Visiting Ours

Date: 09/19/2018 Time: 19:30 EST	Trinity Cemetery It's dusk, the time of change and transitions. Elephant - Jason Isbel Reconstruction Site - Weakerthans The Trapeze Swinger - Iron and Wine Upward over the Mountain - Iron and Wine Heel Turn 2 - The Mountain Goats
Cast: Alma Wednesday Jessica Plainview, Deceased Michael Ooze Storyteller: Alexandra/Misti
One couldn't ask for a place more apropos than Trinity Cemetery. The graves are clustered close together, huddled for warmth. Simple granite tablets or tall, gothic monuments. Overlooking abandoned factories, collapsed under decades of Lake Effect storms and overrun with plant life slowly reclaiming them. But the cemetery itself is still maintained, privately owned. The lawn mowed and trimmed, the grass only mostly brown. Many of the gravestones tipped or spilled over by decades of barely-checked vandals. It's not difficult to find some privacy in the vast stretches of empty space. Alma is a frequent visitor to Trinity Cemetery. She is one of the people who help keep it clear of trash. It's part of her rounds. This is where she goes to call for the murdered ghost. One should show respect when rendering service, and she has dressed up in clothes to reflect the solemnity of the occasion. She is wearing a white salwar. Her gift of food is set out on a blanket and she is kneeling at the bowl. She cuts her thumb to add some blood to the bowl. She breathes meditatively and cultivates four types of love in order to be able to best serve this ghost. maitri, karuna, mudita, upeksha. The love reaches out from Alma. She can feel it pouring out into the world. Stretching across the web that ties together all things. A call into the darkness, hopefully to be answered. It hasn't been before. Never in Detroit. The web too empty, too drained. For a moment, it feels as if this will be the same. Her heart opens, and love reaches out to be met by nothing. But then, there it is. A tug on the web. Like a fly on a spider's web. A pulsing tug. A presence. Alma speaks to the presence, "The divine in me greets the divine in you. Are you Rob Miller?" The tug grows stronger. Following its way across the web, toward Alma. Too weak to manifest fully, yet, but growing stronger from the attention. A voice, indistinct, ghostly, laughs. "Hardly," details of it difficult to draw, "He's still asleep for now." "Who am I speaking with?" asks Alma. "You can call me Jessica," the voice answers, growing stronger as it speaks. Taking on a more feminine quality. More lively, vivacious. "Do I get to ask you questions, too?" Alma ponders this. It would be an exchange of service to answer the voice's questions. "You just did. You may ask more. Are you a friend of Rob Miller?" "I wouldn't call myself a friend. We met, but he was under some pressure at the time. Is that funny? I'm sorry, one tends to lose track of these things," the presence jokes. "Like I said. He's between things right now. Well, between being between things." "I hope to be able to help him with that. Do you know when he will be awake?" Alma is very curious about this ghost who has managed to survive around Detroit. "Are /you/ feeling any pressure?" "Only always," Jessica answers. Alma can catch glimpses of her now. The scent of shampoo, fruity and sweet. A glimpse of shimmering, dark hair. A trace of a leg, ankles crossing. The suggestions of her being there. "You know you haven't introduced yourself, right? I mean, it's fine. But I'd like to know what to call you." "You can call me Betty," Alma says. That's the name of one of the crows she has tattooed on her body. It is a half truth, maybe that makes it safer than her actual name. "How do you withstand the pressure, Jessica?" "Betty?" Jessica repeats, and Alma can hear the smile on her lips. Even if she can't see it. "Well, Betty. I have my hobbies. You know, keeping an eye on people. Quilting. You ever quilt, honey?" a bit of an accent coming through now. Mid-western, but young. Wisps of her, sitting on the grave stone Alma has placed herself in front of. Legs crossed at the knee. "What am I even talking about? It's been years." "I haven't quilted, no." Alma watches the wisps flickering in to a person. "but I do enjoy watching people. I watch birds too." She considers the gravestone. "How many years has it been?" Is it odd to hear a ghost pull in a breath? Perhaps. But Jessica does. Her sweater rises slowly as she does, drifting into view. "Since I talked to someone? Oh. A while now. Ten years, maybe? It's hard to keep track. When you've been doing anything this long, but especially when you're, y'know? Dead. Just a little less... Urgency. You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?" Alma admits she doesn't smoke. "But I have some food here. Enchilades verdes, lasagna, chocolate cake. Want any?" "Well, it's better than nothing," the ghost answers. "But I'm sure you weren't just looking to offer poor Robby a piece of cake." She begins to fade in more