Episode 5: Mother of Heaven

Secret World Legends Community Corner The Horned God
1

The RV, which was now fixed, with the van in the back area (also fixed) pulled towards the gate. Alyssa had it set up so face recognition got her and the team through the gate.

The entrance opened and the RV continued down the driveway. The house - the teams home came onto view and Alyssa breathed. It had been debatable if they’d live to see it again, so it was a really good sight.

The RV parked now, it was 2 AM as they had just driven, pretty much, straight though. Alyssa made the announcement, " We’re home."

She jumped out of the driver’s seat and on to the pavement. A stretch and then, “Let’s just get what we need to inside. The rest can wait until later after we get some sleep.”

Sartre said, “Some time off will be a good thing.” He grabbed only his clothes and his side arm and headed inside the house. “What do you have planned on doing with your time off, my hacker?” he asked.

“I can’t think beyond getting a late snack and sleeping, right now.” Alyssa responded

Sartre said. “Sounds good my hacker.”

Alyssa woke up hazy, for a moment she forgot where she was. Her dreams were a blurr, she had been more exhausted than even she herself thought .

The RV…no…oh yeah they were home. For however long that lasted. A stretch, yawn - a reach for her phone - which silently announced it was 11 AM. Later than Alyssa had woken up in a very long time. She should really get up but with nothing pressing at the moment, just felt like laying there a bit longer.

“Sleepy hacker.” said Sartre, before he headed down stairs and grabbed orange juice. Winter snow was covering Virginia.

“Can you make some coffee?” Alyssa yelled after Peter as he left.

She crawled her way out of bed and peeked through the shades. Snow. This was her kind of weather, where one could just sit at home and be warm but the hacker had another plan.

The shower was calling her and she made her way there.

Sartre moved through the hallway like a man half-distracted, his footsteps muffled by thick Persian rugs that covered the creaking wood beneath. The mansion, a Federal-style estate nestled deep in the folds of Virginia’s Williamsburg, groaned softly in the wake of the storm. Outside, snow fell in slow, lazy spirals—thick, wet flakes that clung to the windowpanes like spectral fingerprints.

He passed a long mirror in a gilt frame, barely noticing his own reflection—hollow-eyed, unshaven, still wearing yesterday’s rumpled shirt and holster. His mind remained fixed on two things: the dream he’d had (if it was a dream at all), and Alyssa’s request about coffee.
The kitchen, despite its modern appliances, retained the heart of the house’s history. It smelled of brick dust and pine cleaner, though the coffee machine clicked and hummed like a content beast stirring from slumber. He moved past hanging copper pots and jars filled with pickled things he never remembered buying. As he prepared the coffee—dark roast, he glanced out the frost-laced window.

Beyond the glass, the grounds stretched away beneath a thick quilt of snow. The woods were close here, unnaturally so, as if the tree line crept closer each night when no one was looking. Bare branches clawed at the gray sky, black veins against a washed-out canvas. The wrought iron fence that ringed the estate had half-disappeared beneath the white, leaving only the tops of spears like crooked teeth grinning at the world.

He caught a flicker of movement near the hedgerow. A shape. Then it was gone. Just the wind, he told himself but the wind did not move like that.

A shiver passed through him, unrelated to the draft that always leaked in through the kitchen’s ancient stone walls.

He poured the coffee with practiced ease, the steam rising in soft spirals.

The mansion’s silence pressed against him, deep and layered. It was the kind of quiet that came with weight,like being buried alive beneath memory and ice. Somewhere beneath the house, the wine cellar door still refused to close all the way, no matter how many times he repaired it. Sartre told himself it was just the house settling.

He entered the bedroom without ceremony. He held the coffee. Her clothes were scattered across the bed: jeans folded with hacker’s precision, shirt still warm from the body that had fled it.

Steam crawled from the bathroom like ectoplasm, spilling into the colder air like a silent argument between worlds. He stood there for a moment, framed by the doorway, coffee in hand, watching the vapor coil and fade like thought itself.

Turning off the shower, Alyssa hadn’t heard Peter come back up stairs but could almost sense him at this point.

Using a fluffy white cotton towel the hacker dried off, her body then vigorously rubbed her hair so it would be still damp but not dripping. Being so petite another white cotton towel easily fit her body and she tucked one side into another so it stayed up. Then made her way out of the bathroom.

A smile crossed her lips, upon seeing the man holding the coffee. Alyssa took the still warm cup and gave Peter a small kiss, “Thanks.”

Sipping the hot liquid before putting it on a side table and getting dressed. “Anything planned for today?”

“No,” he said. “Only this. Only hanging out with you. That seems sufficient. What do you want to do today?”

The words might have been simple, but they echoed like scripture. Only hanging out with you. Not as possession, but as presence. A confession: that freedom is most frightening not in isolation, but in the gaze of another, where one becomes real by being chosen.

Outside, the world continued in its ruin and noise. But here, between them, was an architecture of breath and waiting—fragile, fallible, and unspeakably human.
“What do you think Sung is up to?” Sartre asked.

Alyssa nodded and gave Peter a slight smile. “That sounds nice. We haven’t had a chance to check out the indoor pool and hot tub, maybe we can do that later?”

As for Sung, the hacker shrugged. “Not sure. He’s probably been awake for hours. Maybe doing those- drills or whatever he calls them.” She finished getting dressed. “Should we go downstairs and find out?”

“Do you want the hot tub or pool later Alyssa ? I want to talk to you about something later.” “Lets go see Sung.” he said.

“Yes, later.” Alyssa agreed. She headed downstairs to the kitchen and started looking around. “Can you go find Sung? I’ll make a grocery list. We do need to go shopping, probably, at some point today as well.”

Sartre searched the house for Sung

As the morning sun rose into the sky, beams of light showed through the clouds. The light shone on Mr. Sung’s shirtless body, warming it. He moved gracefully as he worked through each kata movement, his hands flowing and his feet sliding as he moved around the brick pad in the house’s back yard. This workout took about an hour. With another hour with weapons, completing the whole training would take two hours.

