Michael Emond

@vinegarmichael.bsky.social

241 Followers 48 Following

Just a grown man trying his best~ He/Him | Novelist | Voice Actor | Casual Artist | Author of “How Do You Free a Caged Bird?"

Weeks had passed, and Sven still remained in the grips of a restless depression and hatred for the world. Most days, it was hardly a trifling matter to compartmentalize the madness, to put on the persona of a dutiful Earl’s son and carry on like he wasn’t dead inside. However, some days weren’t so kind. Some days, the sea of anger threatened to drown him in the undertow, and every utterance he made to the contrary felt like briny ocean water forcibly poured down his throat. That lazy afternoon, the young lord read through a novel he had recently bought in a desperate effort to distract himself from nihilistic musings regarding human depravity. He didn’t care if the novel was a work of classic literature or a piece of tawdry pulp fiction. Anything was fine as long as it was a distraction. He’d sooner read pages from the dictionary or an overly dry medical textbook for fun than sit idle with his thoughts. He sat in a red velvet armchair by the mansion’s library window under the light of the midday sun, wishing that the cosmic body’s rays would rekindle some semblance of lost warmth in his weary soul.
“Soren Sylva, eh?” Ezra thought aloud. He took a few steps on the way before fluidly turning on the back of his heel to address Soren in a dramatic flourish. “Alright, Soren. Here’s the deal,” Ezra said. “I can’t just leave a newly turned vampire to their own devices, but I also don’t have the luxury of sitting around to babysit you all day.” The private detective crossed his arms. “Starting today, you will serve as my personal assistant, tagging along and helping me with various jobs I take on. In exchange, I will offer you a roof over your head, a steady supply of blood to feed on, and a guarantee that I will keep you in one piece.” Ezra smirked. A powerful one that cemented in Soren’s eyes the sheer self-possessed confidence that the detective carried, along with his certainty that he laid out a proposal that was impossible to refuse. It wasn’t born of a shallow and inflated ego, but instead bore the weight of profound life experience and sheer determination. His self-assuredness was just as mesmerizing as it was intimidating. Whether it was in a straight-up fight or a battle of wits, Ezra was clearly not someone to be trifled with. “I assume those terms are satisfactory?” he asked with a cheeky undertone. Soren bit his lip. Saying he was stuck between a rock and a hard place would have been a massive understatement. Even setting aside the fact that he was now a vampire, he was still unhoused, unemployed, with nowhere else to go, in a city he knew nothing about. He still had no idea whether or not he could fully place his trust in the dubious stranger who turned him, but what other choice did he have? Ezra was his only source of information regarding vampires, and the second-best-case scenario otherwise would be dying on the streets. Soren sighed. “They are…” he relented. “Splendid,” Ezra cheered. “I look forward to working with you.”
The Nightshade Case Files
“My, my! Why that’s no way to treat a lady!” Ezra stood roughly fifteen away, Soren practically cowering behind him. The mugger jumped at the PI’s sudden appearance. “The fuck did you come from!?” he spat The blonde vampire coyly tilted his head. “Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting something?” The mugger pressed the muzzle to the woman’s forehead. Tears started to stream down her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but take another closer and I shoot,” he warned. Ezra gave the mugger a friendly grin. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to point firearms at people?” he said. Faster than the human eye could blink, Ezra appeared in front of the mugger. On sheer reflex, he moved to aim at Ezra’s head and shoot, but the Vampire grabbed the gun by the muzzle and pointed it upward. The mugger desperately tried to free the gun from Ezra’s grasp with all his might, but it didn’t so much as budge an inch in the PI’s vice-like grip. “If you’re not careful, someone could get hurt,” Ezra said, without dropping his friendly grin. The vampire’s eyes gave a warm crimson glow. He proceeded to squeeze the gun in his hand. The metal warped and twisted, cracking and popping in anguish. It wasn’t long before the weapon crumpled into pieces, and Ezra nonchalantly dropped them to the ground like shards of cheap plastic. “…And we wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt now, would we?” The mugger fell backwards, landing on his back. He stared upon Ezra with his mouth agape, unable to utter a single syllable, as if he had come face to face with a demon that crawled straight out of Hell. Finally, after a few agonizing moments of silence, he let out a horrified shriek. “M-M-MONSTER!” he cried. The disarmed mugger scrambled to his feet, running away as fast as his legs could carry him. He bolted away in a full sprint, not looking back and screaming the whole way.
Kohaku
The detective grumbled, putting his notepad and pen away in his coat pocket. “This is gonna be another mountain of paperwork,” he quietly complained. “Still, can’t say I’m surprised they like to kill. They’re all just a bunch of damn monsters in the end… Damn bloodsuckers.” “Well, isn’t that quite narrow minded view?” a voice called. “Surely a detective worth their salt would know better than to let their judgement be clouded by preconception.” The detective and medical examiner jumped, turning around to the sight of a young man standing behind them. The stranger was tall and slender, with pale skin and icy blue eyes. He wore a slate-gray button-up collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of charcoal black suspenders. His silky shoulder-length hair was silvery blonde and almost pretty like a woman’s. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” the man chimed. He spoke with a slight working-class English accent, his voice friendly and warm like honey. “Who the hell are you?” the detective asked with an irritable scowl. “This is an active crime scene, so I’m gonna have to ask you to leave—” “Oh, where are my manners?” the blonde stranger said. With a quick and dramatic flourish, he flashed a business card from his pocket, handing it to the detective between two of his fingers while brandishing a charming grin. “Ezra Belladonna, at your service. Your boss hired me to handle your town’s Vampire problem.” The Detective took the card from Ezra. “‘Nightshade Private Investigation, we take any job worth taking,’” he read aloud. “You gotta be kidding me, you’re just some sleezy PI?” “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but you lot seem to be a bit in over your head when it comes to Vampires,” Ezra said. “However, I’m an expert on such matters. A friend of a friend recommended me to your boss, and he saw fit to hire me to get the job done. All that I ask is that you let me look over the body, so I can collect my intel and be on my way.”
