Information

Weird has a minion!

[REDACTED] the Hovering Misfortunat

Weird
Legacy Name: Weird

The

Nightmare Feli
Owner:

Derelict

Age: 14 years, 7 months, 1 week

Born: September 12th, 2009

Adopted: 14 years, 3 months, 3 weeks ago

Adopted: December 25th, 2009

Statistics

Level: 11
Strength: 15
Defense: 13
Speed: 10
Health: 17
HP: 17/17
Intelligence: 0
Books Read: 0
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

case file #034:

“Wayne Wallace”

I. The Call

“Christ.” The detective muttered as the doors struggled open, giving way to a sudden influx of pungent odours strongly contradicting the chemical smell of the spotless steel elevator. He raised a sleeve to his nose in a vain attempt to brace himself for the wall of scent he was inevitably about to face. Once he stepped into the dim, dingy hallway and realized the futility of his actions, the detective lowered his arm and sighed.

“Careful saying that name too loud in here, detective.” A small voice piped from behind; the officer who’d initially responded to the call and been first on the scene, climbing out of the elevator in tow. “Might burst into flames.” The young man clutched with one hand over a fresh bandage across his left eye and cheek.

”Pfft.” The detective scoffed, and pulled a cigarette with his mouth from a crumpled pack he’d fished from within his coat, a clasped lighter not far behind. He palmed the flame as he lit up, blocking the faint breeze emanating from several large cracks and holes in the glass panes along the chipped white brick walls. “I’d’ve burned up long ago, son.” And they set off down the dilapidated hallway of the long abandoned asylum. “Far as I’m concerned-” He spoke between long draws, looked at the badge on the chest of the man trailing him, then gestured to the stripes of his own. “-the more of these you get, the further from christ you stray.”

The officer was silent at that, and returned to pitying himself over his wound. As the pair walked they stepped around, climbed over, and in one case crawled under, scattered piles of debris, long derelict hospital equipment and bits of smashed glass, tile and roofing.

”Did a tornado strike this floor only?” The officer rang out from behind, hopping off of an overturned cabinet spilling patient files into a pile on the floor. “I mean, what gives? The rest of the place is spotless.”

”After the Gavelston institute shut down a few years back-” The detective began, almost begrudgingly. “-following the death of an employee, every floor was completely stripped and sterilized save for floor 14, where the incident occurred. Not hard to imagine why the cleaners gave up here.” And he flicked his smouldering cigarette butt into the litter. “But now the building’s been purchased, men were sent in to make the arrangements, and the call was made.”

”Bet you thought you’d be the hero, eh?” The detective called over his shoulder after another long silence, the two reaching a sharp turn into another hallway away left in pitch darkness by a lack of windows to let in the moonlight. He unhooked an object from his belt and hefted it in his hands before a light beamed from it and was swallowed into the abyss before them. “Expecting to get some baton practice in on some squatters in an abandoned building, I bet.”

The officer took out his own flashlight before letting fly an offended scoff. “Cleaners said they saw lights and heard voices coming from one of the rooms. Bystanders on the street saw the lights, too. Think I was comin’ up here to beat on the electrician?”

”Wouldn’t be the worst I’ve seen.” The detective regarded, more to himself than anything. “Besides-” He fixed his light onto a folder held open in one hand. “Power in this place hadn’t been touched for years until we responded to your call, and even if it had...” he narrowed his eyes and followed along a line on the page with a finger, flashlight now suspended between his teeth pointing down before him as he spoke. “...all power lines to floor 14 were cut following the staff’s abandonment of the facility.” He quoted through gritted teeth.

Then, the man made himself known to them; the shuffle of his lackadaisical footsteps immediately freezing the detective and officer in their tracks. Only the right side of the pale, corpse-thin man could be seen from the doorway as he stood facing them, half out in the hall and half still in his room. Long, bony fingers curled around the doorframe as he peered around it, one visible dark sunken eye provided a distinguishing shine from the rest of the blackness surrounding him. “Officers.”

At once the detective’s flashlight dropped to the floor with a metallic rattle, scattered pages from the plummeting folder he’d just been holding following shortly after. He quickly jerked his handgun into his grip on an instinct and half-drew the weapon from his hip. “Fuck me.” He let out with an exasperated sigh, pressing his free hand to his chest. “Don’t fuckin’ move, creepy bastard.” The detective rang out, before fully drawing his pistol and signalling the officer to move forward and cuff the man.

”Right.” The officer remarked with a raised eyebrow toward the detectives drawn gun before moving to make the arrest. “And I’m the one one playing hero.”

The detective’s brows narrowed at that. “No. You’re playing the part of damsel in fucking distress.” He spat, gesturing to the man’s bandaged eye. “Now get to it, rook.”

The man didn’t move, but remained statue still as the officer hesitantly edged toward him, cuffs dangling from an outstretched hand. All the while he stared with a strained smile- in truth doing little more than simply baring his teeth. When he got close enough to the room, the officer wretched; the source of the scent, no doubt. He held his breath and moved to cuff the man.

