OOC Information: All information is considered Out-Of-Character until you learn it through In-Character means.
Content Warning: Descriptions of horrific crimes listed below - user discretion advised.
The neighborhood had no idea, and continues to have no idea, that a monster lives within its confines. That a near-demonic figure called it home, laid down to sleep the dreamless sleep of the mentally disfigured, plotted out countless acts of atrocity and horror, and walked beneath its trees as if it were not an offense to all things decent. Even to its fellows, it was feared, loathed, hated and much regretted to know - and its name was Noburo Takiwa, age fifty-four, a member of the Yakuza's more violent and vigilant collective in Chicago.
His home, an unassuming two-story brownstone with a robust porch of solid granite, flanked by style-free concrete dogs, their parted muzzles forever lolling a silent tongue each, has shutters over the upstairs windows and cages over the lower sets, with the front door boasting what could only be the mother and father of all security gates. Despite this armored look, a single set of eyes knows a secret - that no lock is perfect, that all gates can be breached and that demons, even in their most inhumane, make mistakes.
In the case of Noboru Takiwa, it was sharing his home address, quite by accident, with a local, and that local knows where to find lost keys, hidden entries and open windows. The brownstone with the seafoam drapes in the lower windows, with its mathematically-aligned parked Toyota Corolla in the driveway, well-manicured lawn and picture-perfect appearance, it's overdue for a visit by someone who has more than a mild interest in its contents. Today, it will be visited.
Muttering under his breath about what a sick fuck Noboru was, Townsend drifts as quietly across the street to the dark side of a tree. "I am just a passerby like everyone else has been for the last few weeks." Except, he's not, is he? With as much fake enthusiasm as he can muster, he begins testing windows for give or movement, hoping to strike gold.
It takes five windows before something gives beneath Townsend's ministrations - and it is in the kitchen. Left partially ajar, the window is a narrow thing, which is only a difficult thing to enter, and can be accomplished with something to step onto and maintain proper height. The window in question is nine feet off of the lawn's level, although it is big enough to admit a skinny man with a mission. There's a difference between nudging a window with a gloved hand and opening it without incident.
With sweaty hands behind leather gloves giving firm grip on the window's sill he heaves as quietly as possible. With little room for grace or comfort the entrance is granted by a dull metal thud and he land painfully in the sink. After many muttered choice words, he rights himself and looks around waiting for his eyes to adjust to the relative dark.
The kitchen is decorated in early doesn't-eat-at-home. There's no refrigerator, stove or even a microwave. What it has instead is a deep freeze measure two meters by one meter by one meter, laying against the back wall. It's the only appliance plugged in, except for an alarm clock laying on a countertop next to a loaf of bread which has begun to turn into a thick, carpeted mass of mottled green and black.
To the right is the arched doorway to the dining room, similarly emptied of furnishings, while to the straight-ahead, there's a doorway connecting to the corridor connecting the upstairs to the downstairs, and presumably, the basement. There's a faint odor of human waste, rotten meat and stale beer. The smell of beer makes the least sense, as there's nowhere to store it - a deep freeze would shatter the bottles easily enough.
Townsend has never really done the breaking and entering thing...not his style or forte. Wondering what Jeff would do here he can already hear that smarmy voice say, "Look for anything valuable first." A slight shrug and he slithers into the living room to have a look around.
The dining room proves to be emptied of everyday living accoutrement - nary a stick of furniture nor home decor item. Not even a lamp, and the lightswitch is taped over, sealed until someone with a knife or patience is willing to do it harm. The living room has a single chair, the style that of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, the ubiquitous folding type, painful for anyone to use for an extended time. In front of it is a pair of milk crates with a portable DVD player and a stack of DVD binders, relics of the late 2000s, wherein movie and music pirates collected their wares into disc form for trading and storage.
The smells have all decreased considerably, and the stairs which lead up are coated in layers of dust - Townsend is the only person, in all probability, to have visited this space in the last three weeks or so. Next to the folding chair, there's a waste basket overflowing with wadded up Kleenex and a bottle of hand lotion lay beside it.