“Well, at least I tried to warn them…” he thought aloud. Without warning, Ezra dashed at the nearest gunman and quickly knocked him out with a brutal kick to his head before he even had a chance to react. The two other guns stared briefly in terror, then frantically fired at the vampire with wild abandon. Ezra casually bobbed and weaved between the bullets, leaping in front of one of the goons. “Over here!” he taunted. The goon fired, and Ezra sidestepped out of the way with a graceful twirl. “Shit!” the other goon screeched, the bullet meant for Ezra landing in his shoulder and knocking him to the ground. The third goon aimed at Ezra once more, pulling the trigger, and startled by the sound of a flaccid click and nothing else. Just as he reached to reload his gun, Ezra darted at him. The vampire stomped on his foot, causing dropping his gun to the ground and yelp in pain. The PI then threw the stooge over his shoulder and onto the dirty floor with the poise of a professional judoka, knocking him out with a second swift stomp to his head. “Do try to know your limits.” Dan grit his teeth, grinding them in sheer irritation. “What the hell are you dipshits doing!? Take him down!” It wasn’t long before the entirety of the warehouse was charging at Ezra, every Sea Eagle present ready to maim and kill him. The PI casually ducked and sidestepped the bats and crowbars that were swung at him, maneuvering around gunfire with absolute ease and a smile on his face. The thrill of a scrap, the bashing in of skulls that belonged to unrepentant scumbags, the verbal bile and venom that was spewed at him by opponents who were powerless to stop him, and the sound of screams from those who would callously prey upon the weak— Ezra Belladonna lived for these moments, and was having the time of his life clipping the wings of the Crooked Sea Eagles.
Ezra hesitated. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Soren. Why were you alone at that park that night?” Soren flinched in response to the question. Ezra sheepishly averted his gaze. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine,” he said. “It’s just been bothering me for a while.” The freckled vampire took a breath in and let it out in a heavy sigh. “It’s fine,” he replied. “It’s not like it’s something I’m actively trying to hide.” His smile was tinged with a bitter melancholy. “That day, I was evicted from my apartment,” he said. “My mom racked up some mind-boggling debts gambling— mostly sports betting and that kind of thing. She was a full month behind on rent, and she skipped town without a word.” He simply stared off into nothing while telling his story to Ezra and Veronica, his voice soft and airy, like he was trying to physically distance himself from the emotional pain of the memory. “I never knew my dad, and I didn’t have anyone else I could run to. Honestly, Ezra, if you hadn’t found me that night, I’d probably be starving under a freeway overpass or something right now. It wasn’t like I had much of a life to leave behind after becoming a vampire.” Veronica and Ezra said nothing, remaining visibly stunned into silence by Soren’s tale of abandonment. It didn’t suprise him, a heavy story like that often left other people terrified of saying the wrong thing accidentally. He preferred the silence in all honesty. Empty platitudes, half-hearted sentiments like, “I’m sorry, that sounds terrible,” the hollow sympathy left him feeling even more alone.
“I’ll get you back for this!” Sebastian shouted. They both sprinted away as fast as their legs could carry them. “Pathetic…” Alister muttered. “That was quite the show.” Kohaku sat up in the branches of the tree tops below, slowly clapping his hands in applause. “It’s not like that,” the artist moaned. “I just couldn’t stand by and watch, is all.” Kokahu leapt from the forest canopy and gracefully landed on his feet with an airy step, following Alister as he knelt down by the wounded Jackelope. The artist examined the glowing ring of light that trapped the poor creature inside. “Sloppy craftsmanship,” he thought aloud. “Honestly, between their haphazard execution and their barbaric behavior, I should have singed off both their eyebrows before they ran away.” With a precise poke of his finger, the sigil trap shattered like glass by Alister’s touch. “Not every day I see a human fight off fellow humans to save an Other,” Kohaku mused. “To be fair, I would have fought them off if they were Others harassing a human, or some other combination,” Alister replied. “I don’t care if you’re a man, woman, human, cryptid, yōkai, or whatever else. Watching someone else flex on those weaker than themselves just because they can pisses me off. It’s not strength— it’s arrogance.” Kohaku smirked. “Quite the righteous soul you are.” The artist pulled a black brush pen from his page and opened his sketch pad to a blank page. “Maybe,” he said. “I’m just doing what I think is right. I couldn’t really care less what anyone else thinks about it.”
The air was brisk, and Leon had broken out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t breathe, the weight of the world itself closing in upon him. His stomach churned violently, utterly overwhelmed by the adrenaline pumping through his veins— “BLARGH!” Leon promptly vomited into the lawn, dry heaving and gasping for air after the fact. He coughed and wheezed, desperately trying to regain control of his breathing. He fell on his back and into the dew-covered sod, the frigid moisture lightly soaking through his suit and prickling his skin like a dry needle. After a few minutes of heavy huffs, Leon managed to regain some semblance of control over his haywire emotions. “I’m a failure…” he whispered into the wind. Leon bore a thousand-yard stare as he gazed up into the night sky from the ground. “I can’t cut it as an assassin— let alone as a person… I’m pathetic…” His chest tightened. Memories of the kills he had performed as the Black Bird of Death flashed before his eyes. Leon pictured the smiling faces of Jamie and Lily, and the horror and disgust he was certain they would feel if they knew the kind of feral beast their big brother truly was. “I became a monster, and now I have nothing to show for it. If I don’t figure something out right now, I am fucking screwed.”