quickly. She's tall, trim, with long, dark hair. With a ghostly palor, it's hard to make out an ethnicity. But her eyes are large and a deep, nutty brown. Her face angular. Her make up old fashioned. Detroit is a dry place, and Alma wrings power out for the ghost. It's painful, but some things are worth the pain. "Indeed, I was hoping to be able to ask him some questions about the manner of his demise. His body was abandoned. That's two bodies I know about now, but I only know his name. He was murdered." "Two? You're one behind," Jessica answers, turning over her hand to inspect her nails curled down against the heel of her hand. "But you'll probably figure that out." Alma doesn't particularly try to hide the fact that she unhappy about this news. "Three? I was hoping we could prevent more. Who murdered them?" Alma goes for the direct approach. "His name is Michael. Well... That's one of his names," Jessica's smile turns sad. It drifts across her eyes as she looks up. Past Alma, toward the collapsing buildings at the other end of the cemetery. The playful mischief leaving her voice. Colder, more serious. She has the voice of a singer. Expressive, rich. "He was my son. Do you care about something like that?" "I do," Alma admits. "I like hearing about family and community. Tell me about your family. What were you like?" "Wouldn't you be a better judge of that then me?" she snaps back to playful quickly. Smile returning. "I mean, I only know about being me. You hear the one about the two fish?" "No, I've only heard the one about the fish and the bicycle. Did you have a big family?" "Four kids. Two men. One marriage. Life was interesting, y'know?" Jessica leans forward on the gravestone. "You don't strike me as the marrying type, Betty. I wasn't, either. But sometimes you just find yourself up there." "I don't want to be tied down," Alma explains. "I do love people, but I value my independence. They appreciate that in me. Was yours a love match?" "Oh, of course not. But Jacob was... Good. With Michael. And my mother loved him, of course. And he stuck with it. That's-" Jessica looks at Alma, serious for a moment. "That's the important thing, really. That man put up with so much. With Michael. With me. And he hung in there. Right up to the very end. And it got ugly." "What happened towards the end?" "Liver cancer," Jessica's hand glides to her side, above where her liver would be. "Everyone knew someone. I just happened to be Jacob's someone." "Cancer is a bad way to go. How did Jacob and Michael take it?" "Differently," Jessica smirks. "They took it... Differently." "Oh?" Alma asks. "Did it cause problems between them?" "Everything caused problems between those two," her smirk turns quickly into a sigh, "They were different. And Michael, well... Even when he was at his best, he had a temper. His father's. My goodness, look at me go. It really has been forever!" "Well, you said it's been a while since you talked to anyone. I don't mind listening for a while. I am worried about what Michael's up to these days. Three people murdered. There were scalped, too. Why were they scalped?" Jessica stops. Her smile disappears completely for the first time. Something harder edged on her face. "Michael did something very brave, once. And now there are consequences." "What did he do?" "How long you got?" A bit of a smile returns. It's slight, sarcastic. "Because I only understand about half of it, and I can't really put it in words." "Oh, I know that feeling. I have trouble putting things in words myself. What about the consequences, are those easier to explain?" "Do you really want to know?" Jessica asks, rising to her feet. Kitten heels on. She steps toward Alma, leaning in. A hand reaching out. "Stop me, if you don't." "Are you going to harm me?" "You won't like it. But it won't hurt." "I need to know what's going on." Alma admits. Jessica's hand comes away, "I want to show you what happened." Alma nods. "Okay. Show me." It's a dream. They can tell that much right away. Real life just isn't quite this real. The yellow-green lights are too sick, too depressing. The scent of disinfectant a little too potent, making her head spin. A thin, white curtain hangs along a track at the center of the room, cutting one side off from the other. A hospital room. In the bed lays a woman. The remains of a woman, barely enough left of her to make a person. Paper-skinned, frail, the shape of her bones the only thing giving her form. Next to the bed sits a young man. He's probably still a teenager, but that doesn't stop him from being powerfully built. Tall, with dark hair worn long and loose. Broad shouldered and muscled, he's handsome. But for his eyes. There's something cold inside them, something far off. He grips a grey remote control between his hands, lower jaw jutting out. Rage trembles through his body as he smacks the remote. The TV remains silent. In the hallway outside, another man stands. He looks nothing like the first. Smaller, slimmer, hair