His hand opened and closed, his arms moving, demonstrating different strikes and weapon use. A fist could represent a club or any blunt weapon. The open hand could be an engaging weapon, locking, grasping, and flipping. It took 10 years to master Hwa Rang Do and Moo-Gi-Gun. The energy he demonstrated in his movements started his body sweating.

He was about done when he could feel someone watching as he moved his sword through the air, slicing the air with a powerful sound. He turned towards the house with his last movements, as if he were cutting through something standing next to him. He stopped, stood, and bowed toward the house and those watching.

“Nice martial arts there Sung. How do you think they would fare against Gracie style grappling or catch wrestling?” Asked Sartre as he looked at the other team member with respect at his marshal skill.

“I’ve ridden that horse, and it was a tie, but I have a healthy respect for that Jiu-Jitsu style. You can say Hwa Rang Do is a mixed martial arts style, and Moo-Gi-Gun is more of a weapons side. If you join them and spend ten years learning them, it turns into a 1000+ year-old discipline,” replied Mr. Sung, thinking about how to explain the discipline.

" It has hand strikes and kicks, circular parries, flips, Locks, throws, chokes, and throws. The idea is to keep on moving continually. Spinning and jumping, with body flips and throws, hand strikes, locks, and chokes reserved for finishing off the opponent, it has parts of many Japanese, Korean, and Kung Fu, styles," explained Sung, hoping he would get the idea.

“Anytime you would like to spar, let me know. What is on your mind, Sartre?” he asked politely.

"“Just wondering what your predictions are for the secret world in the future, Sung.” said Sartre.

in the chip: “What are you wanting to pick up at the grocery store Alyssa?” asked Sartre.

"I’m still making the list. " Alyssa replied, into the chip. As she continued checking around the kitchen; throwing out anything expired.

Sung let out a breath slowly and looked at Sartre. “Unfortunately, I am like the wind, drifting and moving around the world as it changes. The dragon’s organization, I will not say, does not plan. But more see how things go. The organization is the most secretive of societies, with no fixed territory or structure. So you never know what is next. We watch the events and act accordingly.” Sung started to explain.

"I was asked to watch over the team and give advice. That is what I have done, " he said, putting on his shirt. “I have observed that Alyssa has something to do with the information and the end of this crisis.
I will continue supporting and watching over her as my orders demand.” Sung reassured Sartre.

“I have been wondering about the new lady we met recently. I do not trust people that easily, and I trust her less. I have not asked my people yet, but I plan to. The Delta Green team does have a reputation. but do we trust them nothing for free.” says Sung, looking at Sartre.

“Interesting using the chaos theory of the Dragon. As for the Delta Green agent, I think we can trust her, they’ve had a lot more experience than even I have before I swallowed that bee back in the summer of 2012. I’ve wondered what would have happened had I not gone home that night.” said Sartre. They called us “Gaia’s chosen. When the bees would speak to us, they would speak to us in poetry.”

In the chip: “My guess is the hacker will buy hacker snacks.”

“Of course,” Alyssa responded into the chip. “But living on potato chips might not work for everyone.”

“Hackers need protein.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Alyssa joked. “I’m adding some healthy stuff, as well. Does Sung know how to cook?”

“Sung, can you cook?”
In the chip: We’ll talk in the hot tub after you get back Alyssa."

“I’m just going to order the food. They’ll deliver it. Its easier than taking the van.” Alyssa responded, into the chip.

In the chip: “You want to eat first? Or the hot tub?”

“I meant I was having the groceries delivered but we can get takeout as well.” Alyssa explained

“Sung, what would you prefer for groceries?”

He thought about the cooking question. He can cook, but not everyone likes food from Korea, Japan, and some American stuff. “Yes, it depends on what you want.” he answered. “why do you ask?”
“Groceries? Hmm… Coffee and tea. I am not used to being in one place for very long, so I do not cook much. I know how, but I just don’t do it much. What about you, Sartre?” Mr. Sung asked. “I doubt that Alyssa does but she can surprise people.” added Sung.

“I dont cook either.” said Sartre.

He smiles, “We all going to die of hunger,” he says jokingly. “Let us go see what we do have.” said Sung, walking towards the house.

“Sung is good with anything Alyssa.” Sartre said in the chip.

“Well, that narrows it down.” She joked. “Maybe we should just get some take out Japanese for tonight and the groceries. Did he tell you if he could cook?”

“He said he doesn’t cook.”

“Well, there’s recipes and demonstrations online. Maybe we can figure it out, but not tonight.” Alyssa responded. “I’m ordering Sushi but you and Sung will have to decide what you each want from the Japanese takeout place.”

“I’ll have what the hacker is having. Do you want to talk in the hot tub before or after dinner?”
Sartre said, "Sung, what would you like from a Japanese take out? If you have any interesting theories on new martial arts styles. I’m always available to learn more. Just practice your grappling. It’s like strategy " Sartre respectfully left the martial arts and combat master to continue his training.

“Okay, its only about 1 so I’ll be ordering the take out later. The groceries now but they’ll be here later. So let’s talk in the hot tub.” Alyssa replied.

Sartre got into his swim trunks, this would be his first time trying the hot tub. He had questions for Alyssa, but also look forward to the time they spent together. He always did.

He waited for the hacker.
With the groceries ordered, for delivery later. Alyssa got into her 2- piece and met up with Sartre. “I’m ready if you are.”
She hadn’t been in this hot tub either or the pool as they had had no time for such things before.

“Feel free to push me in.” He smirked. “There are things I want to talk to you about. Our relationship seems to have changed. In a positive way, a few weeks ago back at that apartment complex I noticed that if anything we have seemed to grow even closer than we were. I want to know what that means to you.”
She turned the hot tub on, it would take a few minutes to heat up. “Well, the hot tub is a little shallow for that but the pool isn’t.” After almost drowning a while back she was unlikely to shove anyone into a pool.