“You’re sure this is the place?” Sebastian asked. He and his crony stood in front of Alister’s home, his underling holding an ornate cane in his hand. “I was able to use dowsing to pinpoint that boy’s spiritual energy,” his underling replied. He dropped the cane to the ground, and the handle pointed directly at the front doorway. “There’s no mistaking it. He’s inside.” “Good,” Sebastian said. “Now it’s time for some payback.” His crony bit his lip. “Are you sure this is a good idea, boss?” he asked. “I don’t wanna get burned alive by a doodle from a sketch pad, or whatever else he can pull out of that thing.” “Would you relax?” Sebastian urged. “We’ll sneak and jump him before he gets the chance to grab his scribbles. When you take that away, he’s just a weak snot-nosed punk like the rest of them.” “If you say so…” Sebastian and the other exorcist stepped to Alister’s front door. “Let’s get this show on the road,” Sebastian said. He reached out and grabbed the door’s handle. “What the!?” The door handle and house disappeared. He stood at the base of a lone dead cherry blossom tree that sat in a wide open field of wilted red spider lilies, with his fellow exorcist nowhere in sight. The crimson skies bathed the foreboding valley in red glow, the decaying fields stretching on as far as the eye could see. “My, my,” a condescending voice echoed. “Look what lowly vermin strayed too far from home.” “Who are you!?” Sebastian asked in a demanding shout. “Where am I!?” “This place?” the voice asked. “You are in the Land of Eternal Bane— a domain of my own creation. As for myself…” Kohaku appeared sitting in the boughs of the dead cherry blossom as if he had simply blinked into existence.
Leon returned home from his briefing later that morning, once again having the apartment to himself while Jamie and Lily attended classes. After slowly drinking two cups of crappy instant coffee to perk himself up, he proceeded to get changed so he could finish making the cupcakes he had promised Jamie for the bake sale. By the early afternoon, Leon began his work in earnest. The cupcakes he made the day before were carefully stored in an air-tight plastic container for freshness, and now it was time to prepare the frosting. He had already settled on a fresh strawberry buttercream for the cupcakes, setting aside a bowl of organic, freshly rinsed strawberries he bought just for the occasion. This form of confection was simple enough to make for Leon. Buttercream was a frosting made from equal parts sugar and room temperature butter whipped to perfection, Leon choosing in this case to substitute the usual vanilla extract for a strawberry one instead. As the stand mixer cranked away with the butter and sugar mixture, he prepared a cutting board and a knife, placing a few strawberries on the surface to cut off the tips before finely cubing them. As he held the knife in his hand, he shuddered for a moment as an image flashed in his mind’s eye. The mental picture consisted of Corpses. Lots and lots of corpses. Each one was either brutally stabbed, had their throat slit, or was lying still on the ground with a thrown knife sticking out of a vital vein or artery. The intrusive thought sent a chill down his spine. He took a breath in, holding it for a moment, before slowly exhaling. “Pull yourself together…” he muttered quietly to himself. Leon carried on, finely chopping and cubing the strawberries a few at a time. As he went about his menial task, he did everything he could to not think about the voices of his past victims begging for their lives or the stench of blood that always lingered afterward. Even if the infamous Black Bird of Death ever did get the chance to l…
The burlier exorcist gritted his teeth. “We gotta set up a new trap. What a pain in the ass!” He snarled, glaring down at the Jackelope. “You just had to muck it all up! Didn’t you! You can just curl and die for all I care!” He gave the jackelope a swift kick in the chest. It cried in agony, reeling from the strike. “That’s enough!” The two exorcists turned their heads. Standing about twenty feet away was Alister Briar, carrying a satchel over his shoulder, and staring them down with cold fury in his eyes. The burly exorcist cracked his neck. “Oh, so you can see this thing, too. You an exorcist? Alister scoffed. “As if. I’m just an artist who came looking for a quiet place to doodle. I’d sooner chug a jar of turpentine than associate with any of you losers.” The smaller exorcist clenched his fist in rage. “Watch your mouth, kid!” he roared. “This is the great exorcist, Sebastian Doyle! Show some respect!” The artist tilted his head. “…Is he supposed to be a big shot or something?” “That’s enough from you, lil’ shit!” Sebastian barked. “If you don’t want to get hurt, go home.” “You practically took the lines right out of my mouth,” Alister called back with a glare. He pulled a sketch pad from his bag. “I’ll only warn you once. Release the Jackelope and leave this town.” Sebastian grinned. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you! Time to know your place, kid!” He kissed his jade ring before pressing his left hand to the ground beneath him. The rotted leaves on the forest floor sprang forth and marched in the winds, clustering and grouping together to form a large wolf. The effigy howled and snarled. “Tear him apart!” Sebastian ordered.
Painter of the Strange: The Life and Times of Alister Briar
In this world, there are beings whose very existence defies explanation. They have been called many things across many different cultures. Cryptids. Fae. Yōkai. Angels. Demons. The knowledge of these supernatural creatures has dwindled to mere legends, but they still live on, unbeknownst to most of humanity. However, amongst those few humans who can still see them, such beings have come to be known as one singular term… Others.  Alister Briar. Age 22. An up-and-coming prodigy taking the art world by storm, primarily known for his acrylic paintings of unusual supernatural creatures and surreal landscapes, and the many rumors of his eccentricity. The truth of the matter? He is both blessed and cursed with the ability to perceive the supernatural. Wielding powers he never once asked for, this is the story of a boy and his never-ending journey to find balance within the two very different worlds in which he has become entangled.
As Alister walked away, he discreetly examined what he had pulled from the female patron’s shoulder. It was a shriveled, ghastly, pale white hand that faded into nothing at the forearm. It wriggled and writhed in his grasp, but he dared not loosen his grip, lest it cling to another one of the patrons in the gallery. “Well, that’s quite the nasty little impurity you have there,” a voice mused. Standing over Alister’s shoulder was an eerily pale, silver-haired young man with fox ears and a tail. He wore a loose-fitting white Yukata with bright red trimming, and a mischievous glint that sparkled in amber colored eyes. “It was more than likely drawn to that human woman’s turmoil, causing it to fester in turn. If it went unchecked long enough, it certainly wouldn’t have taken a toll on her sanity.” “I know all of that, Kohaku,” Alister whispered with an annoyed undertone. The crowd in the gallery remained blissfully unaware of the presence of both the creepy and aetherial severed limb in Alister’s hand and the odd companion to whom he spoke. Ordinarily, such unusual sights would have stirred a small uproar. However, their indifference was quite understandable. Alister Briar was the only human present who could perceive them both after all. Alister sighed. “You still have the Talismans I asked you to hold onto, right?” “Tucked away in my sleeve,” Kohaku replied. “You don’t mean to perform an exorcism here, do you?” “Not out in the open,” the artist replied. “There’s a storeroom I can use.” He quickly scanned the room while tightening his grasp around the severed limb that writhed in his hand. “I can’t just carry this thing around all night, and it’s too dangerous to release with all these people around. It’s better to deal with it right now rather than later.” Kohaku shrugged his shoulders. “Fair enough. It can’t be helped. You can’t reason with an impurity.”
