed knives to this fight. Adorable.

And Mandy... took off in a sprint as soon as time started. Where is she going? Let’s peruse. She’s running north on South Broadway. She’s... she’s found a vehicle. She had the keys in her pocket. She looks ridiculous, doing this in a sun dress. I suppose if she wore pants she might suffocate. She’s climbed into a bulldozer, a behemoth of a thing. Yes, exceedingly slow transportation will help you. Now she’s back on Broadway as though she’s on her way to re-pave a road somewhere. Yes, Mandy, what are your plans for America’s infrastructure? Keeping score of a grudge is fun and all, but if you want the crown, you’re going to have to have actual plans for these things. I do.

It’s hilarious. She’s rolling towards my location. She has no idea where I am. And when that ferocious vehicle goes rolling by, I might simply reach out and snag her out of it. Go on, Mandy. Where are you driving to? She’s almost here now, and... wait. Don’t you dare veer in my directi-

sound of bulldozer colliding with Lady Ethel

Story 2, Continued - Out of Control

sound of Nikignik laughing

We return now to Olivier Song.

Funeral services in Blackwood Coven, even for the most beloved of matriarchs there, were surprisingly brief. Her body was lowered to the roots of the Prophet Tree, and seemed to sink into the earth beneath its roots until she was entirely obscured. Olivier admired them, as they knelt—the witches of this small forest village. It brought tears to her eyes for a different reason than the death and the cause of it, that there were still other covenants out there who had never been exposed to Downing Hill, or to the Daedalus, or any of the great institutions that sought to bend them into weapons. In Blackwood Coven, they were like her. Free powers running rampant. An inspiration. A creative flow, uninhibited, uncalled upon to be productive.

The witches kneeling in the snow and offering small rituals in memory of Grandmother Briar would persist throughout the day, and Olivier wished she had weeks to stay and explain herself, to learn the names and histories of the others here, the nature of their covenants, but there was simply no time. It would be a couple hours of hiking to return to Scout City, and they had already spent longer than expected. Friday and Penny nodded silent goodbyes to the other witches on their way out of Blackwood.

The walk back was long, and quiet. The wind seemed to sweep them along, casting long flurries of white past Olivier’s jacket as the snow clung to the pine boughs and raced through the canyons between the trees. Friday and Penny seemed capable of having whole conversations with mere glances; something that Olivier and Friday had once been able to do. But Olivier was lost somewhere else now, and portions of the walk passed without conscious thought. Her soul was disconnected from her body somewhere, up in the white mist above the treeline, dancing with the twists of the blizzard wind.

She sensed they were late for something important when they finally hiked through the outskirts of the Stumps, and up to the great double doors of Scout City, and up the road to the Groundskeeper’s Office. Pushing open the door, Olivier was momentarily taken aback. Riot was there, ordering people into chairs, along with Arnold and Harrow close beside. It was funny to see those two taking themselves seriously in Groundskeeper colors, rather than the back of the herd in a Downing Hill class. But just as time had elevated them, it had humbled Downing Hill’s star pupil. And the Director, the repository of all the hurt that Olivier had ever experienced, lay taking refuge in the back of the Groundskeeping office, under the stairs. He narrowed his eyes at the giant creature, more loathsome than he had ever imagined beneath the veil of her illusions.

The last Groundskeeper, Russell McGowan, sat bloodied beside a young blond man that Olivier did not recognize, but guessed was one of the Wicker family. As Friday and Penny made their way inside, shaking off the snow, they were greeted by Clara Martin—speaking of favorite students. Diggory Graves stood on the higher walkway overlooking the gathering, arms crossed, and, he guessed, Percy and the other ghost—Rat, Ratto? Ratty?—hovered nearly invisibly near the hearse that was suspended from the ceiling. Something smelled like a wet dog but he couldn’t place what, or who. Shelby Allen sat at the table below, scratching at the table with a thorn that grew from the end of her green, viny index finger. Olivier was told that Milo was here in the city, growing these things, although he hadn’t had the chance to stop in and say hello.

