• Published 31st Aug 2017
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Delinquency - Daemon McRae



The Rainbooms aren't CHS's only defense against the supernatural. Unfortunately, the alternative spends more time hanging out in abandoned buildings and landing themselves in detention than is normal for any teenager. At least they enjoy their work.

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Act Five: Places, People

Act Five: Places, People

There are a variety of reactions to stress, depending on the type, source, and individual. Of course there are numerous other factors in each case, but they come and go as quickly as this sentence. You can tell a great deal about a person by how they react to stress. In many cases, people can make snap decisions based on a few seconds’ observation. However, in the rare case that everyone involved is introduced to the exact same stressors at the exact same time, the wildly different responses involved speak volumes about both the individual and the group dynamic. In the field of paranormal investigations, those who have been researching for a length of time will most likely encounter one of a few archetypes when something unexplainable and malevolent occurs. They can be broken down as such:

The Veteran. This person has, in fact, seen such phenomena before. In many cases, even repeated exposure doesn’t do much to quell the surprise, but coming down from the shock is much easier, and the standard human response of trying to apply logic to an illogical situation occurs rather rapidly. If the Veteran has indeed opened their mind to the possibility of supernatural phenomena, their version of rationality most likely wavers towards the most obvious causes, as was the case with Spooky Bones and, to a lesser degree, Rubble Maker. While the other boys had, indeed, been repeatedly exposed to such phenomena, their reactions varied fundamentally.

Spooks’ particular method of coping was to immediately search through his ancestor’s notes for repeated mentions of the phenomena he’d just experienced. With little more than a few words to explain to the less-experienced exactly what, in his journeyman opinion, had just occurred, he immediately quieted himself and immersed his attention in the litany of frantic scribblings before him.

Rubble had seen this response enough times to know that this was simply what his friend did. He himself had a similar outlook, although his immediate physical reaction steered away from the academic and toward the martial. Given his current condition, his typical gung-ho attitude in searching for something to take out his remaining adrenaline on had taken a backseat, and he settled for standing himself up and approaching the people in the room who had given in to the ‘flight’ aspect of their fight-or-flight response.

Which brings us to the second archetype, The Runner. The Runner is not necessarily a coward. In many cases, their aforementioned fight-or-flight response is simply so overwhelmed with stimuli, and having no prior experience with such phenomena, have no rational reactions to fall back on, direct the entirety of the body’s resources towards flight. Sometimes they actually haven’t given in to their flight response, but have prioritized their options and immediately take off for whatever they consider of greatest concern. Mothers and caregivers typically fall into this category, with the obvious concern of their child or ward taking priority over any other reaction.

Indigo Zap had no such priorities, and was currently using all of her not inconsiderable strength, and rather generous supply of adrenaline, to try to tear the impressively sturdy double doors off of their hinges. This was going exactly as well as it sounded, up until the moment Rubble Maker came into the foyer on his bad leg, wincing from pain and giving her a sympathetic look. She said something incoherent, to which he merely responded by taking a few more steps, until he could put a hand on her shoulder.

“Trust me, I know it’s scary. But this isn’t exactly the DefCon Five of ghostly stuff. Locked doors and flashing lights are rather typical in an intelligent haunting, especially with a malevolent presence. But they’re basically scare tactics. Like someone flexing their muscles on the field. It’s just for show. There’s still rules they have to follow, even if we don’t know them all. You’re never in as much danger as you think you are, unless you don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Hang onto this fear, but don’t let it control you. It’s like panicking mid-game, the only person it helps is the other team. Unless you learn to direct it.” Indigo had slumped against the door, barely holding herself up. Her breath had become less ragged, however, as Rubble talked. “Adrenaline is a weapon. A haunting is a fight. But it’s a double-edged sword. Learn how to swing it.”

Zap took a few more deep breaths, and slowly stood up again, shaking. “Yeah, ok. Thanks. Was it this bad when you came across your first ghost?”

Rubble smiled mirthlessly. “I believe, if memory serves, that I pissed myself. And the only reason I’m telling you is that literally every guy in that room,” he gestured to the sitting room where his friends were just out of sight around a corner, “Will tell you in great detail the exact same thing if I lie.”

He leaned on a crutch while Zap laughed loudly, leaning against the locked door for support yet again. Whether a combination of schadenfreude and genuine humor, or just working of the last of her nervous energy, she was out of breath in less than a minute, and silently shaking for a few more. When she had composed herself, Rubble raised an amused eyebrow at her. “You done?”