“So, how was New York City, mister big shot artist?” “Overrated and overcrowded,” Alister said. “I’m just glad to be back.” “You’re no fun,” she quipped. “You practically got a bunch of boujie New Yorkers eating out of the palm of your hand, but you choose to live in this dead-end town. Talk about a total waste.” “I happen to like this dead-end town,” he said. Lyra set down her fork. “Sorry. That was a little harsh, I guess. It’s just that she’s been probing me for more details lately.” She crossed her arms, failing to meet Alister’s eyes with her own. “It couldn’t hurt to call her, y’know... Let her hear how you’re doing first-hand.” “Cut me some slack,” Alister retorted. “I visit—” “You know what I mean, Al,” Lyra interjected. “You only ever visit for holidays and stuff, and you usually just quietly stand off to the side without saying much.” He groaned. “Fair point.” Lyra let out a heavy exhale. “Look, I get it. I don’t really like how they talk about Grandpa either, but she’s your mom. You’re gonna regret it if you keep shutting her out like you are.” Alister turned away. “I know— it’s just... Complicated…” Lyra bit her lip. “I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.” She stood up, grabbing her discarded bag. “Anyway, thanks for the food. Let me know if you need anything, kay?” “Will do,” he quietly replied, not turning back to face his cousin. She clenched the strap of her backpack in her right hand, hesitating. “See you later,” she finally said in a dejected tone. Alister heard the front door clank shut from the kitchen. He stared out the back window, unable to bring himself to physically face reality. He knew Lyra was right, but in the end, she would never truly understand his pain. At best, she had a weak sixth sense. It massively paled in comparison to the powers that both he and their grandfather possessed.
“And Oblivion essentially runs a monopoly on this industry,” he said. “They have powerful financial backers and many influential allies in the halls of power. If you betray the organization, there’s no escape. There’s nowhere in the developed world you could run to where they couldn’t hunt you down. Any person who rebels or leaves is a dead man. That’s probably why Charon chose to band with some other defectors and hole up in the middle of a remote ghost town. Objectively speaking, it’s the best shot he has at escaping.” As Leon spoke this truth aloud, he cursed his lot in life. His fate was sealed the moment he joined Oblivion. Whether he met his end at the hands of another assassin or kicked the bucket via some other grizzly outcome he had failed to consider, Oblivion would own him, body and soul, until the day he died. In Leon’s eyes, Charon’s rebellion was foolish. Pointless. It was always better to just bend to those with power than to stand up to them and be broken, especially if the people you cared about most would get caught in the crossfire. Yet even after acknowledging that truth, a small flame of envy burned within the Black Bird of Death, jealous that Charon was courageous enough to defy an authority that Leon himself had already obediently bent the knee to.
Alister craved caffeine while driving home. He hadn’t intended to stay in New York City long, and opted for the soonest flight he could get once the art gallery opening had ended. It didn’t help that commercial flights to and from Cleveland, Ohio, weren’t exactly high in demand. Flights departing and arriving late into the night and early in the day were irritatingly commonplace. So naturally, it was just a little after 5 AM as he drove down the lonely roads. Fairbrook was a quiet subrural town with almost nothing of note. The population was small, there wasn’t much to do, and the town was sleepy as hell… and Alister wouldn’t have preferred it any other way. The hustle and bustle of big cities annoyed him, let alone the overabundance of people and the despair-riddled miasma that accompanied them. That’s why it was such a pain in the ass for him to have to make an appearance for his exhibition opening. Despair created miasma, and miasma created impurities— eerie phantoms made from congealed malice, or supernatural entities who had become corrupted by its bile. That’s also why it baffled him that Kohaku had insisted on coming along. Others were sensitive to miasma and also typically avoided heavily populated areas as a result. In that sense, it was a testament to the sheer power the obnoxious Kitsune possessed. Kitsune, or Fox-Demons, as some may know them, were a type of Other endemic to Japan, more commonly referred to as a yōkai. Alister had originally encountered Kohaku while studying abroad for a semester in Utsunomiya during his final year of art school. The fox-spirit had developed a fascination for him, practically from the word “go”, and had followed him around ever since. He was currently reclined in the back seat of Alister’s car, fast asleep. The sun was starting to rise when Alister pulled up his long and winding drive. “Hey, wake up. We’re here.” “…Five more minutes,” Kohaku moaned.
In this world, there are beings whose very existence defies explanation. They have been called many things across many different cultures. Cryptids. Fae. Yōkai. Angels. Demons. The knowledge of these supernatural creatures has dwindled to mere legends, but they still live on, unbeknownst to most of humanity. However, amongst those few humans who can still see them, such beings have come to be known as one singular term… Others. Alister Briar. Age, twenty-two. An up-and-coming prodigy taking the art world by storm, primarily known for his acrylic paintings of unusual supernatural creatures and surreal landscapes, and the many rumors of his eccentricity. The truth of the matter? He is both blessed and cursed with the ability to perceive the supernatural. Wielding powers he never once asked for, this is the story of a boy and his never-ending journey to maintain balance between the two worlds he both loved and despised.