brown instead of ebony. He talks with a nurse, voice low enough that it's not quite possible to hear from inside the room. Alma walks closer to the door to eavesdrop on the nurse and man. She looks at the nurses nametag. Wednesday shuffles along the enormous branch towards the tall door. It has the faint green paint of someplace institutional, and a yellow light bleeds in around the cracks - and there's a clear call coming from it. "Well," he starts, looking down around the edge of the branch of the gigantic ash tree, "looks like this is the place." He reaches for the metallic door handle, turns it, and... ...then he steps into the hallway - a hospital hallway, he realizes with a quick smirk. He notes the people, the slim brown-haired man, and...is that, "...Alma?" "It's Betty," Alma says. "I'm Betty here. Come here." Even as Alma gets closer to the hallway, the conversation grows no louder. More like stage mumbling, actors having a fake conversation to simulate a background hum. The nurse's name tag sits on her chest, indistinct jibberish. A woman, Jessica, sits on the end of the bed now. "Howdy, stranger," she greets, obviously a little surprised by the foreign entrant into her dream. Dark haired, with deep brown eyes, she's dressed in a slim skirt and blouse. "God. Isn't this place depressing?" Wednesday heads to 'Betty,' but looks to the woman, bows and tugs at his hat. "Hope I'm not intruding too much. I was...nearby, I guess you could say." He stands a moment, and takes in the rest of the scene, standing behind Alma. "I never understand anything that's going on these days. So... It's fine. Jessica, by the way," she introduces herself, a playful bounce to her voice. She remains where she's seated, the world seeming to pause in mid-stride. No one stops what they're doing. They just continue to do it. The young man beats on the remote, the nurse and the older man share their unheard conversation, the frail woman in the bed continues to just barely breathe. Alma puzzles over Wednesday's face. He's spoken of dreams to her before, but she's never met him in one. "Hey" she tells him. "I'd like you to meet Jessica. Jessica, here is my friend." She pulls a twig out of one of her pockets and spins it absentmindedly. Wednesday nods to Jessica, and says, "Call me Wednesday." He glances down the hall, but stays put for now, not wanting to interrupt. His clothes here aren't the faded modern things they usually appear to be - he's wearing handmade linen and wool, with big, sturdy stitching. No concert tees here. The man in the hall nods, and turns back toward the room. Immediately, the younger man looks up. Looking through Alma, he speaks. His voice is dark, thick. A rumbling baritone. "Hey! Hey! You tell the nurse to turn the TV back on!" he doesn't need to have word passed, shouting it. The nurse doesn't look back, though. The older man answers, softer but colder, "Your mother needs her rest. You should go home." His hands in the pockets of his khaki pants as he walks back into the hospital room. Alma looks at the version of Jessica who has brought her in to the dream. "He's so angry. Is it on your behalf?" Jessica looks back over her shoulder at the young man. "I. It's complicated," she says, and pauses. "No," as a machine beeps and the two men glare at each other through the conversation. Beep. Beep. Watching the younger man, Wednesday very softly adds, "...or is it at you?" "Is that Michael?" Alma looks to the teenage boy. "And Jacob?" She tilts her head towards the older man. "They don't seems to get along." Understatement. "Did the cancer do it? Or were they like this before?" "That made it worse. Made them be around each other. By now Michael wasn't around much, if he could avoid it. Another bit of his father, I guess," the Jessica standing answers. Walking around behind Michael as the young man pushes up to his feet. He towers over Jacob, broader than Wednesday. "She'll want it on when she wakes up," Michael struggles to keep his voice down. Wednesday gives the room another glance, then looks down the hallway, and slowly goes to check the room next door, hesitating at that doorway to study that room and it's occupants. Alma inspects the young man and his--the man who is raising him? "Is he the child of the other man?" "Yes," Jessica answers, letting the question drop after that. The other room, Wednesday finds, is flatter. The figures inside only dark wisps of people. They lay in mismatched beds, assembled from bits of beds from all over a memory. Metal railings with quilted blankets, rooms seperated by seashell shower curtains. Phantoms in t-shirts disappear into stretches of blank wallpaper or out into the hall before vanishing completely. Through each window a different moon hangs. With a cocked eyebrow, tilted head and a curious grin, Wednesday will check a few more rooms, noting the thin-ness of the contructs and set-pieces, before returning to watch. Alma nods at Jessica and waits to see what