Alyssa sat at the edge of the hot tub and dangled her feet in while it warmed up as Sartre asked his question. “I’m not sure. I feel closer to you than anyone and anyone I’ve been around in my past. Though if you want to know the truth, it’s a little scary at the same time. I don’t want to be dependent on anyone as much as I love you, as close as we are I still need to feel independent as well. At the same time I feel like I wouldn’t know what to do if you suddenly weren’t around.” Alyssa slid into the now warmed up hot tub water. She allowed herself to be vulnerable with him but, for some reason, she still couldn’t quite get used to being vulnerable around anyone.

He followed her. “What what make you feel more independent?”

“I don’t know. Being able to defend myself better has helped. Maybe learning more things. I don’t really know.” Alyssa tried to come up with the correct words. “Before you and the team, I had been on my own in many ways, for a long time. I didn’t have to think about being independent because I had no choice. So, now I don’t know how to bridge the two - being so close to you and having actual friends and not losing that independent part of me. The part that could rely on myself. It’s much easier, it seems, to rely on yourself when you only have yourself. It feels too easy to use you or the team as a crutch. I don’t want that but I like that there are people I can rely on.” Alyssa got quiet, she realized she had done a poor job explaining it but… “I don’t know how else to explain it.”

“What’s going on in there? In your head? The next time we… May I use my ability, like the time you passed out at the motel and I saved you?”

“Maybe, later. Not when we are and not now. But maybe again at some point. I’m not sure getting in there will make any more sense, anyway.” Alyssa breathed as if she had just held her breath. “Know this I love you and I trust you. I’m just figuring out the rest myself.” The hacker paused. “Have you ever felt totally and completely alone even when surrounded by people? Like there was no one to really turn to?”

“I know that feeling,” he said quietly. His voice was gravel edged with something older than sadness. “When the world crowds in, but you might as well be standing on the surface of the moon.”

He took a slow breath, steadying himself before he spoke again.
“I used to think I knew how people disappeared. Criminal profiling gave me patterns. Runaways, abductions, staged vanishings. There were rules. You could track them. You could find them. Then I joined the Secret World, and I learned just how wrong I was.”

He leaned forward a little, speaking lower now, the room seeming to lean in with him.
“I still think about Mekayla Bali. Sixteen years old. Regina, Saskatchewan. One day she just… walked out of her life. No real warning. Security cameras caught her leaving a bus depot. After that? Nothing. No sightings. No evidence. Not a damn clue. It was like the world swallowed her whole.”

Brian Schaefer," he went on. “Med student, Ohio State. 2006. Went out drinking with friends. Security cameras caught him entering a bar. Never showed him leaving. Not once. Not even a frame. They searched every inch of that place. No trace. No way out. Gone.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened.
“And Stephen Koecher. Journalist. Saint George, Utah. 2009. His car was found abandoned in a suburb, keys still inside. No struggle. No goodbye. Just footprints leading away into nothing. No one’s ever seen him again.”
“I started digging deeper. I had to know if there was a pattern. Not just these — us. Our people. Agents, field operatives, sometimes. Vanished without a ripple.” He exhaled, slow and heavy.
“I thought maybe it was just the work. High-risk assignments, foreign ops, bad luck. But it didn’t add up. It never does.”

His voice dropped even lower
“I started looking at Operation Condor. Chile. 1970s. They called it counterintelligence, national security. Truth is, they disappeared tens of thousands. Black bags over heads, secret detention centers, people air-dropped into the Pacific like trash. Most of the bodies were never found. It was like history itself tried to erase them.”

He stared at his hands for a moment .
"I thought Condor was evil because of what humans did to each other. Now? I’m not sure it wasn’t something else
Sartre finally met Alyssa’s gaze, his voice iron steady despite the haunted look in his eyes.
“So yeah. I know what it feels like to be alone. To know you could vanish between one heartbeat and the next and the world would just… blink and move on.”

He smiled then a small, broken thing and added, almost tenderly:
“But I also know when you’re lucky enough to have even one person you can trust in this world, you don’t let go of them easily.”

Alyssa nodded, “Yes. You don’t let them go.” She thought back on his words. The hacker had always wondered why Peter had chosen this life or maybe it was something else. “I feel often like this life…that of the secret worlds- chooses us instead of we choosing it. No matter much it seems like the latter.” Alyssa had strayed a little from the original topic. “I know having someone to trust, to hold onto when things get rough. To have love. Friendships. It should feel normal. While it feels right it doesn’t feel normal. Not to me, not yet. At this point I’m wondering how long it will take before it does. That alone feeling. The completely alone where’s there’s no one to turn to - even in a crowded room. I’m so much more familiar with that.” Alyssa pushed a hair, that had fallen onto her face, back. “But you…you I feel closer to everyday and it’s wonderful…scary at times if I let my mind drift to what might happen if something was to happen to you. ..but still wonderful. Yet, wonderful is still odd for me.”

Closing her eyes for an ever brief moment, as if she was letting some thought pass. “Do you ever wish I was older…or had more life experiences? Like you have?” She couldn’t help but feel young sometimes next to him, despite everything she had already been through.

"“I don’t wish that whatsoever, that way I can have the experiences alongside you as you experience them. I feel closer to you every day as well. I like these moments, these experiences and just hanging out with you. You’ve shown extreme bravery in the field and extreme courage. Of course I also enjoy the “Ohh that!” experiences that you have and that I can have with you. Should we take a few days off for that? I think we do need a makeout session now though, hacker.” He motioned her close.