The thin man didn’t resist, and was pulled easily out of the doorframe by the officer. He moved swiftly, despite his frail figure. As he was lead past and down the hall, the detective was able to finally get a good glimpse at the man with his flashlight. Frayed, receding black hair plastered unkempt across his liver-spotted pate, dark sunken eyes and cheeks deeper than any he’d ever seen. Most of his bones were visible beneath his skin, stretched paper thin, which was in turn visible beneath the ragged torn rags he’d dressed himself in. Hacked-apart belts dangling from his white coat suggesting it was formerly used for restraint. Formerly, but no longer. His pants were shredded near the bottoms, revealing bare, knobbly feet.

Before the detective joined the pair heading back to the elevator, he started towards the now vacant room- the last room on the floor. He rounded the corner, nose and mouth pressed into his crossed arm in another vain attempt- logic ultimately unable to prevail over instinct. His light illuminated a small tiled room- or cell, barely wide enough to take three strides in either direction. In the middle of the room, a crude, desperately worn mattress of straw was smothered beneath a layer of shredded clothes, papers and what seemed like curtains sprawled outward, touching every corner. The mass was dark in the center with dried blood, bits of hair and god knows what else- it almost hurt to look at, the smell was so strong. Where the man had been squatting, no doubt.

As he turned to be rid of the place, the detective caught the glimpse of something while his light flashed across the room. Many of the pages sprawling out from the center mass were filled with writing, and extended far beyond the floor- some plastered all the way up the walls and even reached the ceiling. Pages and pages of something. He peered down, and sure enough the mess was large enough that even in the doorway he was already standing on a few scattered pages. He lifted his heel and pried a torn note from the sole of his shoe before shining his light down to inspect it. His eyes darted left to right, then back again as he struggled to make out the script. The detective then reached down and snatched a radio from his belt.

”Get a team up here.”

II. The Right Questions

The lights flicked on with an electric buzz. Shrieking, sickly bright rays cast down from the elongated bulbs above. They reminded him of the lights in the quiet room. Just- not as quiet. Clearly.

The detective walked the man over and ushered him into a steel chair pulled up to a steel table in the center of the room, a long mirror making up one entire wall above waist height. The man sat with his head in his lap, as utterly motionless as he’d been in the hospital doorframe. The detective sauntered to the other chair across from the man with an elastic-bound folder tucked under his arm, much more full than the one he’d previously been carrying. A trail of piping steam bellowed from a stained mug loosely gripped in one hand- couldn’t have been more than half-full without spilling at the angle he carried it. Then, he placed the mug down on the table and set to adding dark liquid from a flask to it. Now full, he took a deep, slurping sip from the mug and eased himself down into the chair.

The detective took his time, sliding out pages from his folder and arranging them into tidy piles across the table before them. The man observed him all the while, tilting and craning his head with each movement like a curious kitten, unbothered. He’d built up plenty of patience throughout the years; plenty of time spent waiting while different men in different suits shoved him around into different rooms. Prodding him here, a question there, then gone again only for a different faceless figure to shuffle in sometime after. It must have added up to days, the man figured. A lot of his days, he realized, spent waiting on the whim of others. “But none of that matters now.” He whispered faintly to himself.

When he was finally satisfied with the order of his documents, the detective slapped a final page down before the man. ”Wayne Wallace.” He leaned forward and tapped on the page, most of which was blotted and struck-through with black ink. The man was unresponsive for a moment, before flinching at the name. “Someone made it very difficult for us to get your name. But we managed to piece that together from what was recovered.” He sighed, then rubbed his temple. “There wasn’t much else of use recovered from the official files. Records of various tests, and a shocking number of solitary confinement assignments to... something called the quiet room?”

”I’d forgotten.” Wallace trembled slightly. “Whatever they erased from the pages... they tried to erase from reality, too.” Wallace shook his head. “They took to calling me Weird.”

”Bit on the nose, eh?” The detective regarded dryly.

”Now yours.”

The detective slid forward a card containing his credentials onto the table.

”Hm.” Wallace breathed as he read, then returned to the detective’s gaze. ”If you went searching for clever men, Gavelston was the wrong place to look. Base men, with base desires, and base instincts. The lot of them.” Wallace’ face hardened for a moment before he quickly corrected and returned to his hazy state. “Doesn’t matter now. Small men.” The corners of his mouth curled into a sinister smile. “Smaller than they could ever’ve known.”

The detective nodded knowingly. “Funny you should mention that. All four of the medical directors have dropped dead, each of the deaths occurring-“ and he placed another page down in front of Wallace. “-in sequence on the anniversaries of the asylum closing.” Four images plastered on the page revealed four grizzly deaths.

Wallace’ shoulders dropped, as if a great tension had been released. He closed his eyes and spoke softly. “Then they came for them.” A pregnant silence filled the room. His eyes crept open oncemore and met the detective’s. “If you’re trying to pin a crime on me...” And of a sudden his voice was unnervingly steady. “...this is going to be an awfully short and boring conversation.”