happens next in the tale. <<OOC>> Alma says, "is there a medicine chart here on the bed?" <<OOC>> Wednesday assumes it says "Gerbleburble Cancer Burbleshmurble." <<OOC>> Misti cites Wednesday. It does have her name, Jessica Plainview. Also of note: it has an IHS logo on the paper. "Michael," the older man, Jacob, says. It is the end of the statement. A note of finality in his voice. There was nothing to argue about. The remote control explodes into a shower of plastic against the wall. Something races through Michael's arm. A ripple of muscle. The beeping intensifies. Louder, more frequent. The volume rising and rising as it drowns out the voices in the room. Until there is simply one continuous, ear piercing screech. Misti pages: As the argument between Jacob and Michael escalates, Michael's eyes flash yellow-green for a moment. Slit down the center. Cat's eyes. Alma can faintly hear something laughing. Wednesday flinches and begins a low, soft chant: "fu hu fa ha fi hi fe he fo ho..." - repeating but staying soft. He reaches for a distaff that's not there, and his eyes narrow briefly in frustration. Alma watches the tableaux unfold. She covers her ears with her hands and looks to Jessica again. Suddenly, the wail cuts out. There's barely enough time for Michael and Jacob both to turn their heads in response before the scene falls away. The walls of the hospital turn to dust, blowing away in a cold breeze across the plain. The phantoms dissolve with them. Jacob, as well, leaving Michael free to turn away. Stalking across the grass lands toward a great steel pipe that stretches away forever. The tube painted grey, 'Mastodon Energy' in block letters repeats across it again and again. Wednesday continues to chant, but the alarm is gone from his eye. He looks around him - at the grass, the sky, the horizon, trying to place them. Alma starts following Michael. She wonders where Jessica is. This time, there is no Jessica to be seen. Only Michael, marching, with drive behind the anger in his face. Toward the pipeline. "V'Yu-Gi!" he howls at the pipeline. And something bubbles from the grass. A black sludge twists, rising up from the soil. A giggle filling the air as it boils and writhes itself into the shape of a man. A man made of dripping tar. His skin constantly sloughing off, only for a new layer to bubble up. His eyes empty sockets against the black. Fingers melting into one another. "Wi-Ma-Way!" the tar answers, and titters at its own disrespect. Alma's skin crawls. She reaches for Wednesday's hand. Wednesday's chant evaporates - syllables disappear from the repetition in pockets until it's all gone, and the big guy's head tilts, his eye wide, and a fierce grin forming from an almost stunned expression. He latches onto Alma's hand, and reaches up with his other, flipping the eyepatch up and out of the way. The man made of tar looks up. His empty eyes catching to Wednesday's. His laughter is high, shrill, bubbling up from somewhere deep insider of him. "Hello!" he greets them both, joyfully. "What an unexpected surprise. You'll forgive me if I'm... Distracted?" he giggles again. "What brings you to me?" his voice oily as the rest of him. Ropes of black goo hanging inside his mouth as the tar parts for him to speak. "You know why I'm here," Michael answers. Something cold, steady, in his voice. Alma continues to watch. She looks for any sense of weakness in this thing of dark ooze and in Michael. Where does he need strength? Wednesday's eye narrows, and he bites his lip for a moment before chanting something else, "aw wa aw wa..." this time more boldly. Misti pages: It's difficult to get a read on Michael because of the other thing. Alma knows how to look for flaws, weaknesses in the web of things. That thing is weakness in life. Weakness is all around it. The structure of the pipe. The grass around it stunted and under developed. Every inch of its body radiates a contagious weakness to all other things. For a moment, Michael looks as if he is ready to attack. But in that moment, his anger breaks. His knees give way. Collapsing down. "Leave. Please. Leave this place, and never come back?" his ringing baritone shattered. It's not a demand. It's a plea. And the creature of black tar laughs. Alma can't do anything for the poor, doomed kid here in these memories. Maybe she can help him in the future. That chanting falters, too, and Wednesday leans into Alma, whispering at the side of his mouth, "This isn't Jessica anymore, I think. Do you...think you can leave?" He keeps his eye on the young man and the elemental. "Oh, don't worry," the mass of man-shaped ichor coos. He does not kneel so much as he melts down. Sticky hand stretching out. He looks up again, eyes at the pair of mages. "I'm certain we can come to an-" he breaks, again, to giggle, "Accommodation?" <<OOC>> Misti says, "And that's where I'm going to call things tonight. The memory fades to black. Alma awakes in Trinity Cemetery, Wednesday in his Demanse."