Suspecting he knows full well what is in that binder and having no interest in confirming his suspicion, he will stick his head into the study to ensure he doesn't miss anything and if as empty as it seems will waste no time in there.
The study proves to be an empty space, and its windows are as thickly-curtained as every other space in the house, thus far. The floor, like so much else of the house, is hardwood and untouched, the previous weeks having waged a war of household dust against the pale, smooth boards which the floor is crafted from, dirtying them like a secret to an innocent.
The upstairs is easily accessed - smooth, empty stairs devoid of much more than dust, standardized sizing, and a lessening even further of the funky smells detected in the kitchen. There's a four-way split for the landing on the second floor - two bedrooms, a bathroom and what could have once been a study of some kind - the study being obviously devoid of habitation's footprints. The bathroom has signs of being used, although not recently - a set of towels stolen from the Hilton hotel chain; a paperback book next to the toilet; a roll of tissue next to that. A toothbrush in a clear plastic cup sits next to a generic, off-off-brand tube of paste, and a trio of floss containers finish off the only decor in the bathroom.
Of the two bedrooms, only one is populated with furniture - a simple, inelegant folding cot, like the type taken on camping trips by deeply Stoic people, and a set of stacked clear totes, each one filled with folded clothes - Noboru did not flaunt his fashion plate choices easily, sticking to the same degree of effort-free clothes; clothes that endured, absorbed blood and didn't tear easily. There is neither blanket nor pillow on the cot. The other bedroom, bare and empty.
Thinking like a stupid detective movie, he flips through the pages of the book before leaving to go back downstairs to the dvd player.
The book is Little High Hill; the Story of Almond Island, by Gemma Parson. There's notation made with pencil in the margins, the language Japanese and the writing precise, almost surgical. Tucked into the back of it is a short, stubby, yet almost violently-sharpened pencil, the eraser long-since missing in action. the summary of the book is about a mysterious island in the Northeast portion of Maine, a slew of kidnappings and ransoms, and the turn of the 18th century celebrations which took place nearby, as well as some vague hints of local lore. Seems an intriguing read for someone so.. disastrous.
The DVD player and its small tableau are the next stop; by opening it up, the power cycle begins, requiring a few moments' time before it can be put to the task at hand. In that gap of time, the DVD binder on top of the stack of others is accessed. Inside, the DVDs all have the same series of labels, each one numerically aligned with their neighbors - the topmost binder contains discs number 101-150, although only half of those sleeves have contents.
As he holds the binder and flips through the contents, the screen begins playing automatically. It's someone tied to a bedframe, a dingy room filled with shelves, and a swinging overhead lamp. The person in question is a young man, perhaps twenty-two, handcuffed and leg-ironed into position, his eyes wide with terror. Stepping into frame from what looks to be a stationary camera is Noburo, holding a handsaw and angling his head to the side - a predator's move, ready to begin what could only be a violent, horrific experience to endure.. and if one were lucky, die from quickly. The audio jack has a set of cheap, gas-station-grade headphones and even then, the squeals of visceral agony can be heard as the saw begins to work its way into a chunk of the man's bicep.
Townsend is completely caught off-guard. He vomits on the floor with the thought that he is probably right about what this monster does with the videos. He also slaps the dvd player on the floor to shut it up. "Jesus fucking christ! You really are better off dead." He then decides that all that is left is the basement and he hesitantly heads for the stairs.
The trip to the basement entry is short and uneventful. The scents wafting from what is unmistakably the lowest portion of the house are braved and Townsend descends the thirteen steps into the darkness. Fumbling for the switch, he comes to regret it at hearing, not seeing, that he is not alone. There, set in a steel cage akin to those used by divers in shark-infested waters, are two people, a man and a woman - the man is easily a week-old corpse, while the woman is hovering on the edge of psychosis, her eyes wide and displaying pinprick pupils, her skin coated in a thin layer of sweat, dried blood and endless amounts of grime. It is obvious she is a captive and has resorted to the ultimate expression in avoiding starvation.