It practically played out in slow motion. Ezra took out the last of Dan’s underlings just as he opened fire with a semi-automatic weapon. “EZRA! WATCH OUT!” The PI turned around to a barrage of bullets that pierced him. He didn’t make a sound or scream, his body being riddled with holes from head to toe. Dan kept firing and firing, and Soren could observe helplessly, completely paralyzed by his fear. “EZRA!” he screamed once more. After a mere few seconds whose entire duration felt like three lifetimes, Dan’s gun finally ran out of ammunition. Ezra fell backward, bloodied and maimed like chili con carne. His clothes were torn to shreds, and his handsome face mutilated beyond recognition. Dan breathed heavily, the sound echoing in the silence of the empty warehouse, where the rest of his cronies lay about unconscious or otherwise incapacitated. Slowly but surely, that heavy breath transformed into manic laughter. It started quietly and mirthlessly, steadily growing louder and triumphant as he carried on. Soren fell to his knees. “Ezra…” he quietly muttered in disbelief. “How do you like me now? You cocky bastard!” Dan said in a shout. “I win!” Dan cackled triumphantly, relishing his victory while Soren gaped in silent horror. “Ugh! Sometimes I forget just how much you Americans love your bloody firearms…” A chill came over Dan that silenced his gloating like a swift chop to the throat. “…What the hell?” he stammered in shock. Ezra didn’t so much get up off the ground as he did arise from it, similarly to a corpse rising from the grave. “I also sometimes forget just how much they’ve improved in just the last century alone,” he groaned. Soren remained frozen at the sight, not even fully sure what was happening. His shock, however, remained eclipsed by the sheer panic and horror that suffocated Dan.
White light burst forth from the impurity, and in a bright flash, it completely disappeared, leaving only shredded tiny pieces of paper in its wake. Alister let out a heavy huff. “You humans are always so feeble,” Kohaku mused. “Cut me some slack… I just need to take a sec to catch my breath…” Alister groaned. Kohaku smirked. “You possess far more spiritual energy than the average human. Where exorcising such a small fry impurity would leave you a little out of breath, it would have left even some of the most experienced exorcists of old on the floor fighting to remain conscious. Among the small collective of exorcists who still walk this earth, you remain in a league all your own.” Alister scowled. “For the last time, you damn Kitsune. I prefer to be called a medium. Don’t lump me in with those butchers. I only perform exorcisms and sealings when left with no other choice.” The Kitsune laughed. “I’ve encountered many humans in my life, but you remain the most fascinating one that I have ever met.” His amber-colored eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Not only are you an artist who used his affinity for the supernatural to attain commercial acclaim, but you also audaciously proclaim yourself to be a bridge between humanity and the supernatural. Where most humans either remain blissfully unaware of my kind or regard them with primal fear, ready to exterminate them on sight, you seek a path of coexistence.” Alister Briar. Age, twenty-two. An up-and-coming prodigy taking the art world by storm, primarily known for his acrylic paintings of unusual supernatural creatures and surreal landscapes, and the many rumors of his eccentricity. The truth of the matter? He was both blessed and cursed with the ability to perceive the supernatural. Wielding powers he never once asked for, this was the story of a boy and his never-ending journey to maintain balance between the two worlds he both loved and despised.
“An artist, eh? How delightful,” the novelist replied. “It’ll be nice to have another fellow creative living here. Do you have a particular preferred medium?” “Acrylic painting mostly,” I said. “But sometimes I dabble in digital illustration and watercolor pencils.” “You’ll have to show me your work sometime,” Oscar chimed. “I’ve been debating commissioning some illustrations for my next book release.” “Can’t say I would be opposed to getting some paying work,” I playfully replied. Rosa’s eyes lit up. “You take commissions? If that’s the case, there’s this character from an anime I’ve totally been obsessing over lately! Do you think you could draw some fan art for me?” I shrugged my shoulders. “For the right price. When it comes to character art, I charge twenty-five dollars for line art, fifty dollars for a flat color, and one hundred dollars for a full render.” “Wait! H-How much!?” Rosa stammered. “Oh, and depending on things like the cost of materials, if the client wants me to work on a bigger size than normal, or they want a piece of artwork with multiple characters, the price can balloon even bigger from there.” Rosa’s enthusiasm quickly crumbled away before my eyes. “That’s on me… I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up like that…” she mumbled in defeat. “Nothing personal,” I assured. “An artist’s time is valuable, and I try to be assertive so I can make the most of it.” “Well, aren’t you ruthless?” Oscar mused with a hearty chuckle. “You understand the value of your skillset. I respect that.”
“Oh, that’s just Lydia and Ben,” she replied. “You don’t have to worry about them, they’re good people.” My jaw proverbially hit the floor. “Good people!? ACTUAL ghosts are roaming the halls! And you act like they’re just quirky next-door neighbors!” Rosa tilted in her confusion. “I mean, is it really that big a deal? Hawthorne House is a boarding home for the supernatural.” Every ounce of reason had left my body by that point. My thoughts weren’t so much processed in my head as they were loudly exclaimed in an acerbic mixture of confusion, exasperation, and genuine fear. “T-the supernatural!? And you guys are just okay with living with ghosts!? You’re both human, aren’t you!?” Oscar shrugged, not even remotely phased by the apparent breakdown I was having. “I’m not technically fully human, so why would I have a problem with that?” He flashed me a friendly open-mouthed grin, revealing a pair of fangs that gleamed in his mouth. “I am a vampire after all.” My knees buckled. I trembled in terror at the novelist vampire, becoming all too aware of the blood that covered the lower half of my face and was still slowly trickling down from my nose. “Stay away from me!” I screamed. “Don’t eat me!” Oscar pressed his hand to his forehead in frustration. “Ugh! Would you please get a bloody grip?” he moaned. “I promise I don’t bite without consent.” “Stay away from me!” I screamed once more. The vampire sighed, directing his weary gaze to Rosa. “Welp. He’s gone fully mental. You got any bright ideas to calm him down?”