Bravery? Courage? Alyssa felt many times she was just doing what she could to survive and make sure others did as well, as much to her ability. She certainly didn’t see herself the way Peter did. “Well, thank you for the compliment. I think you are as well. Not many would jump into someone’s mind to battle an unknown entity.” Speaking of which. “I am grateful your willing to experience things with me, considering what those things are, at times.” As for the "Ohh that comment. Alyssa breathed a laugh. “I’m never gonna live that down am I?” Though it was said lightly. The atmosphere in the room had clear changed becoming lighter but she felt even closer to him now. And at his request, she moved closer to him and kissed him…

Posted by : Cindy

2

The portal cracked open with a low, warbling hum, a ripple of pale green light brushing across the snow-slicked grass outside the mansion. From the bleeding edge of reality stumbled a raccoon—his fur wild and matted with the damp of distant English fog, his eyes burning with a sharp, unnatural clarity.

He landed awkwardly, paws splaying in the icy crust. His nose twitched feverishly. Behind him, the last echoes of Agartha’s golden pathways faded into silence, leaving only the whip of the winter wind and the faint buzz of Anima still pulsing through his veins.

He had swallowed the bee. Not just any bee—a creature drenched in Anima, heavy with secrets. The world tasted different now: sharper, louder, alive with voices not meant for beasts. His mind, once a simple spark of instinct, now roared like a bonfire of ideas, riddles, memories he hadn’t lived. And somewhere in that chaotic weave, a name clung stubbornly: Snatchy.

Snatchy had found him near Stonehenge, amid the crumbled stones and shifting mist, a raccoon who spoke like a con artist and fought like a demon. He’d laughed when the newcomer described the bee, clapped him on the back with a grimy paw, and told him, “Welcome to the deep end, kid.”

Now, alone in a strange land, the newly Awakened raccoon skittered across the wide, pristine lawn toward the towering mansion ahead. Warm lights bled through frosted windows. Modern lines and sharp architecture cut against the wild sprawl of sleeping trees and heavy snow. His stomach growled, his tail bristled. Somewhere in that place, he sensed purpose—mystery—maybe even allies.

Or at least, snacks.

He loped up the marble steps, leaving tiny clawed prints behind, and with a grunt, began scratching at the front door, chittering under his breath. His voice—clear, ragged, alive—rose in the winter air:

“Oi! Lemme in, yeah? It’s bloody freezing out here!”

He heard a muffling noise and could already sense something at the door. Mr. Sung is always alert and has excellent senses that hardly miss anything. He did not feel danger, and the glyphs did not activate. He thought Alyss and Sartre were in the pool or hot tub in the house. So they would not be messing with the front door.

He moved to the kitchen counter, picked up his phone, and looked at the social camera feeds. At first, he saw nothing. Then, I looked at another feed, and something was at the door. An animal, Mr. Sung raised an eyebrow. “What in the hell, trash panda?” he said, looking at his phone.

He let out a sigh when he could see it scratching at the door. He wondered if he should go and kill the damn thing. Then he heard it talk, or he thought it spoke. He placed the phone in his pocket and walked to the door, thinking Messinger’s magic was strange, and he had heard of spells that could do that.

He prepared himself for anything. They opened the door quickly, probably surprising him. The “raccoon?” He was surprised at the sight. Now, how did he deal with the thing? He just stood looking at it.

The door flew open.

Warm air hit him like a dream—cinnamon, ozone, something faintly metallic. Cricket blinked up into the golden glow of the mansion’s interior, one paw halfway raised like he’d been caught mid-crime.

“Oh, finally,” he barked, shaking sleet from his fur. “Thought I was gonna freeze my tail off out here. Or worse, get eaten by one of those shadow hounds stalking the treeline. Don’t ask how I know. I just do.”

He stepped gingerly onto the threshold, claws clicking against the marble. His nose twitched once, twice, scanning the air like radar. “Smells expensive. Also? Someone’s cooking curry. Or there’s a portal to Mumbai in the pantry. Either way, I approve.”

Cricket’s ears swiveled, his eyes still burning that eerie amber, too sharp for a beast. “Right, so. Introductions. Name’s… well, honestly, I don’t know anymore. The one I used before the bee doesn’t feel right. But someone called me Cricket once. Snatchy laughed when he heard it. Told me I’d find the name again once I earned it.”

His voice dipped a bit, suddenly thoughtful. “He said a lot of things. Not all of ’em made sense. But most of them were true.”

He rubbed his paws together, glancing up again. “I came through Agartha. Got ejected like bad cargo just outside Stonehenge. Something chased me for three exits. Might’ve been a hollow thing or just my own fear manifesting. Kinda hard to tell these days.”
He scratched his side with one leg, like the talking hadn’t slowed the primal itch. “And I did eat the bee. Not just a regular one either—this thing was dripping with Anima. Got into my mouth when I was licking an artifact. Don’t look at me like that. It looked like honey.”

Cricket puffed out his chest. “Now I hear the world humming. I understand signs. Smell time. Got memories that don’t belong to me. One of ’em’s from a dude in the 1800s who stared too long into a mirror and never came out. That’s probably normal, right?”

He paused, tail flicking.

“I followed a thread here. Pulled like fate’s fishing line. There’s something old in this house. Something tangled up in destiny and broken promises and—I dunno—sleepless gods or cursed architecture or a sandwich someone left uneaten on the astral plane.”

Cricket nodded solemnly.

“So yeah,” he said. “I’m here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do yet. But I figure if I hang around long enough, eat a few power cords, solve a riddle or two, something will reveal itself. Maybe even a purpose.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with a spark of mischief. “Also, I might’ve peed on the hedges. Just a little.”

Then, with a chirring sound that might have been a chuckle, he padded inside, leaving behind tiny, wet footprints and the faint scent of ozone and ancient woodsmoke.

Mr. Sung almost kicked the animal back out of the house. It being a bee, you’re not. But then he could test the house’s magic defense. He wondered how long it would take for the spell to take effect. He grinned at Cricket. “Understand this. I don’t know what all that chattering is about, but I did not invite you in. Now your world will change.” Not in a good way for you." He said in a way that sounded forbidding.

