Monthly Bonus Content #1: 'A Frightful Encounter' (Reese Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: A header image of a very old book that appears unsettling as its binding and pages slowly decay. It is opened up, but no text can be made out on its page due to the angle of the picture and encroaching shadows. The title is: "A Frightful Encounter" in a chilling font that appears shaky; it's a worn brown color like the book with a blood-like streak behind it to make each letter pop.]

Hi TFS Patrons,

I'm thrilled for you to be reading 'A Frightful Encounter'! I've been teasing it for a while, so there's no need to reiterate all of that, but it's another fall treat that I'm happy to be sharing during R's birth month. This writing is intended to be scarier. I wrote it more thematically like a movie. :D

Please check the content warnings at the very bottom of the writing. I don't wish to spoil, so scroll down or search 'content warnings' if you would like. Your comfort should always come first while reading. 💚

I hope you enjoy it! 🥰

_ _ _

[Somewhere in Fernweh's Woods]

"Hey, wait up!"

Trent's timid half-shout doesn't carry far within the woods, but it's still whiney enough to make Tabitha slow down before he can say more.

He's navigating the heavily wooded area with his flashlight raised and hand resting on his issued pepper spray. She clicks her light on then off to signal him closer. "Trenton, let's go," she impatiently encourages him. "Dispatch has some nerve sending us all the way out here—in here. We aren't forest fighters; we're officers."

"We were already in the area," he diplomatically points out. "This isn't really a forest, or at least it wasn't always. It's a super old neighborhood."

"It's a side road we patrol out of habit. There are no citizens out"—she swings the beam of her flashlight in a wide arc, watching how it slips through the shadowy trees—"here."

Trent holds up one of his hands in a half-hearted surrender, still keeping the other on his mace. Is he that afraid of bears? He was the officer who responded to Detective 'Cold as Ice Yet Hot as Hell' Corvin's call for medical attention. He was too new to handle such a graphic sight, but also so damn lucky to have gotten the call to come. Tabitha wouldn't have minded seeing some real action—both James in action and something more out of the ordinary.

She could've helped him without fumbling.

The two of them continue their search.

"So, what do you think it is?"

"Either a prank call or kids being dumb," Tabitha replies while peering up at the sky to see if any trace of the trail of smoke is still visible. This isn't the deep woods, skeletons of houses add some pockets that haven't been fully reclaimed by the forest. Squatters aren't common around town. "They get dumber around Halloween."

"I'm just glad it isn't at the [Surname] place because Detective Corvin would be pissed, but the Verner heir would be so much worse…"

The certainty of Trent's remark forces Tabitha to focus ahead to mask how her expression twists with dislike, eyes narrowing in disdain at the mention of the Returning Visitor. Good or bad, you remain the talk of the town. You somehow hold James's attention in a vice grip after years of distance where you weren't right by his side, working, learning, and listening. Getting a second glance from Reese Verner of all people is unheard of, yet you've gotten that and more from him: the heartbreaker's heart.

Only a handful of the elite should ever have a chance; the Verner heir was an unattainable and attractive ideal for many people in town.

That fantasy is over now.

(Why are you so damned special?)

"Sure, whatever," Tabitha lukewarmly agrees. "I bet they would each do something amazing."

"No, I mean it," Trent insists. "Detective Corvin would be the first one out there. I heard that it happened once because of the accident that made the [Surname] plot of land 'death-touched'. He tried to arrest them. Chief had to step in, I think? It was—"

"It was bad," she finishes for him.

Tabitha is well aware of that. It was one of the few times the Detective was emotive, angry, but also scary-hot, stalking through the station.

"It was respectful," Trent easily corrects her. "Eventually, someone bought out the neighborhood, you know, all but that one plot. I think the heir did it for [Name]—for the family. They deserve some respect, not s'mores being toasted on where they… you know."

"Died," Tabitha flatly answers. How can this guy expect to be a proper deputy when 'died' is a forbidden word? It's ridiculous. She pointedly glances away from him, though her eyes do widen at what she sees. "There's our culprit, probably an unattended campfire or stove."

A mostly dilapidated house is nestled in a sparsely forested clearing; it's in better shape than some they've passed. Smoke lazily spills from its chimney, a steady stream that would be identifiable from surrounding roads since it's only early evening. Maybe a citizen was truly doing the right thing by being vigilant.