I bolted out of my room as fast as my legs could carry me, running— no, sprinting, as fast as I could. My heart raced. I needed to get out of there. I needed to— “Shit!” Not even ten steps into the hallway, and I tripped over my own two feet and fell flat on my face. Blood dripped down my nose, and I could taste the sickening flavor of iron coating my tongue. The pain made my eyes water, and that, combined with the adrenaline pumping in my veins and my startled daze from the impact, left me almost fully disoriented. I tried to take slow and steady breaths through my mouth, desperate to pull myself to my feet once more. “Are you alright?” a woman’s voice asked. The voice was soft and gentle, but with a delicate warmth that hugged and cradled my ears like the gentle embrace of a loving mother. “Oh my… You’re hurt! Do you need help?” “I’m sorry, I—” I stuttered back, my words failing me. “Can you stand? Let me help you up.” “I’m okay,” I tried to answer. I pulled myself together enough to realize I was slumped on the ground at the feet of a human-like figure wearing a jet-black dress that concealed most of its body. The gown draped over the figure’s torso oddly, the floor length billowed eerily, and its face was obscured with a veil that you would typically see a fancy widow wearing at a funeral. Blonde hair adorned its head, but the almost plastic sheen the follicles gave clearly indicated that it was a wig. The only definite physical feature I could discern from underneath the gossamer subterfuge with one-hundred percent certainty was the bare bones of the skeletal hand it held out to me. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up?” the figure said. I trembled in terror at this odd, peculiar thing that loomed over me like I had come face to face with the very visage of death itself. “Get away from me!” I screamed.
Have you heard the story of the red-cloaked demon? The mysterious yōkai called Aka Manto. He is a truly terrifying creature. It is said that he takes the form of an eerie spirit with a mask that conceals his face, and he’s draped in a dark crimson shroud, bringing with him gruesome death to many who have the misfortune of meeting him. Should you venture to use the restroom late at night, you may find his visage looming in the shadows. In both his hands, he’ll hold two rolls of toilet paper— one red, and one blue. He’ll quizically tilt his head and ask, “Which would you prefer? Red? Or Blue?” After pondering the decision carefully, you choose to respond, “Red.” Upon hearing your answer, Aka Monto lets out a hearty laugh and gleefully declares, “Then I will dye it with your blood!” And in a flash, he’ll chop you up into tiny little pieces, scattering your bones and leaving behind a crimson bloody mess in his wake. Such a demise would prove just as painful as it was violent and quick. Understanding the gruesome end that awaits those who answer red, you rethink your decision. “Blue,” you answer. In response, Aka Monto will sigh and say, “Then I suppose I’ll have to turn you blue to…”
I had spent the bulk of the late morning and early afternoon unpacking my car and settling into my room. Once I had sorted out the headache-inducing puzzle of how to store all my art supplies, the rest was easy. My laptop and phone were charging on the desk, and I had just finished putting away all my clothes in the dresser. All that was left was one last small box full of miscellaneous keepsakes. The first thing I pulled out was the framed picture I had of my grandfather. His portrait stared back at me, the wrinkles on his face embellishing the friendly thin grin he flashed at the camera. He was a kind man and the person who taught me to paint. I used to spend every summer staying with him as a kid, and those memories were the ones I held most fondly. …Looking at his picture now made me ache. I still couldn’t believe that it had already been three months since he died. I lost touch with him shortly before starting college, and I told myself that I’d finally set aside some time to see him once I graduated. Lo and behold, he passed away from a stroke midway through my final semester. He was the only person I ever genuinely connected with— and I abandoned him. Some loving grandson I turned out to be, right? I took a heavy exhale as I set the picture on the windowsill next to my bed. While I didn’t feel like I had the right to carry on, I could practically hear Grandpa’s voice in my ear telling me to keep going. “As long as you don’t quit, you’ll be okay,” was his life-motto. Even though I didn’t deserve it, he believed in me, and my art, and the least I could do was live up to that faith.
“And that concludes the tour,” Rosa chimed. “I hope you like it here. I think living at Hawthorne House is a blast!” Oscar wistfully smirked. “It’s true. You’d be hard-pressed to find a place quite like Hawthorne House. It’s truly one of a kind.” He once again directed his probing gaze towards me. “If you don’t mind my asking, what brought you to Hawthorne House?” For some reason, I got the sense that Oscar was evaluating me, but I didn’t know why. Regardless, my gut told me the best choice in that situation was to be honest about the answer, without going overboard on the details. “I’m fresh out of Art School,” I explained. “I needed a place to stay, and Hawthorne House worked out surprisingly well for my budget. I managed to get a part-time job nearby, and it worked out so that I could make a steady income while making and selling artwork online by living here.” “An artist, eh? How delightful,” the novelist replied. “It’ll be nice to have another fellow creative living here. Do you have a particular preferred medium?” “Acrylic painting mostly,” I said. “But sometimes I dabble in digital illustration and watercolor pencils.” “You’ll have to show me your work sometime,” Oscar chimed. “I’ve been debating commissioning some illustrations for my next book release.” “Can’t say I would be opposed to getting some paying work,” I playfully replied. Rosa’s eyes lit up. “You take commissions? If that’s the case, there’s this character from an anime I’ve totally been obsessing over lately! Do you think you could draw some fan art for me?” I shrugged my shoulders. “For the right price. When it comes to character art, I charge twenty-five dollars for line art, fifty dollars for a flat color, and one hundred dollars for a full render.” “Wait! H-How much!?” Rosa stammered.