She's eaten about a third of her cellmate's forearm, her mouth smeared in the thickest of the grime, teeth yellowed and crooked, expression one of pain and fear. At seeing Townsend, she lays on the bench in her cell, the body of her compatriot nudged to the floor where it lands with a thick, wet thud, and presses her face against the cage's narrow bars. "Please, please, food, food, please, so sorry, so sorry, help food, help-food, food-help," she chants, her voice cracked and ruined. The ancient track marks on her arm show she's a junkie of old, half of her thirty years spent chasing needles, and even though she's dressed in a set of hospital scrubs, she looks nude. As she stares at Townsend, she begins to sob, mouth gaping, eyes wide, absolutely lost to the world.
The rest of the basement is dedicated to shelving space - endless amounts of clear plastic totes, each one filled with folded clothing, personal effects and hand tools. There's dried blood on about ten percent of them, and at the far wall, there's a bedframe with handcuffs and leg irons. Townsend has found the film studio.
Townsend sputtering almost incoherently says some platitudes, "It will be okay, none of this is your fault. We'll get you out of here." None of which is he sure he believes and certainly doesn't think they help. With fumbling hands he hands her the granola bars and Gatorade discovered in a nearby tote. He then goes looking around for a key and halfway through the process thinks to ask her, "Is there a way to get you out? A key somewhere?"
The woman in the cage stiffens at seeing the totes being accessed, then relaxes sharply at seeing that Townsend isn't extracting a hand tool from them. Rather, she looks pleased and grateful at seeing him approach with the Gatorade and granola bars, the latter of which she practically detonates as she begins chewing hungrily, gasping in ardent passion. "Oh thank fucking god," she says, her voice almost normal, still carrying a manic edge to it. As she wipes her mouth clear of crumbs, she examines Townsend, taking him in in full, eyes narrowing slightly - her first-ever sane response.
"You're not Noburu," she says flatly. "Or Japanese. What?" She furrows her eyebrows, looking at him, clearly confused. "He.. he said we were going to be sold soon.. wait. What day is it?" She widens her eyes, panic soon to set in if not addressed directly.
Sighing in disgust as he realizes the keys were placed exactly 4 inches past any possible reach of the 2 caged people. Townsend will grab the key and attempt to free the woman offering her something to hold onto as she is almost certainly weaker then she knows and in a hurry to be rid of this place. "Who was the man? Do you know him, we need to at least let someone know so that they can properly bury him."
At being addressed and also freed, the woman steps from the cage and pauses as she seems about to embrace Townsend. Rather, she looks over herself, shaking her head and then speaks, her tone a little less frantic. "My boyfriend," she says calmly, "His name is Roland Worrell, and my name is Stephanie Blanco. If you get me to my brother's place.." She pauses. "A change of clothes, a shower, then to my brother's place.. I'll see to you being rewarded. So long as you don't mention a single fucking word of what you saw here, okay?" She narrows her eyes slightly. "Please. I won't threaten you. I'm.. not stupid, just.. not doing good. It's obvious dickface is dead, or you'd be in the cage.. or on the bed." She shudders, glancing to the empty iron bedframe, crossing her arms over her chest.
Holding the woman in a near cradle position as she is attempting to get her feet his back stiffens and he does a very obvious double take at her name. He not knowing how obvious he is does not say anything but responds with, "Uhh, yeah, sure, sure - we can get you wherever. If I thought we could get away with it I'd burn this whole fucking house down on our way out."
"Fire is humanity's oldest privilege," she says, smoothing back her hair. It looks like she's regaining composure quickly, although how long that will last, it's anyone's guess. "Okay. This shithole, it has a shower. My clothes should be in..." And she steps toward a tote, then hesitates, selecting one next to it, popping the lid free and letting it hit the floor with a clatter. "This, perfect, yes." She then turns toward Townsend. "Okay. Help me upstairs and into the .. okay, I'll handle the shower part, you just ... chill." She angles her head, examining Townsend, then motions to the tote next to the one she grabbed. "That's Roland's stuff. There's some gear in it if you need to, y'know, handle yourself." She shrugs; the universal indicator of a junkie spotting someone who may be in need of a fix. "I'm officially fucking done with it. If I had any, it'd be yours." She sounds.. determined.
Townsend will escort her to the top of the stairs and loiter up there making a show that he isn't planning on doing exactly what he is planning on doing. His shame getting the better of him. After he hears the water turn on he runs down stairs and will find himself something to partake of...he goes into the study to sit down because it is the least offensive place in the house.