"It's way too creepy to eat out here."

"We need to put it out, deputy."

"I know, I know," he mutters. "I'm coming…"

"No, you're doing. I found it for us."

Trent groans at her decision while Tabitha smiles to herself, continuing ahead with an authority that comes from a higher rank. The front door opens with a creak that belongs in a horror movie, which doesn't faze her as much as the—

"Were they making bacon?"

The smell of cooking meat mingles with wood rot.

"I don't see a menu," Tabitha retorts, but she does step in front of the young deputy, hand on her gun. "Just stay close to me, okay?" His nod is enough of an agreement for her, so she goes deeper inside of the decaying home, intent on finding the source of the smoke. "Stay sharp."

"Close and sharp, close and sharp—got it!"

"And quiet…" she adds with a sigh. He's like a damn puppy, still he tries. "We might not be alone."

Tabitha turns away from Trent to ignore his uneasy grimace that holds a hint of indignation like she's attempting to freak him out. The hall is uneven, parts of the wooden flooring sinking in some places with gnarled roots popping up in others. She picks her way through it, noting how the pictures on the walls are all coated in dust. It's easy to find the kitchen, though she has to resist the urge to cover her nose the closer they get to it. Trent muffles his cough.

"It's like barbecue…"

"Trenton, did you not eat before—?"

"I'm just making an observation," he stage-whispers. "Look!"

The kitchen isn't as dust-coated and cobweb-laden as the rest of the hallway, cleaned in only the bare minimum sense to allow a person to navigate it. There's a weak fire in the fireplace that has a heavy cast iron pot that's unusually large with deep sides. Tabitha doesn't spy any ingredients for the stew that must be bubbling away inside of it; no carrots, potatoes, meat, or herbs. Maybe someone ate and then left here?

A few fast food wrappers undermine her guess. She counts two half-eaten hamburgers, a box of chicken nuggets, three packs of fries, and sugary sodas. The smell could be from the double bacon burgers; however, it's awfully strong. Bored teens were probably trying to brew up some make-believe trouble that would ultimately end in a fire hazard.

"Put out the fire," she orders Trent. "Be careful."

"It's a literal cauldron."

"Put out the fire beneath the literal cauldron," she replies with a degree of sass. "Be careful."

While Trent works on his problem-solving skills, Tabitha continues to investigate the area as a niggling curiosity sets in now that the potential danger is identified. Why would teenagers come out here? Her eyes fall to the one-of-a-kind chef's knife on a nearby cutting board; it's far too ceremonial and fussy. Its glinting blade can't hold her attention for long when a rustle of paper in the room absent of any breeze draws her attention. The page is one of the few pristine items in this home, worn, yellowed paper lovingly cared for without a single tear aside from the jagged one that cleaved it away.

It seems lonely without the rest of the book.

She nearly startles when her hand unbiddenly touches it before shaking off that reaction.

This isn't a recipe for a hearty stew.

"It won't go out," Trent complains.

"Suffocate," she absentmindedly retorts before correcting herself by elaborating. "Suffocate it with a pan or something to starve the flames."

"Gotcha, thanks!"

'Atramentous Love'

'For a love as all-consuming as the void.'

Something about the inky words on the page sparks a zealous hope in Tabitha even if this is a long-shot idea. It's likely a hoax, which is why the teens who were out here settled for dinner instead of a magic show, but the image of two shadowy lovers intertwined seems to shift and ripple within her flashlight's beam. A small part of herself wants to dismissively scoff at this, but the rest is too entranced by the possibility.

It's perfect, too perfect.

She grabs the page without a second thought, ignoring how it feels faintly warm to the touch because her own heart is racing until it seems to stutter in her chest. "What the—?" Tabitha balks at the page as the letters rapidly fade away, each one growing fainter. They retreat to the margin—the torn edge where the spine of a book should be, crawling over each other like baby spiders to latch onto something tangible.

One of the symbols grazes her thumb, pricking its tip.

Tabitha yelps, dashing over to where Trent is about to place a large pan over the fire. She tosses the page into the flames, stepping back when they flare up like the ebony ink was streaks of oil, except through the hungry blaze, it appears to only be a black line. All of those words lined up along the edge to go elsewhere, possibly seeking out a new home without their book. One blink and it's entirely eaten away.

No letters, symbols, or a perfect solution to let her finally have James Corvin's affections.