The Count was lurking towards the back of the room, inspecting Director Blackletter as she nestled in her great coil of porcelain plates and legs. He seemed to be wearing Moth’s round red sunglasses. Danielle O’Hara had arrived, sitting with her heels up on the edge of the Groundskeeper table. She looked a lot healthier these days than she had when she had been pulled, fresh from the Dreaming Pod, new to sunlight or air or the waking world. Olivier was happy of that, even if she had apparently lived through some horrors in the hours leading up to his return.

“Hey,” said Moth, waving a black-gloved hand. Moth’s latest fashion accessory was a sort of moth-wing half-cape, slung over moth’s leather jacket and black ripped jeans. “It’s snowing! What a strange surprise. How was your trip to the witchy place?”

“I’ll fill you in later,” Olivier sighed. “Why’s everybody here?”

“Excuse me!” Riot called loudly from downstairs, and gestured. “Gather up, people. Team meeting. So. From the sounds of it, we’ve got problems. A lot of problems. And not a lot of time to fix them. Who wants to go first?”

Interlude 2 - A Visitor

What is the point, some ask, of a being that can only watch the universe but has no tangible form to do anything with? What good is information if you do not have the strength to use it? Often they forget that my domain is not just eyes watching from shadow. I am all sight. The very eyes and thoughts of a creature, I perceive when I look through their eyes. I see what they see. You are familiar with this, dreamer, for I have been providing you the perspectives of those in the Hallowoods for years of your nightmares now. But not all—even those that call themselves my enemies—understand this aspect of what I am.

You cannot hear me, for you are not dreaming. But your actions are not a secret to me. I can see you, even now, standing beyond the doors of my chamber, preparing to strike. I am the eyes of Syrensyr, after all. What merit would I have for my position if I could be so easily caught off guard. I know the murder that lives in your heart as much as I know it to live in mine. And you may be armed with deadly implement, but I have my eyes, and you will find them the deadlier still if you draw arms against me.

Just something to think about.

We go now to one who is of two minds.

Story 3 - White Flag

“Okay, well then, I’ll go first,” Riot said after a moment, standing on the long wood table that occupied the sunken workfloor portion of the Groundskeeping office. She glanced around the assembled people—all of them so strange. All of them on her side.

There were blurry memories buried in her somewhere for almost every one, and yet she could only tap, like fogged glass, from the outside. That Diggory Graves had rescued her, once, from Olivier, who was standing snow-covered by the door. An electric kiss. Leaping out of the RV-Lution so that Clara Martin, wearing a black dress and a thousand-yard stare now, could escape the music. Moth, shuddering in Moth’s sleep. Percy glowing bright the night the Instrumentalist died. And Walt, who was here only in jacket and hearse and the handwriting on some of the maps that blanketed the walls. The people in this room all knew her better than she knew them, she thought. But they were looking to her, and it was time to answer.

“We got a visit from Sheriff Ignatius today,” Riot said. “He asked us to cease and desist with our plans to raid the Old Chapel tonight. I don’t know how much sway he has with Valerie right now, but if we go forward we might be held as like, outlaws as far as mister burny is concerned.”

“I’ll go next,” said Russell, standing also, and he gave a concerned look to her and a nod before he braced himself and shared the news. “It appears as though the Wicker family took part of Shank home and ate it the night that he died. It’s changed them to be a lot like him. There are four or five of them at the Wicker house, but they could leave at any time.”

“If there’s any way to help them,” Jedediah Wicker added, speaking up in a broken voice. “But if you can’t... I understand.”

Shelby Allen was the next to speak. “The Fiddle is still alive,” she said. “We found a body with Fiddle’s mask, but it was intact. It hadn’t fallen a hundred feet. It was planted there to make us think Fiddle was dead, which means that it’s useful to the Quartet that Fiddle is off our radar.”