Indigo stood up. “Laughing? Yes. Making fun of you? Not in a million years. Hoo boy. I needed that. Ok. Haunted house. Locked in. Can’t call out. Parents probably gonna kill me. Let’s see what else is new,” she chided, leading RM back into the sitting room.

The first thing they noticed was the mad scramble Twilight Sparkle was doing around her instruments. Between the clacking of keys, the flipping of switches, and the rather unfriendly smacking of hardware, it was a rather musical experience. Twilight Sparkle was a solid example of the next archetype, the Investigator. In fact, both Treble and Twilight fell into this category, on far ends of the spectrum. Twilight’s obvious fallback was her instruments, seeing if they had recorded any viable data throughout the experience, with less-than-encouraging results. That is, if her constant baby swears were anything to go by.

Treble, however, fit the more classical definition. The Investigator is never quite sure exactly what happened, but knows, deep down, that there are answers somewhere. Finding them becomes their priority, and in their eyes, the best use of their time and energy immediately after the fact. Treble had started by inspecting the windows, cursory tests of their strength and sturdiness, seemingly reinforced by whatever invisible force spirits seemed to possess. Knowing secondhand that the same could be said for the doors, he instead had spent a small amount of time hovering around Twilight before the combination of higher sciences and grumpy teenage girl scared him off more than the phone call could have. He was currently checking the rest of the room with passing interest, digging through cabinets and the like.

Which left the last two in the room, and the last archetype. The Calm Ones aren’t always as relaxed as they appear. Most of the time they are either so overwhelmed with their situation that their best response is simply to accept their present situation and press on, or sit still and process for however long it takes. Extreme examples include those who go into unresponsive shock, while milder cases, such as Miss Inkwell, simply opt to find a chair to sit in and try to stay ahead of the monster of a headache they’re sure to get in just a second and could someone please get her an aspirin, thank you.

Dusty was more than happy to oblige, falling into the restless subtype of Calm One, not showing any great outward response, but not sure what to do with himself, either by sheer lack of a solid target or inexperience in the situation. Given that he had never quite encountered a ghost as… vocal as this one, he was carefully towing the line between the two.

Fortunately for them all, the many cases they had brought in were not just tech. There were medical supplies and clothes, as well. Some pain relief medicine was par for the course, after all. After handing her a few pills from a well-marked bottle (a precaution they’d made sure to take after one of them had confused cold medicine for a muscle relaxer after a particularly violent altercation with a ghoul, and spent the afternoon sniffing loudly at squirrels), Dusty decided he needed to be doing something useful. “Right, Spooks, you said you wanted us doing some treasure hunting? That still on the agenda?”

He wasn’t surprised when Spooks didn’t look up, but still responded. “Yes. An intelligent haunting makes time a sensitive issue. Find what you can, don’t walk around alone. Not even on the other side of a closed door. Or an open one. No less than three people in a group. Start from bottom, work outwards, check in regularly. You still got your cell?”

Dusty patted his pocket, to which Raven asked, “What good does that do you? There’s no cell reception.”

On cue, the phone in Double D’s pocket chirped, and he pulled it out, squeezing the button on the side. “Check.”

“Check one,” came Rubble’s voice, both from the phone and the doorway. He let go of his button. “Walkie-talkie features. Not our first reception blackout. Everyone else?” Spooks absentmindedly pulled the phone out of his vest as Treble checked the one in his coat. After an all clear, Spooks finally looked up.

“Look, we’re just fact-finding for now. We may be here for over a day, but that’s still a limited resource. If it looks relevant, don’t waste time proofreading. Take a bag with you. Stash anything that looks important, and bring it back here where we can go through it together. Also look for batteries, candles, and other emergency supplies,” he added, pocketing his phone again and returning his attention to the book.

“Why?” Twilight asked. “We have power, and our own supplies.”

Dusty grabbed the duffel he’d sorted out for the headache medicine, emptying the rest onto a chair. “Because one of the first things any ghost likes to do to isolate you is turn the power out. If his game is locking us in, and down, we probably won’t have electricity through the night. Treble, with me. Miss Inkwell?”

She looked up from the floor, her expression that of a teacher who just realized how long she’s been reading the same passage over and over. “Yes?”