Fog fills all the warded corridors, making them Heavily Obscured. In addition, at each intersection or branching passage offering a choice of direction, there is a 50 percent chance that a creature other than you believes it is going in the opposite direction from the one it chooses. All doors in the warded area are magically locked. Doors disappear and appear as plain sections of the walls. Webs fill all stairs in the warded area from top to bottom, as in the Web spell. These strands regrow if they are destroyed.

Lights that could barely be made out started to blink in the hallways. There was a feeling of fear of being watched, and the Cricket was covered in shadows. Cold wind blew around the inside of the house, and the smell of death was on it. A loud voice said, “You have disturbed the spirit of the Dragon.” The voice was deep and forbidding. A disorienting fog started to fill some of the rooms.

Mr. Sung wanted to see the reaction of his spell Guards and Wards cast on the house as a permanent spell.

After spending some alone time with Sartre. Alyssa took a hot shower. She dried her hair, gpt dressed into some jeans and a t-shirt with the band Ghost plastered across the front. The woman made her to the kitchen knowing the groceries were on the way.

However, the sight of Sung with a …raccoon? Stopped the young woman in her tracks.

The fog bloomed instantly, rising like spectral breath from the marble floor, coiling in long, unnatural tendrils through the corridors. Lights blinked weakly in the mist-choked air—dim, unreliable—casting fractured beams that flickered like old film reels. The once-pristine mansion transformed before their eyes into a place of illusions and menace.
Walls groaned. Doors melted into smooth surfaces. Webs thick as wire grew down every stairwell like something had exhaled a thousand spiders at once. A foul wind surged through the halls, colder than logic, thick with a scent like forgotten tombs.

And right at the center of it—dwarfed by the spectacle, yet entirely unimpressed—stood the raccoon.

Cricket blinked once as the fog curled around him, then blinked again, slower, dramatically. He sniffed. His whiskers twitched. Then he reached into some unseen space behind his back and impossibly pulled out a pair of tiny aviator goggles, which he strapped onto his face with absurd ceremony.

He took a step forward, then suddenly leapt into a full spin, landed on two legs, and broke into a ragged Charleston-style dance. His claws scraped the floor in rhythm. He twirled once, paused dramatically, then launched into a half-hearted moonwalk. The fog pooled around his paws like theater smoke.
As the deep, terrible voice thundered through the house—"You have disturbed the spirit of the Dragon"Cricket threw both arms in the air like a stage magician finishing his trick.

He struck a pose: chest puffed, tail aloft, goggles askew. Then he did a slow, sarcastic bow to no one in particular.

From the shadowed hallway behind him, a door blinked into existence and then out again. Cricket turned to it, gave it a saucy wave, and began to pantomime knocking on air.

He mimed being confused. Looked left, then right. He shuffled in a circle, then began pretending to climb invisible stairs—his tiny legs pumping as he “ascended” directly into one of the stairwells. He became tangled in a spider web, let out a loud, theatrical fake gasp, staggered backward, and collapsed in exaggerated slow motion like a Shakespearean raccoon-actor dying from poison.

Then, after a beat, he sat up with a grin.

He clapped slowly, mock-impressed by the haunted house theatrics around him.

He walked straight into a wall—paused—rubbed his snout—and then waved his paw in the air as if swearing vengeance on all architectural illusions.

Cricket’s eyes gleamed under the goggles. He reached behind himself again—and this time pulled out a tiny kazoo.

He began to play a broken, wheezy version of Ride of the Valkyries as he strutted down the hall with the confidence of a raccoon possessed by both divine nonsense and eldritch swagger.

And still, he danced.
“What the hell is going on down there?” Sartre yelled as he made his way down the stairs after getting showered and dressed.

“You’ll have to see this for yourself. I think we might have a pet.” Alyssa yelled, cryptically back.

What was that again that Sung had said, oh yeah - the dragon is awake. However, she didn’t know if she could actually disarm what was happening. Maybe, Sung was better for that.

With much amusement the hacker watched the antics of the raccoon. “He’s adorable.” Alyssa said outloud, more interested in the newcomer than the house antics, which she assumed Sung had made happen. “Sung can you undo…well…that?” She indicated everything happening around them.

“Would you like to stay?” She asked the raccoon.

When it came down to it, Alyssa was a 25 year old woman who had a soft spot for animals. Of course she’d want to keep the raccoon - not normally maybe because they were wild animals but definitely this one. Did she ask anyone else- well no - but - in this instance Alyssa wasn’t thinking of that either.

Mr. Sung shook his head in disappointment. With a snap of his fingers, the spell stopped. He could do that, but he was the only one who could. “So now we have a talented rat in the house, " he commented. When I did not think it could get any worse, a trash panda showed up.” He walked over to the kitchen. Alyssa, you can deal with it. I do not want panda trash blood on my blade." he says, walking into the kitchen.

“But it’s soooo cute.” Alyssa sounded younger than she ever had before. “What do you mean - deal with it, clearly it’s special. I absolutely am not killing a raccoon.” Emphasizing the word raccoon because it wasn’t a rat.

She turned back to the raccoon. “So, what do you say you want to stay?”

He paused in his walking. “I said, deal with it, not kill it. It is fury, has a tail and little feet with little claws, RAT,” he replied sarcastically. Then he walked into the kitchen to finish making his tea.

“Well, so do cats. He’s not even a rodent.” Alyssa responded back before turning back to the raccoon. “Ah dont worry he’ll warm up to you.” She was determined about it

Cricket paused mid-strut, one tiny foot in the air like he’d been caught mid-dance move. He slowly turned his head toward Alyssa as she asked if he’d like to stay. His ears perked. His goggles fogged slightly.

Then, dramatically, he placed a paw over his heart.
“Would I like to stay?” he said, voice full of faux reverence. “Madam, that is the most gracious invitation I have received since the druids tried to roast me with chant spells and pinecones.”

He swept an arm wide, gesturing grandly at the mansion as the fog evaporated.
“Traps! Fog! Sentient staircases! You people know how to make a lad feel wanted.”

At Sung’s insult, Cricket narrowed his eyes like a Shakespearean actor scorned.