Shelby paused, trailing off as she studied each face in the assembly.

“Which makes me think it’s someone in this room. At any rate, we have to proceed as though all of our plans so far have been exposed to the Quartet. Including the raid tonight.”

“There may be no cure to the sickness that plagues this earth,” said Diggory Graves. “According to an expert in the matter. Milo’s predictions about the future of the human race appear to be correct.”

“Great. And lastly, there’s the issue of the Coda,” said Riot. “Some of you may remember that a support group for Instrumentalist victims has turned into a sort of mob group that interrupted our faceoff with the Quartet and went all torches and pitchforks on Shank. But confusingly, one of the leaders of the Coda was Ben Alder, who actually is one of the Quartet who was doing the Instrumentalist killings. So as far as I’ve heard, the Coda has split into at least two groups who might or might not be on our side and might be planning to crash our raid tonight for different reasons.”

“Would it be best then if we called off the raid?” said Diggory, raising a sharp-fingered hand. “If there is a good chance the Quartet know we are coming.”

“There basically is no calling off the raid,” said Riot. “Most of Scout City knows about it. A lot of people will go either way. And if anyone is going, I need to be there to see it through.”

“Besides,” Clara said. “If they hide, we can destroy the church organ and the Old Chapel and their biggest weapon will be gone. The souls of everyone they’ve killed are still trapped inside. But there’s also that their leader probably isn’t in a position where she can move on her own. She’ll be distracted with something I gave her. And if they stay, then we’ll meet them head on.”

“Are we sure we shouldn’t try one more time to talk with them?” said Russell. “Things are going to get ugly tonight and we might be able to control the people in this room but we can’t control a Scout City mob. We should at least offer a chance to surrender and come peacefully before Coda members start shooting.”

“They tried to kill your friend, right?” said Ratty, glowing brighter on the ceiling so that Riot could detect a small trace of it above. “Seems like they’ve made their stance pretty clear, huh?”

“Agreed. And yet,” Diggory said from the walkway. “I concur also with Russell. They must know by now that there is no hope. Their names are public. They cannot enter Scout City’s community. Their mission has been exposed. What else can they hope to accomplish? We have proven that we were not the monsters behind these deaths.”

The room was silent. Diggory looked over them.

“Have we not?”

“If our element of surprise is really gone,” Riot conceded, “then I guess it can’t hurt. Is there anyone in the Quartet we think would actually take us up on that offer?”

“Cole,” said Shelby, chin braced on her hands. “He killed his father two weeks ago. He’s in distress. No doubt they’ve been clawing into his mind since then, but we have history. I probably know him better than anyone here. This whole Quartet thing isn’t a good fit for his values.”

“Johannah,” said Russell, nodding.

“Russell, she shot you,” said Riot.

“And she probably would do it again,” said Russell. “She’s very devoted to the Quartet’s cause, and very angry, and I think violence makes her feel good about herself. But she’s also someone who cares about her family. She probably doesn’t know what’s happened to them yet. Going public has to have changed things for her. She’s not living in a world anymore where she gets to be with her family living in a monster-free Scout City again. She’s just the bad guy now. I don’t want us to have to kill her if we can help it, even if she should go behind bars forever. She was my friend, once. I’ve already lost Heather to this cult.”

“Obviously I would appreciate you all not lynching my sister,” said Jedediah. “Um. I’ll also say—I’m not sure when is the right time—I haven’t seen Jessica. She’s the youngest. I’m not sure if she was just somewhere else in the house. I can’t remember if she ate part of Shank. But. Keep an eye out please.”

Riot looked to Danielle, who sighed, pushing a strand of her dark hair back, and breathed out a cloud of strawberry smoke, cigarette holder held in her fingers.