“We could use a guide.”

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Indigo Zap was not good at not doing things. She was a very active girl, an athlete, a cheerleader, and a spirited individual. Sitting on her haunches did not suit her. As it turns out, neither did stalking the poorly lit halls of an unfamiliar and vast mansion in the middle of the woods with an honest-to-god-what-is-that-smell ghost. “So… where exactly are we headed? I know you said ‘library’, but, like, is there only one?”

Miss Inkwell felt a pang of sympathy for the poor girl. She hadn’t asked to be part of this, and was doing her best to put on the bravest face she knew how. Being around someone with confidence in their abilities most likely helped, except those someones happened to be two teenage delinquents who’s ghost-hunting resume read more like evidence submitted by the prosecution. “There are a few well-shelved studies in this house, but only one actual library. It’s a rather… grandiose affair, if I might say so. Our family starts and ends with the written words, you see. From newspapers to publishing to digital media, if there’s words on it we have our fingers in it, to some extent. I myself am more than content with a simple filing system and a cheesy mystery novel, but as you’ll soon see, this is a sentiment my predecessors would generously call ‘disappointingly underwhelming’. Through here,” she added, gesturing down a side hallway. Even given the manor’s box-like structure, and supposedly easy-to-navigate floorplan, there was plenty of room for surprises. The hallway in question, for instance, was less of a corridor and more of a showroom with great columns supporting what looked from underneath to be a balcony. Overlooking what, they could only guess from here. Just past the columns, great marble things the likes of which the Greeks would have fancied, lay another set of double doors. Not quite so grandiose as the main entrance, yet somehow more intimidating. There was little light cast on them, even with the power on, as if you were made to cow before them.

Something absolutely none of them did, as Treble marched right up to the doors, and knocked loudly. “Oi! I understand this is private property, but seeing as how we have a standing invitation, I’d appreciate it if this particular set of double doors actually opened, lest I make a well-practiced nuisance of myself! I’m told I’m a terrible singer!”

Dusty stifled a laugh as the girls exchanged the kind of exasperated glances that are learned through repeated exposure to the opposite sex. Raven stepped forward, gave the doorknob a try, and, finding no resistance, swung the door open. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Treble chirped, taking large strides into the room.

Strides that stopped short as the full view of the library loomed over him. Raven had not been underselling the place: the library was built to occupy all four stories, with winding staircases, a multitude of shelves, and several distinctly non-book-like items in glass cases, set and carefully measured distances. It looked less like a library and more like a museum.

Dusty whistled appreciatively. “Hey lady, you might want to forgo cutting our friend Spooks a check. He might be satisfied with weekly visits to this place once we clean it out.”

Inkwell smiled. “I’ll consider it. Now, most of this is fiction, or something like it. If you’re looking for our family’s personal files, the best place to start is going to be back here, in the History Wing.”

“History Wing?” Indigo asked.

“Yes. Dry Inkwell considered his own family’s doings to be the greatest story history would ever tell. Or, at least, the only one people who came here would want to read. Everything we’ve ever done is cataloged somewhere, somehow, in this section,” she explained, leading them through a maze-like series of twists and turns, until they reached a large open reading area, surrounded by newspaper stacks, shelves of books, and a few microfilm readers. “Have at.” They nodded, and set about, Dusty dropping the open duffel on a table for them to shovel materials into.

Treble, having been suitably silenced by the impressive surroundings, had decided he was impressed enough for one day, and began sniffing about the bookshelves. Old ledgers, textbooks ranging from family history to anything that might even mention the Inkwell name in a paragraph somewhere, and a few assorted reads littered the shelves, carefully tended. Of course, there was a distinct layer of dust about everything, as the last person who had cared enough to clean the room had passed months ago.

With the rest of their motley crew scattered about the seats, reading whatever they could get their hands on, Treble thumbed through a few choice titles, shoving one or two in the bag. Then he came across a rather peculiar book, with a very interesting title. “Dusty,” he breathed. After no response, he said again, a bit louder than he intended, “Dusty!”

“Jesus, what?!” came the reply.

“Look at this,” Treble said, holding out the large, leather-bound text to the other boy.

Dusty took the book and, turning it over in his hands, held it up to better lighting. Then he read the title. “Oh, you are SHITTING me.”

The Encyclopaedia Unnatura by Buried Bones

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