“RAT?” he said, as if the word had physically injured him. He placed a paw on his chest again, this time in wounded indignation. “Sir, I’ll have you know I have never once stolen cheese from a trap. I have standards.”

He paused, sniffed, then muttered under his breath:
“…Unless it’s brie.”

As Sung walked away, Cricket leaned forward slightly, watching him with mischievous curiosity.

“You hear that, Ally? ‘Deal with it.’ That’s what they say right before the demon frog escapes containment and eats half a city.”

He waggled his brows at Alyssa.
“Tell you what—I’ll stay on one condition. I get snacks, a soft place to nap, and you let me mount a GoPro on that grumpy one. I need footage. For research.”

He spun in a circle, struck a pose, and gave her a mock salute.
“Name’s Cricket, by the way. You just adopted 10 pounds of chaotic enlightenment in raccoon form.”

Then, very solemnly, he reached up with both paws, took off the goggles, and presented them to her.

“A gift. These see truths. Mostly embarrassing ones.”

And with that, he scampered toward the living room, singing what sounded suspiciously like the Ghostbusters theme—but all in raccoon gibberish.

“Oh, good.” Alyssa happily responded to the raccoon saying he’d stay. “Snacks are easy but what kind of bed would you prefer? Could make you your own room with everything designed for you…you know your size and such so you’ll be comfortable.” The hacker’s mind was going through all the possibilities. “Hear that,” Alyssa called throughout the house, making certain Sung could hear her. “The raccoon, Cricket, is staying.”

Cricket froze mid-scurry like someone had just announced free tacos.

He spun on his heel, paws splayed, and gasped.

“A room? For me?”
His voice cracked with overwhelmed joy, like a kid who just found out their new babysitter was Batman.

He twirled once, flopped dramatically on the floor with his arms spread wide, and stared up at the ceiling.
“Is this what love feels like? I think my heart just shed a layer of trauma.”

Cricket rolled back onto his feet in one fluid motion, then skittered in a tight circle like a dog testing out a new bed.

“I want beanbags,” he said decisively. “One of those tiny fridges stocked with Capri Sun. Mood lighting. A lava lamp. Maybe a mural of me doing karate on the wall? You know, for ambiance.”

At Alyssa’s declaration that he was staying, Cricket threw his arms into the air.

“You hear that, grumpy tea wizard? I live here now! I want my name on the mailbox and everything!”

He clutched his chest dramatically again.
“I’m not crying. You’re crying.”

He scampered over to the wall, pointed at it with theatrical confidence.
“That’s where my hammock goes. Over there—miniature bookshelf. I’m gonna need space for snacks, weapons, and at least three conspiracy corkboards.”

Then he paused, tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and nodded slowly.
“But yeah, mostly snacks.”

He did a forward somersault, stuck the landing, and pointed both fingers at Alyssa.
“Best day ever.”

And with that, he moonwalked into the living room again—this time humming Bohemian Rhapsody off-key in fluent raccoon.

Alyssa smiled. She spoke into the chip. “Peter you should come down here, there’s someone you should meet.” The hacker hadn’t put the glasses on yet for that she was waiting.

Sartre looked and saw the raccoon talking and speaking. As he came down the stairs he said,

"This is an anima animal. After swallowing a bee they can talk, and they gain power similar to Gaia’s chosen. They can also use new magic and freeze things or use fire and lightning. He motioned to the raccoon. “Anima buddy, can you show us a live demonstration of the powers of Gaia.”
Cricket stood perfectly still as Sartre spoke, his tiny paws folded behind his back like a dignified guest at a royal summit.

When Sartre finished, Cricket’s eyes slowly widened, lips parting in mock surprise.

“Ohhh, so now I’m an ‘Anima buddy.’ Ten minutes ago I was a rat with a tail.”

He clapped his paws together once with theatrical solemnity.
“A live demonstration, you say? Very well. Step back, mortals. Prepare yourselves for the majesty of Gaia’s smallest chosen.”

Cricket lifted a paw dramatically toward the ceiling, then began pacing in a circle as if channeling some unseen energy. His eyes fluttered closed. He muttered something in a mixture of Latin, raccoon, and beat poetry.

Then—whoosh—a tiny flicker of fire sparked from his paw… and immediately singed his own whiskers.

He blinked.

“Okay, okay, false start. Gaia’s buffering.”

He shook out his limbs, spat on the ground like a street magician about to get serious, and tried again. This time, a sudden gust of wind blasted from his direction, sending loose papers flying and knocking a bowl off the kitchen counter with a clang.

Cricket looked up, fur windswept, eyes blazing.

“Witness me.”

Then, still glowing faintly with residual anima, he formed a tiny crackle of lightning between his fingers and launched it harmlessly into a potted plant—which exploded with a puff of dirt and a squeaky poof.

He held his arms out to the side like a magician concluding his act.

“…And for my next trick, I shall absolutely burn this house down by accident if you don’t install raccoon safety locks.”

He bowed low, then added,
“Also, I’m gonna need snacks with electrolytes. Magic drains you, man.”

Alyssa’s phone chimed. “Well then you’re in luck - the groceries are here.” Alyssa went to the door and started bringing in the groceries, taking them to the kitchen.

Cricket’s ears perked up at the chime like a dog hearing the treat bag crinkle.

“Groceries?”
He whispered the word like it was sacred.
“Did someone say… groceries?”

He dropped into a low, predatory crouch, eyes narrowing, tail twitching in slow motion like a jungle cat sizing up its prey. Cricket crept closer—one paw at a time, overdramatically sneaking as if the groceries might flee at the sight of him.

“Must… investigate… contents… for national security reasons.” “Easy there.” said Sartre as he followed the raccoon and Alyssa into the kitchen.

Alyssa started unpacking the groceries. She had ordered some fruit and vegetables. The young woman turned to Cricket. “You like, maybe, some fruit?”