“Listen, at the end of the day all I lost was the windows in my apartment,” Danielle said. “Some people were shot that day. Some people were stabbed. Some people died. Those people might feel differently than I do. I don’t have a problem with trying to play the mercy card... just don’t be surprised if all they do is spit in your face. Because we’re animals to them, and they want us gone.”

“All in favor of offering the Quartet a chance to surrender? I need a majority here,” said Riot, and gazed around the room. Diggory, Russell, Jedediah, Arnold, Clara, Harrow, Moth and Olivier were in agreement. Percy, Ratty, Penny, Friday, Danielle, Lewis and Shelby’s hands remained down. She winced. Eight to seven. She had the power to tie it up, if she wanted. It was down to her, in the end.

She wished she could look inside herself and read the responses of Riot or Clementine. The real Riot, she imagined, would say something like ‘Yes, Walt would have given them a chance. Even Solomon Reed he gave a final chance to stand down.’ To which Clementine would have replied, ‘Yes, and that’s what got him killed. Give a murderer an inch and they’ll put a serrated dagger between your shoulderblades. They’re not concerned with your peace politics or your right and wrong or whether you’re better than them philosophically. They just want you dead.’ Or maybe it was backwards. Maybe Clementine would say ‘I got stripped of my Scout City badges because I protected the Wickers when they were stealing supplies. They’re second class citizens in Scout City and everyone knows it, and Riot may not remember them but I do because I spent a decade helping this city keep its peace. Detectives bring people to justice. They don’t execute the perps.’ And Riot would say ‘There is no justice in Scout City except what we make, tonight. The police won’t hold the Quartet accountable. Scout City doesn’t even have a long-term prison cell because it was built on the idea of not policing people. And what are they going to do, feel sorry and go free? You’re either going to keep a snake very close to your chest and hope it never slithers free and bites you when you least expect it, or you can cut the head off for good. Tonight. Just like we did before.”

Riot raised her hand.

“Nine to seven. We’ll offer a final resolution. See if we can avert some of this bloodshed. If we can’t, at least we gave them a chance to surrender. But this is it. We’re at war here, and if they say no, we bring all the fury that Scout City has tonight.”

There were nods and murmurs among her assembled companions.

“So, last question,” said Riot. “We have to send someone to check in on the Coda, someone to negotiate with the Quartet, and someone to check on the raging Shank situation. So. Volunteers?”

Outro - Doubts

Doubts. I occasionally wonder, dreamer, why I am still doing this. If it is for you, and the future of your kind. If it is for Marolmar, to remember a world that he loved and celebrate the legacy of his work when the Council of Heavens would wish so hard to forget he ever existed. If it is for a Amaryllis, who is long gone and could never care now whether her species was remembered or not throughout the universe. If it is for me, and whether if it is for me, if it because I think the end result will be worth it, or if I simply have a stubborn desire to see things through that I start. Or whether I secretly hate your kind for all they have done to me, and perhaps seeing the withering end of it is my final triumph as a being that will live nigh immortal compared to you.

Perhaps I just want to see Tiberius Laevinus destroyed for having met me and choosing the Black Eternity as the one true god. Or I am eager to watch Lady Ethel Mallory’s gigantic, aircraft-sized spider body get smushed by a bulldozer. Perhaps it is some mixture of all of these. In any case, it is too late now to turn back, and I am your loyal host Nikignik, waiting doubtfully for your return to the Hallowoods.

The bonus story that goes with this episode is called 'The Attic' and is available on the Hello From The Hallowoods Patreon. Consider joining for access to all the show's bonus stories, behind-the-scenes and more! Until next time, dreamers... will there be a next time? Are you sure? Why are you so sure? This could be it. You’d miss us the following week, but it was part of the bit from the joke line for the end of the episode, you’d expect. But the week after, you’d begin to think it was pushing it a bit far. The third and fourth weeks, you’d have to wonder what happened. It had to be gone for a different reason. It must be coincidence, but there’d been delays before, you’d hear an update soon. And you’d repeat that to yourself, meaning it a little less each time, forever.