In the quiet space of the study, there's room enough to spare for Townsend to be all by himself and prepare a fine needle to ride. The mixture is crafted, a spoon bent for just such an event found in the same tote providing him with free heroin, and he carefully extracts a thin measure of it into the needle. Binding his bicep with a strip of friendly cloth, he has a tourniquet of value, then the needle finds a home in the crook of his elbow. A moment later, that glorious chemical rush, flooding his pleasure centers with a full-body, soul-deep beyond-climax mixture of emotions and sensations, leaving him slack-jawed and drooling, and within a few minutes, laying on his side.
The drug is potent, his body, although prepared, went too long without it and is reminding him - he is, deep down, addicted, and needs to tend to it, lest he fall prey to its sharp, merciless nature. Time slows as he lounges, unconcerned with the petty aspects of life beyond breathing in glorious oxygen, exhaling liquid dreams, and soon, his vision swarms with the sight of a woman dressed in a hoodie and jeans, looking down at him with a mixture of revulsion and envy.
"Nice," she says flatly, her face cleansed of all ruination, hair damp and steam rising from her skin, shaking her head softly. "Get up, dumbass, we're getting the fuck out of here, okay?" She then presses a handful of cash into his grip, then adds, "I found money in the other totes. That's half. I'll use the other to get a cab." She pauses, helping him to his feet, struggling, albeit with less of an issue as before, propping him against the wall of the study. "Thank you. I don't even know your name or why you're here.. so.. uh. Yeah." She blinks, uncertainty on her face.
Making it all the way into the living room from the study was hard work for a guy in Townsend's condition. Not just the drugs have ruined him this time.... He mutters loudly to wait a minute and slumps into the chair and lols nearly to the floor only to notice something under the chair. Pulling it up he is disappointed and confused to find the money and the drugs he came here for. "Who the fuck is this guy?" he says waving the card as if she knew or cared.
She pauses as he slumps into the chair and finds the hidden stash, clearly impressed and confused. "Parker Felton?" she asks, then examines the business card. "He makes fake IDs. Not, like, great ones, just.. y'know, the affordable kind." She shrugs, then hands the card back to Townsend. "No idea why this happy asshole had his card, except, maybe.. if he was ready to run?" She shrugs, then glances around briefly. "We need to get out of here, okay? I'll call my brother's people, have them.. y'know.. handle this place." She gives him a brief smile, her teeth less-yellowed, although still junkie-terrible. "Hey. What's your name, anyway?"
Townsend says, "Townsend, quite the ausp, the... ows, it sounds way more important then I am. And I am glad this shitbag is dead." He looks around with a conspiratorial look as if Noboru might hear him anyway. He then gets off the chair and walks out with her clearly relieved as she is to be leaving.
She is far from over with her journey out of Hell, although she has a headstart courtesy of Townsend. Were it not for him, she'd have starved in the dark, utterly unaware that her liberation was less than a hand's length from her grasp, concealed from view. Thusly empowered and newly-cleansed, she helps him out of the house and into a cab, providing the cabbie with a strong tip and a short summary of not asking questions - just to be dropped off at a specific address, one which provides Townsend with an opportunity to rest in a flophouse motel for the night and her to continue her journey into the darkness.
With an envelope of cash, dope in his veins and a few aspects of the mystery of his former employer resolved, Townsend is left with more questions than answers, and aware that even when dead, demons can strike without mercy nor restraint. The binder filled with horror was left behind, as were the totes, some of which contained the last items owned by his victims, remain enshrined in the house.
By the morning's light, Townsend will awaken on a soft, comfortable bed in a cheap room, sunlight rinsing his eyes, and the news on the muted TV shows a house aflame, one all too familiar to him - hell reclaiming what it provided, the smoke carrying up the souls of those lost and forgotten. With luck, some degree of closure exists. Then again, this is Chicago - you're only owed a death, not an explanation.
Sometime during the night, he ordered a pizza. It's cold and delicious and there's a note in his pocket.
IOU one favor
~ Stephanie Blanco
|