It was then that I felt another chill down my spine. My eyes quickly darted towards the lounge doorway, and for a moment, I saw the faint shadow of something dart away back into the foyer outside. I bit the back of my lip. I couldn’t deny it anymore. Someone was watching me, and I couldn’t convince myself otherwise. “Something the matter?” Oscar asked. A lightbulb went off in my head. A chance to discreetly slip away every so naturally and easily had fallen into my lap as if it were a gift of good fortune from the heavens above. “Sorry, I think I just felt a sudden headache come on,” I lied. “I might be a little overly tired from the long trip and unpacking. Do you mind if I go back to my room to rest for a while?” Oscar scoffed. “You don’t need my permission. Go ahead and get some rest. Hope you feel better soon.” Rosa nodded in agreement. “Yeah, we’ll see you later for dinner. Go rest up!” With that, I left to head back to my room. Did I feel bad for lying? A little bit, but I wasn’t about to lose sleep over it. Oscar and Rosa seemed nice enough, but in the end, it was just two strangers being kind to another stranger. In my experience, social interaction boiled down to plastering on a polite face and putting on a show. We human beings were vain creatures, only interested in ourselves, prioritizing a shallow and tepid peace by proverbially playing nice with others. Kindness? Friendship? It was all a load of crap. People exploited others to make themselves look better, lied for the sake of pointless social reputations, and ran away the moment they heard a truth they didn’t like. I wasn’t any better, putting on a polite persona to avoid stirring the pot with my mistrust towards the world around me. Every tepid interaction, every falsehood that left my lips, made me more broken and hollow. That’s why I preferred to be alone.
It was a bright and sunny July late morning, the day I arrived at Hawthorne House. The air was humid and hot when I got out of my car; the sound of cicadas chirping buzzed loudly off in the distance. I could almost instantly feel the sweat that started to bead on the back of my neck in the summer heat, and my knees were stiff from the hour-and-a-half-long drive that had confined me to my worn-down sedan. Hawthorne House was an old mansion located in a small subrural town. It stood before me like an old memory from a long-forgotten time rising from the earth. The white brick facade had faded to a somewhat dingy gray, betraying the structure’s age despite the careful maintenance of the gardens and windows that adorned it. The entire area felt isolated from the outside world, bordered by a towering cast-iron gate and fence that surrounded the perimeter, a long and winding driveway that snaked its way from the main road, and numerous trees that lined the property. Standing up at the top of a small set of stairs in front of the double doors was an older gentleman who quietly watched while I pulled a duffel bag from my trunk. The man was on the portly side, his grey hair balding at the back of his head, his eyes round and friendly. He was somehow wearing a deep maroon sweater vest, a collared shirt, and a tie, despite the blistering weather that had me sweating in a pair of shorts and a light t-shirt. “You must be Alister Briar,” he said. “Welcome to Hawthorne House.” I gave the man a friendly smile that I had rehearsed several times during my drive. “Hello,” I said, while raising my hand in greeting. “I take it you’re Mister Hawthorne?" “Cedric, please,” he replied. “You must be exhausted from your trip. Allow me to show you to your room.”
The sight that greeted me wasn’t in itself scary. Standing in my room was a small child, a boy probably somewhere between four and six years old. His short blonde hair came down in loose curls, and his large, sullen green eyes stared into mine as I gaped into his. He was dressed like how’d you’d expect a kid at that age to be on a July day, a simple, plain short-sleeved t-shirt and shorts, with no shoes. He didn’t say a word or utter a syllable, but in almost every way, he looked like an ordinary little kid. However, “almost” was the key operating word in that sentence. As he stood, basked in the light of the early afternoon sun that shone through my window, his form was transparent. This boy was most certainly a ghost. An eternity passed, or at least what felt like one, as we stared at each other. A genuine ghost had appeared in my locked bedroom at an old mansion that was rumored to be haunted. “How did you react to that?” the average onlooker might ask. Truth be told, when I finally grasped the reality of the truth laid out so plainly before my eyes, I reacted the same way I imagine just about every other man in his early twenties would in a similar situation… I screamed like a little girl.
Cedric escorted me inside. We emerged into a large foyer with dark wooden floors and tall, emerald-green walls. An ornately sculpted, unlit chandelier gracefully suspended itself from the ceiling. Four other doorways branched off in different directions from the room, and a large staircase stood opposite the front entrance, diverging in two different directions. The interior of the building made me think of a fancy estate you’d see owned by a rich noble in a period movie or something. It was almost hard to believe that such a place had been refurbished into a boarding house. The pictures I saw online certainly didn’t do the home justice. Cedric led me up the stairs, turning left. “Hawthorne House plays host to a variety of different guests,” he explained. “The rooms of long-term residents are located on the second floor of the West Wing. There are two shared bathrooms in each wing, and a laundry facility on the first floor. We humbly ask those staying with us to be mindful of the space, and to be courteous to other guests staying here.” Cedric and I proceeded down the narrow west wing hallways. “Rent is due on the first of the month at the dropbox in the foyer, and it includes utilities as well as the other amenities we offer here. Complimentary meals are served in the dining room at the posted hours. You can find a welcome packet with further details on the desk in your room.” We stopped at the door on the furthest end of the hall. “Here we are. Room 214. This will be your room.” Cedric reached into his pocket and pulled out an old-looking key that had a red tag labeled “214” on it. He clicked open the door’s lock, cracking it open before handing the key to me. “If you have any questions, feel free to reach out to me. I’m sure the other residents will be happy to assist you if you need any help as well.” He gave another warm smile before curteously bowing his head. “We hope you enjoy your stay here at Hawthorne House.”
I had spent the bulk of the late morning and early afternoon unpacking my car and settling into my room. Once I had sorted out the headache-inducing puzzle of how to store all my art supplies, the rest was easy. My laptop and phone were charging on the desk, and I had just finished putting away all my clothes in the dresser. All that was left was one last small box full of miscellaneous keepsakes. The first thing I pulled out was the framed picture I had of my grandfather. His portrait stared back at me, the wrinkles on his face embellishing the friendly thin grin he flashed at the camera. He was a kind man and the one who taught me to paint. I used to spend every summer staying with him as a kid, and those memories were ones I held most fondly. …Looking at his picture now made me ache. I still couldn’t believe that it had already been three months since he died. I lost touch with him shortly before starting college, and I told myself that I’d finally set aside some time to see him once I graduated. Lo and behold, he passed away from a stroke midway through my final semester. He was the only person I ever felt like I genuinely connected with— and I abandoned him. Some loving grandson I turned out to be, right? I took a heavy exhale as I set the picture on the windowsill next to my bed. While I didn’t feel like I had the right to carry on, I could practically hear Grandpa’s voice in my ear telling me to keep going. “As long as you don’t quit, you’ll be okay,” was his life-motto. Even though I didn’t deserve it, he believed in me, and my art, and the least I could do was live up to that faith.