This isn't really happening; it can't be!

She checks her hands for any ink while taking a centering breath since she must be tired.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Trent worriedly demands. "Tabitha, what—?"

She shrugs off his touch, too alarmed. "Let's get a move on, okay? I want to leave—now."

He stops hesitating with the large pan at her insistence, shooting Tabitha a confused look that quickly changes when she starts striding ahead to leave him alone in a creepy house.

The two of them never thought to look up at the charred remains plastered to the ceiling.

To be fair, there wasn't much left…

. . .

. .

.

[On One of Fernweh's More Desolate Roads]

There isn't much left of Reese's patience as compared to yours.

“This is why investment in the outskirts is so lacking,” he asserts with evident irritation, peering at you through the windshield before he presents a twisted piece of metal to you. It's bent in on itself at oddly regular angles, possibly a section of an old fence. “Rebar. Everything out this way is slowly decaying to time. No wonder they are attempting to lure money into it with a recreation area. As if that will change how it has metal dangers—ugh, it punctured Angelique.”

The sunset has left behind wisps of lavender and rosy pink in the rapidly darkening sky, each one is pretty, but not as striking as him. He's bathed in a bright glow from the headlights, continuing to inspect the minor damage to his convertible with a critical eye. It makes the faint silver pinstripes to his black suit appear to shimmer; you helped select this one after agreeing to sit through a budget proposal meeting with him. You're almost certain you were the highlight of the droning conversation because he kept offering you a subtle smile during it. “Rosie will fix her.”

“She should not have been broken,” Reese mutters with a sigh, twirling the rebar like a baton for a second before raising it overheard to fling it into the woods. He is deciding on the optimum angle. “But you are right; I know you are… I feel as though I've wasted your night, [Surname].”

“It wasn't that bad,” you instantly disagree. He asked you to wait in the car so only one set of shoes would be subjected to the unkempt, dirt roads, but you straighten up in your seat to meet his gaze. Reese pauses trying to create a javelin out of rebar. “What else would I be doing?”

“I can think of quite a few things I would rather be doing with you…”

His smile turns into a suggestive smirk while you watch each other, though he temptingly leans on the hood of the car as if to bask in the—

BANG!

A loud metallic bang startles both of you.

Reese levels the rebar at you in an instant, staring behind you into the backseat with his arm raised to strike. All of that softness he has for you is hidden away by a ferocity you think your mother would have liked. He's already assessing the distance between you and himself, but he looks ready to react strongly until his eyes narrow in annoyed recognition just before you turn.

"Are you trying to steal my car? Were you watching us?"

"It's not like that!"

You shift to see that Kyle, the dry cleaner's son who has an attitude, has vaulted into the convertible. The bang must have come from his knees banging against Angelique's side. His eyes are wild yet fearful, darting between you and Reese before settling on the empty road you've idled on. There are a few colorful leaves stuck to the mud that's on his T-shirt; he must've fallen.

"Then explain what—"

"I want to go home," Kyle interjects. "Please, please, please take me home, Reese. I never should've come out with Greg, just please?"

"This isn't a taxi," Reese retorts without much bite. He discards the rebar on the side of the road.

Some of Reese's anger ebbs away after the teen's begging, but you help it along, gesturing for him to get back inside of the car. "He's scared," you point out. "I don't think it's a joke…"

"It isn't—I swear!" Kyle exclaims with a fearful glance into the woods he ran through. "Let's go."

"Is Milton out here?"

"Why's that matter!?"

Reese makes no move to put Angelique into drive, continuing to stare down your new, unwanted passenger. You peer into the dark forest on the left side of the car, on edge from how Kyle is behaving and unable to spot anything amiss between the trees. This area is moderately remote; there were proposals for a dog park or a recreation area that would need to be developed and built. "Answer him."

Kyle curses under his breath. "We don't hang out with him anymore, no. He's—We just don't."

"Because you prefer to bully him now that he is off the baseball team," Reese bluntly asserts, turning around to start the drive back to the main part of town. His eyes remain fixed on the road even when you rest a calming hand on his thigh. "Start explaining yourself. Now."

"I don't really know what happened—"

Angelique's speed begins to slow down, velocity declining along with Reese's patience.

"—damn, okay! It's all their fault."

Kyle takes a breath, shifting to be completely behind your seat so he's pressed up against the door, possibly to avoid Reese's attention in the rearview mirror. You angle more in your seat to keep them both in view. He's hunched down too to make himself appear smaller.