The hacker had, of course, ordered bags of her usual chips and other more junk type foods but had also gotten some popcorn for the movie theater style popcorn maker that they had in the house but hadn’t used yet. “Or there’s popcorn.”

Maybe she needed to read up on what to feed a raccoon. While Alyssa was pretty clear that cricket might eat just about anything, it didn’t mean I that was healthy for the critter.

Cricket froze mid–bread cuddle as Alyssa mentioned fruit. His eyes narrowed, suspicious.

“Fruit?”
He sniffed the air like it had just betrayed him.

“I mean… yeah, sure, I can eat fruit. I can also eat tree bark and the occasional unwatched sock. Doesn’t mean I should.”

He tilted his head and gestured dramatically with one paw toward the junk food bags.

“Now that—that is the language of civilization. Chips? Popcorn? These are the golden pillars of snack-based enlightenment.”

He scrambled up onto the counter, nearly tipping over a bag of apples in the process. With the serious gravitas of a gourmet critic, he squinted at an orange and gave it a cautious poke.

“…Is this one of those trap fruits with juice that squirts in your eye? Because I do not have vision insurance.”

Then, as she mentioned the popcorn maker, he froze.

“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You own a popcorn machine… and haven’t used it yet? What kind of cruel, snack-deprived existence is this?!”

He spun dramatically, clutched the sourdough to his chest, and pointed a trembling claw toward the ceiling.

“By the crispy wings of Gaia, I demand we initiate the sacred rite of Movie Popcorn Night! I don’t care what we watch. Explosions. Ghosts. That weird raccoon in space who’s not me.”

Then, sotto voce, with a sly glance at Alyssa:

“…And yes, I’ll eat a banana. But only if it’s peeled by a certified professional. Or you. You count.”

He plopped down on the counter, legs sprawled, a picture of satisfied chaos.

“Just keep the grapes cold. I like the crunch.”

Alyssa smiled at Crickets antics, “You sound like me about the healthy stuff.” The hacker handed the popcorn and the oil to Peter. “Can you turn on the popcorn maker and start heating it up? The instructions are right next to it.” Turning back to Cricket. “What meats, fish - that kind of stuff do you eat?”

Cricket placed one paw dramatically over his chest, ears twitching with pride.

“Ah, yes. A fellow junk food scholar. You and I, Alyssa—we walk the sacred path of sodium and satisfaction.”

At the mention of meats and fish, he straightened like a soldier being addressed by a general.

“Ohhh, now we’re talking. Meat? Yes. Fish? Absolutely. I am the terror of the tuna can. The scourge of the smoked salmon.”

He rubbed his paws together, eyes gleaming with the gleeful hunger of a gremlin about to open a buffet.

“Chicken? Yes. Turkey? Yes. Sausages? Double yes. Hot dogs? Triple yes. Bacon?”
He clutched the air like he was holding an invisible treasure.
“Bacon is my soul animal.”

Then, leaning forward in a conspiratorial whisper:

“Raw’s fine. Cooked is better. Sushi? I eat it like I’m stealing state secrets.”

He glanced toward the kitchen drawers.

“Do you have one of those little meat slicers? Because if you do, I want to ride it. And then eat what comes off.”

After a beat, his ears perked toward the popcorn machine as Peter started it up. He gasped, locked eyes with Alyssa, and whispered reverently:

“It’s happening.”

He then turned to the microwave and bowed.

“Ancient spirits of butter and salt… I am ready.”

For the first time since Cricket arrived, Mr. Sung had a slight smile. Cricket’s reaction was amusing compared to the whole food reaction. He reached over to the hard Salami and opened it. With the precision of a master chef and master swordsman, he rapidly chopped the round Salami into perfect pieces. The kitchen knife moved at blinding speed, and the smell of the Salami filled the kitchen. With the same speed, Mr. Sung threw a piece of the Salami into the air to land onto Cricket’s head. “Catch,” said Mr. Sung, not giving Cricket time to react. Testing the animals’ reflexes.

Alyssa watched Sung and Cricket with amusement. She went about preparing the butter and pulled out the salt from the packages. Pouring into a salt shaker.

She then started putting away the rest of the groceries.

Cricket’s ears twitched at the sudden scent—salami. His eyes widened, pupils dilating like twin moons in a meat-scented trance.

“Ohhh no you di—”

THWAP!

The slice landed squarely on his head with a comedic slap. He froze mid-thought, eyes crossed as if trying to look up at it.

“…Rude,” he muttered.

Without moving his body, he carefully tilted his head backward, the salami slice sliding down his forehead like a greasy crown of destiny. In a flash, his tongue shot out, catching it mid-slide.

He chewed slowly. Reverently.

“…I take it back. Rude and glorious.”

He licked his paw, then pointed at Sung.

“Okay, samurai salad-slasher, I see you. You wanna play the reflex game? Let’s go. Next time I catch it in air. First strike was yours. Round two’s mine.”

Then, narrowing his eyes with deadly seriousness:

“You and I, blade-hands, are gonna be great friends or eternal rivals. No in-between.”
Sartre helped Alyssa with the groceries.

Mr. Sung threw another piece of salami his way before placing the rest into a ziplock bag and helping put more groceries away. He looked over to Cricket. “You need training if you are to be around us, Cricket. Be great friends or eternal rivals will not matter if you die.” commented Mr. Sung, placing some things on the shelves.

Sung warming up to Cricket took less time than Alyssa had thought it would. “Sung is right. But, Sung, are you volunteering to train him?”

“Alyssa, shouldn’t he get sleepy after a while?” asked Sartre.

“I suppose. I did promise him his own room.” Alyssa wasn’t a raccoon expert, after all. She turned to the furry team member. “Cricket, would you like to take a nap? We can discuss how to redecorate your room later.”

Cricket stretched dramatically, arching his back like a cat, then flopped onto the tile floor with a groan.
“Nap? Finally, someone speaks my language.”

He rolled onto his side, paws curled like tiny fists, blinking up at Alyssa.
“Redecorate later, yes, yes… velvet chaise lounge, mood lighting, maybe a mini-fridge—these things take vision.”