Book cover for "How Do You Free a Caged Bird?"
“That’s quite a bit of intel,” Ezra mused. “You were never one to half-ass anything.” “Well, because I never ‘half-ass anything’, the Bloody Vipers have managed to locate their base of operations,” Tom said. “And since you also have a vested interest in this matter, I would like to make a proposal.” Ezra hesitated. “What kind of proposal?” he asked curtly. Tom smirked. “While the Sea Eagles have been showing some signs of carelessness in some regards, their numbers are great enough that sending the Vipers to raid them would cause a giant mess. Loads of my men would get hurt, some of the women they are holding captive could get caught in the cross-fire, and so on.” The scowl that crept upon Ezra’s face screamed that he already knew where the Impaler was going with his proposal. “But if a terrifying lone vampire stormed their hideout, sent them all scrambling, and took out their leader, they would be easy pickings.” “So you want me to do all the dirty work, while you clean up the mess and take all the credit,” Ezra said. Tom let out a dry chuckle in response. “Surely the great Ezra Belladonna is more than capable of handling a bumbling street gang. You are the strongest vampire in all of Blutmond after all.” He glared, practically turning his nose up in disgust at the PI. “To put it bluntly, that fact, coupled with your sheer lack of ambition, pisses me off like fucking hell.” Ezra didn’t respond. Tom sighed, once again putting on the facade of a cunning negotiator. The way he switched on and off the persona so naturally almost made Soren shudder at the sight. “Everyone stands to gain something from this deal,” Tom said. “You get to swoop in and potentially find your missing person, I get to minimize potential casualties for the Vipers, a terrible group of people will be put out of commission, and I’ll make sure to make such an example out of them that no dipshit in their right mind would ever dare to think of pulling anything similar. Easy peasy.”
Lounging on a couch, playing with an old handheld video game was a kid, probably around fourteen years old. His skin was pale, his eyes were green and large, and he wore a plain black T-shirt and jeans. Cortez cleared his throat. “Ezra Belladonna is here to see—” “I have eyes,” the kid interrupted without lifting his head up from his game. “Hold on. I almost beat my high score.” The kid fiddled with his game while Soren shot Ezra a nervous side-eye glance. The PI only shrugged in response. “Damn it… Game over, I guess…” he muttered to himself, placing the game next to him on the couch. “Cortez. I’m hungry. Get me the usual.” Cortez silently nodded, stepping away into the nearby kitchen. “Ezra Belladonna… You only come to me when you’re desperate for some juicy information.” His gaze fell to Soren. The kid’s eyes were large and green, but they looked wrong somehow. They didn’t sparkle with youthful warmth, but instead with a cold and shrewd evaluation that looked utterly unnatural from such a young face. “And you’re Soren Sylva— Ezra’s lil’ new hire at Nightshade Private Investigation.” Soren stared back in surprise. “How did you know that?” he asked in stunned amazement. “It’s my job to know all the happenings in Blutmond. Why wouldn’t I know something as basic as that?” the kid scoffed. Ezra sighed. “You’re speaking with the head of the Bloody Vipers. The Impaler.” “The one and only,” the Impaler replied. “Though I’ve been called many things over the years. The Watchdog of Blutmond, the Sewer Rat Miracle, Bringer of Pain, and so on.” Cortez came back, handing the impaler a glass of blood in a martini glass, and stepping off to the side and out of the way. “My name is Thomas Fischer, but you can simply call me Tom— or the Impaler if you’d prefer. Truthfully, I’m not all that picky.”
A black coffin stood in an empty white void. The sound of a beating heart loudly echoed. Thump thump. Thump thump. Visions of the past blurred. The warm smile of a peasant woman radiated like the sun. A small, sickly child with blonde hair coughed in his bed while his mother tended to the fire in a nearby hearth. Thump thump. Thump Thump. Blood pooled around the coffin. Screams rang out as the heart beat began to race. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. An angry mob stormed the area with torches and pitchforks. The sickly child cried out. The peasant woman was burned at the stake. The heart beat started to drum more violently, blood oozing from behind the coffin’s lid. Thump thump! Thump thump! Thump thump! Thump Thump! A shadowy figure slaughtered the mob like a feral beast in a berserk rage. Thump thump! Thump thump! Thump thump! Thump thump! The figure clutched the woman’s charred body, wailing in despair to the full moon above. THUMP THUMP! THUMP THUMP! THUMP THUMP! THUMP THUMP! The heart beat suddenly fell silent. The coffin lid opened, and nothing was inside.
“If I can’t have this boy… Nobody can!” With a sudden, violent thrust of her arm, she impaled Soren through his abdomen and then tossed him to the ground. Soren screamed, the sound gargled by the blood that he coughed from his mouth. In the blink of an eye, Ezra appeared in front of the woman like he simply teleported into existence. He loomed over her like a cold executioner. “High time you sod off, luv,” he said in a cold and husky growl. With a quick and decisive movement of his hand, Ezra cleanly chopped through the woman’s neck and sent her head flying. “Night night.” Ezra gave a weary sigh while the woman’s decapitated body toppled over and crumpled away to dust alongside her severed head. With a smooth turn of his heel, he spun around to address Soren, who was now lying on the ground and slowly bleeding out at death’s doorstep. “Fie…” Ezra cursed. “Now what the devil do I do with you?” Soren’s vision blurred; he could barely breathe. “How unfortunate. You tried to do the right thing and help someone else, only for it to turn out like this.” A sudden gust of wind blew through the area. Ezra’s long, silky hair danced in the breeze. “Alright then. Since you’ve piqued my curiosity, and I am feeling oh so generous today, I’ll offer you a choice.” Ezra squatted beside Soren, looking him directly in his eyes. “You can either die a human or live on as a vampire,” he said. “Now tell me, lad. Which shall it be?”