”Alright, not an idiot. Insane, disgusting, freaky, but not an idiot.” the detective thought to himself. “No.” And he was deep in his mug again, finishing the dregs. “All officially pronounced freak accidents.” And he straightened his collar, pulled his shirt-cuffs into position underneath his jacket. “Unofficially, however...”

The detective abruptly slammed a fist down onto the table, sending a metallic ring throughout the small room. He jabbed an accusing finger at the photos, specifically at the corpses. “They all had the same enormous gaping holes in their chests, regardless of their widely varying pronounced causes of death. Officials didn’t pick up on the connection, I’m guessing because the deaths occurred in different counties. Different jurisdictions.”

Wallace was unshaken. ”None of them men worth mourning.” He interrupted. “If you think them mere physicians, you’re gravely mistaken-“

”I know they worked for genetech.” The detective loudly declared. “Why do you think I haven’t thrown your freaky ass under that homeless bridge downtown yet? I’d been building a case against them for years before they kindly took to devouring themselves from within.” Followed by another long silence.

“Something in your...notes. Caught my eye.” He sighed and filled his mug again, this time without any coffee to balance the bourbon. “Now, a few years ago I wouldn’t have given this fever-dream shit a second thought.” He was lost in thought for an instant. “But theres been an increase in... abnormal occurrences as of late. There was some overlap between yours and some of my other cases. I’m in the process of piecing together whatever you had going on in that room, but I’ve got enough to go off for now.”

Wallace twitched, then stifled a laugh. “You will be working for a while.”

”Then help me.” And the detective leaned close. “Tell me about this.” And he held out an image of one of the recovered tattered pages. “Tell me about the old ones.”

Wallace’ eyes went wide, and he shuffled in his seat with anticipation. “Now you’re asking the right questions, detective.” and he adopted a grim tone. “But before I inform you, know that I sincerely envy your position.” He writhed uncomfortably, a drastic shift in demeanour. “I wish I still had your innocence, your ignorance. Once you know, once you really understand, you will never forget. Can’t ever forget.” He dazed blankly across the room at nothing. “...It will keep you up at night.”

The detective sat forward, unintimidated but intrigued. “If not for my physician’s pity, I already wouldn’t sleep at night. Hit me with it.” He took a gulp from his mug that made him wince. “After the shit I’ve seen, I’m open to all possibilities.”

Wallace nodded. “I myself lack the intimate knowledge of physics and arithmetic that the previous owner of the journal possessed, and thus cannot provide such eloquent articulations.” He began, and as he continued speaking his voice took on a faint, echoing hum coming from somewhere in the back of his throat. “But there are beings. Beings that exist beyond our comprehension. We cannot fully understand them, to hope to do so is a fools notion. We can only observe, and hope they do not mind that we are. How did he describe it... they exist on a plane above our own. If we exist in the third dimension, they’re in the fourth.”

The detective finished yet another mug. “And based on the pages I’ve seen so far, it sounds like these “old ones” took out the directors. The missing cylinder of flesh, it’s consistent with-“

”You can try and apply our own logic and reasonings to their actions. You’ll come up short every time. We exist on such a placid film of reality, to them its laughable.” He shrunk inward, the hum behind his voice fading and growing sporadically. “Take a glass of water, and push it through the plane; an all-encompassing drowning sea would be all that is perceivable on our end. A person, for example, merely an inescapable ocean of squelching, shifting, contorting bone and writhing innards. We are all entirely at their mercy, and always will be.”

”Okay, I get it- total impending doom. But I’ve got cases to finish before then, so back to the directors-“

Wallace shot up in an instant, and began bellowing loudly- the hum no longer faint and fleeting, but nearly overtaking his shrill speech. “The fact that this doesn't happen to us on a daily basis is just a testament to how insignificant we are to them.” He grew more and more hysterical. “When they interact with us, we are quickly and soberingly made aware just how inhospitable the universe is for us, aside from our insignificant sliver of reality, by the very virtue of its’ mathematical nature.”

”Alright. This is going nowhere fast.” The detective cut him off sternly before standing. “I’ll piece the pages back together myself. As for you...” and he glared emptily at Wallace. “...You’ll transcribe complete versions of all the damaged and missing ones. Seeing as you clearly had something to do with sending these things after the directors.”

Wallace smirked, his demeanour settling. “Will I?” He challenged. “I, who they have clearly chosen as their vessel?” He gestured towards the four photos before him. “I, who spoke their names into the void, and received an answer?”

”Yes. You will.” The detective spat in immediate response. “Or you can go to prison. I know a few on the inside that would use you as their vessel, too.” Wallace cringed, shrunk back into his seat at that. At once, suppressed memories of the operational days of the asylum flowed back to him. “Are we clear, Weird?” The detective glared at him, packing up his files into the folder before heading for the door.

”...Yes.” Weird mumbled, and the detective was gone. “Besides...” and he flipped the detectives’ card between his fingers. “I’ve a new name to share with the Old Ones.”

CREDITS

story by Derelict

overlay (c) Leaf