"I was keeping watch because it was getting too creepy," he admits. "It—It was Greg's friend's idea, Joel, who's doing more extreme pranks now that Milton's stopped. They were going to film some magic spell—make it seem real—to play it at the Halloween Bash as a senior prank. The fuckers instead must've decided to scare me! I heard screams, smelled smoke, and then Greg came running. He didn't stop, just ran… I couldn't even ask him what happened. He then started screaming in the woods, so I ran too."

Reese shares a skeptical look with you, clearly more unreceptive to the story than you are.

"What spell were they doing?" you ask.

Kyle snorts at your question, shaking his head weakly, except the action appears more jerky from how curled up he is. "Something about being hotter to get a date for the dance," he reveals. "It was something like that. I know because they brought lighters and Joel stole a Bunsen burner. They were going to do a pyro trick to make it look legit. They turned on me."

"You turned on Milton," Reese retorts. "It is an unpleasant experience."

Kyle has enough sense to stay silent, while you give a comforting squeeze to Reese's thigh.

"How did you find this spell? Was it in a—?"

"Are you making fun of me?" Kyle demands. "It can't be real. It wasn't! They're just asses."

"Watch your tone," Reese warns him.

Kyle's glower would be more effective if you didn't see his jaw trembling faintly either from what he heard or from his friend's scaring him this cruelly. His legs are drawn up onto the seat in a way that would earn a rebuke from Reese if he was aware of it. Kyle may be too shaken for you to continue pressing the topic. "It's fine, but we should tell James about this… incident."

You play one of Reese's CDs, switching from the dated pop song track to classical music to calm things down.

"Britney would have certainly defused things, but very well, go with Bach."

Reese catches your eye to share a slight smile with you before you settle in for the drive, although his hand covers yours at times during the ride. Something seems amiss about tonight.

. . .

. .

.

[Near the Creepy House in the Woods]

"—which is why I love fresh basil in my sauce."

James is half-listening to Trent's spaghetti sauce recipe since he knows his mother's recipe will always stand alone. His frequent chatting could suggest some nerves about coming back to a house he described as 'creepy af' to Alina. After what you and Reese told James about the frightened teens, it seemed like a sound idea to investigate why they would come to this place.

The dilapidated house appears ominous even in broad daylight as if the streaming sunlight can't entirely reach it. This area might not be safe to scope out. "Why don't you keep watch for me?"

"Sure thing!" Trent eagerly agrees. "I mean, yes, sir."

James offers him a thankful nod before heading inside, drawing his gun once out of sight to deter any of Trent's questions. It still smells faintly of cooked meat. He performs a sweep, though his destination is the kitchen, the one with the cauldron. It's still sitting there.

In fact, everything is as Trent described it from the steadily spoiling fast food to the fireplace, but James still picks over the area. It isn't long until all of those opened drawers and peering under things gives him a find: a camcorder. He pulls it out from beneath a table; it's an older model and the built-in screen has a tiny crack.

James finds a corner within the room, claiming it before reviewing the last recorded footage.

The beginning shot is of the lit cauldron, weak flames lick at the cast iron bottom of it before the camera person zooms out to the mantle.

"Testing, testing, one, two, three, fo—"

"Didn't know you could count that high, Greg."

A teen comes into view just in time for him to flash a grin to the camera and a middle finger.

"Fuck off!" Greg, the cameraman, playfully curses. "We've gotta do this right."

"If your friend wasn't such a pussy, then it'd—"

"Dude, not cool."

"—be way easier. I'm just sayin'."

The other teen, who must be Joel based on what you said, waves a hand at the camera before hefting the arcane book into view. He presents it to the viewer, waggling his pierced eyebrows for effect. "He's a scaredy cat. Is that better? This"—he thumps the book—"is what Kyle is afraid of everyone. Well, and the house."

"The house is creepy…"

"You're still here, so you're less of a pus—"

The video cuts ahead, possibly because the cameraman didn't want to edit out his friend's crassness. The next shot shows the island of the kitchen with Joel dressed in a decorative mask that's similar to a plague doctor's. He has an intricate knife raised and is opening up the book. He's now simply staring at the pages.

"We're recording," Greg whispers, although it comes through clearly. "Say something."

. . .

"Joel, come on. I'm not good at this part."

Joel slowly raises his head to look directly at the camera for a tense second, circular goggles appearing to glint in the lighting. He says nothing for a moment, slicing his palm, which earns a sound of surprise from Greg. It could explain why the frame shakes, stuttering.

"Burning Desire."

He's reading…?

"For an appearance hotter than the pits of hell."

Joel flattens his palm against the book, jolting and then shaking slightly, except it appears to originate from his right hand. The camera stays on him until it darts down to the now blank pages, zooming in on the blood. A chuckle from Joel causes the shot to return to him.

"Did you save some ketchup packets…?" Greg asks with obvious apprehension. "Food dye?"

"No, you can't skimp on this, man."

"Wait, what? You didn't really—?"

Joel jokingly waves at the camera to show off his bloodied palm, except the wound has a dark center to it among the crimson, flesh starting to fissure gradually and widen to—

"What the hell?"

The shot switches to a view of Greg's shoes; he lowered the camera in alarm, still shaking.

"Shhhh, shhh, it'll be worth it when Cindy says 'yes' to me, just calm your tits… It's your turn."

Greg must take a step back, the front of his tennis shoes disappear and then reappear.

"No, this is too much," he disagrees. "I'll film."

"You're just like Kyle. You two belong together."

"It's not like that! Shut up. I like the visitor—she's cute with that hoodie and seems pretty chill."

"Oh, like that's not a suspicious choice?"

The shot reluctantly returns to Joel, possibly out of peer pressure to stay within the house since there is a slight tremor to it. He uses the knife to collect a lock of his hair before burning it with a lighter over the book. It's extinguished by the leftover blood pooling on the page. He then says something in Latin despite the lack of instructions, each word flowing with ease as if they're innate to him instead of memorized.

. . .

A moment passes with Greg fidgeting by adjusting the zoom settings and shuffling in place. It's during one of these panning shots that Joel braces on the counter's edge with a muffled groan. The tip of his plague doctor's mask hits the book, leaving behind a subtle smudge of black that most wouldn't notice.

"It's working!" he giddily exclaims, laughing. "I can feel it."

"You're smoking?" Greg asks.

Thin trails of smoke are curling from the teen's black robe, appearing like fine mist at first before it starts to billow off his shoulders.

"I know," Joel arrogantly asserts. "Jealous?"

"No, no, I don't—Is it dry ice?" Greg fearfully demands through a cough. "How are you—?"

"Tell me how handsome I am!"

Joel raises his hand to grab the sagging beak of the mask, synthetic leather starting to buckle beneath an unnatural heat. He starts to pull it off, glass goggles cracking from the warmth, but it's too melted. The zoom allows the viewer to see the sticky strings of black leather, only hinting at a glimpse of what lies beneath. It was far too red for human flesh…

"Joel! You're—"

"Tell me! I'm so hot. A legit movie star!"

He sounds too enthralled to be in pain even as the smoke turns a darker color, implying more is being burned away. Joel clambers up onto a chair, arms raised to bask in his newfound hotness.

James pauses the video; it's sickeningly clear where this is going.

He haltingly peers up from the screen, eyes searching for what's left of the teen who was never a star, but a supernova. He locks his jaw against the charred sight clinging to one of the exposed rafters in the kitchen. His mind slips into Detective mode, just as his thumb deletes the footage. No one should have to see this. He refuses to let you or Reese view it; it would only scare you.

It would scar you.

"…I'm sorry," James speaks softly to Joel's body.

He stows the camcorder in the interior pocket of his coat, already devising how to conceal this while still offering closure to the family.

This is another missing person or odd ending for a case in Fernweh's borders, except he has to bury the truth he's supposed to seek out.

James exits the house without another glance.

"So creepy, right?" Trent asks, nearly tripping over his feet when James walks right past. He half-jogs to match his brisk pace. "Unless nothing really scares you, Detective Corvin?"

You, Alina, the rest of the gang, and more try to come to a mind that's been walled off after what he just found. James glances over his shoulder at Trent, expression reserved. "Fear for myself is rare, but I'm terrified for others…"

"That's why you're our Detective."

James says nothing to that praise, feeling the camcorder brush up against his side with each heavy step out of Fernweh's forest.

_ _ _

Content Warnings: Suspense, mild body horror, allusions to someone gradually burning/melting beneath a robe, and a random character's death.