Then, with a yawn that somehow sounded a little too dignified for a raccoon, he muttered,
“But first… beauty sleep. If I snore, it’s the Anima resonating. Totally natural.”

And with that, he closed his eyes right there in the kitchen, tail flicking once in contentment.

“No, not here.” Alyssa said with a kind tone to her voice. “You’re liable to get tripped over. Follow me, and I’ll show you to your room.”

“Room? All he needs is a dog bed and a bowl of water. Let him sleep on the couch unless he can do his laundry. Unless you are going to do that for him, Alyssa,” Commented Sung as they were about to leave.

“We have plenty of rooms. He can get one.” Alyssa wasn’t budging on it. “And how is him sleeping on the couch be any less laundry? He’ll still need sheets and blankets.” Alyssa gave 1/2 a huff. “I’ll do his laundry if you’re that concerned.”

Cricket cracked one eye open and gave a theatrical sigh.
“Dragged from slumber before it even begins. Truly, I suffer.”

Posted by : Cindy

3

He rolled upright with a lazy wobble, tail flicking indignantly.
“But alright, lead the way, gracious hostess. I assume there will be throw pillows and a snack drawer?”

He trotted after her on padded feet, mumbling to himself.
“Should’ve negotiated room service… rookie mistake.”

Alyssa grabbed some blankets and bedding from a linen closest and then opened a door. The room was like the others, bed, dresser, large window with shades, nightstands, attached bathroom, flat screen TV etc. “Your accomdations.” Alyssa said. She made up the bed, but then thought of something. “Hold on a minute.” She went back into the linen closer and pulled out a step ladder. The hacker opened it and put it in front of the bed. “That should make it easier for you.”

Alyssa then showed him the remotes on the night stand that operated the TV, lights and shades. “Well, that’s everything. I’ll leave you to get some rest.”

It was a lovely day. Everyone had settled into the house, including Cricket, the newcomer. They were doing their jobs and taking time off. The house and staff had now worked out any problems that may have arisen, with Mr. Sung and Sartre watching over them so patiently. Life was as everyday as it could get for our reluctant heroes. It was in the early morning when it arrived. Cricket and Mr. Sung both knew something was off about it. It had already gone through the security check, so Mr Sung knew it would not explode or endanger the house.

Security took the package to the evidence and forensics room, set it on the table, and left. Mr. Sung arrived shortly after and looked over the package. He recognized some of the symbols hidden in the colorful tape. He pulled his phone out, called everyone at the house, and asked them to come downstairs to the room.

Alyssa was in the pool, doing some laps, when she heard her phone go off. Who the heck was calling her and not just texting?

She didn’t pick up the call, instead, finished the last of her laps then swam over to the stairs, climbed her way up, dried off a little and then checked her voice mail. Sung? Meet him in the EF room? Well, it had been a little over a month since their last assignment so they were due.

She quickly got into one of the pool showers, just to rinse off some of the chlorine, then dried off as well as she could. Throwing the pair of old jean shorts over her suit and putting her hair up in a hair towel, the young woman then slipped into her sandels and headed to the EF room. Otherwise known as the Evidence and Forensics room was a secure room on the same floor as a pool but the opposite side of the house. She arrived, got through the layers of security and entered the room.

Based on the package on the table with the magical seal, which Alyssa quickly recognized, she figured her instinct had been right - they had another assignment.

A mysterious videotape. This was rather nostalgic Sartre thought as he made his way into the audiovisual room of the mansion.

Someone obviously had a yearning for nostalgia sending videotapes in 2025.

When they walked into the room, Mr. Sung looked at the two and acknowledged them with a nod. When they entered, he was also looking at the package. He ran a finger over the edge and corner of the box. He picked it up and held it with a flat hand, moving up and down a few times slowly. “It’s a wooden box wrapped in heavy paper.” The tape’s seals are from our offices. That is why I have not opened it yet," explained Mr Sung. “I can tell you it is safe.” He added with a glance at the two.

Alyssa gave a nod. “It might be safe but the question then is it it something we want?” The hacker quipped. “I guess we need open it.”

“Who wants to open it?” asked Sartre.

“There are two magic seals on this package: Illuminati and Dragon. So you will have to break that seal first,” Mr. Sung explained as he touched a seal. It glowed, and then some of the seals broke. He stepped back. “All you have to do is touch your seals, I think both of you,” Mr. Sung informed them.

Sartre touched his. He waited on Alyssa. “I doubt the postal service offers this level of secure mail.”

Alyssa touched her seal, and smiled at Sartre’s quip.

Now, all the tape and symbols fall away and fade from sight. As the paper opens, the box, made of ornate wood, is about the size of a jewelry box. When it is opened, there is a black dried Rose on white silk fabric and a few leaves around the rose. After closer inspection, the rose looks like it was dried; perhaps the leaves were not rose leaves. It was a magnificent silk fabric.

Mr. Sung just stared at the Rose and green leaves. “Ah… I am not a gardener. So… what now?” He reached in, carefully lifted the silk fabric out with the rose on a green leaf, and set it on the table below. It was an old VHS tape. Mr. Sung pulled that out as well and put it to the side.

“OK, I see the obvious. Any Ideas?” asked Mr. Sung.

“A red rose can symbolize love, passion, desire but also commitment. Its silk so it can’t die - never ending? Just a thought.” Alyssa shrugged. “So, should we watch the video tape?”

This had to be someone with feelings of nostalgia. VHS tapes were something from at least thirty years ago. For someone to send one of these out today, let alone sending out a paranormal one. It definitely had to be something interesting Sartre thought.

He paused. “But this rose is dead,” commented Mr. Sung. If I gave you this rose, Alyssa, would you think of love?" He asked, puzzled, looking at the videotape.

“Another interpretation could be Transformation. They can symbolize change or the end of one phase and the beginning of another. Their dark color evokes a sense of mystery, often linked to the unknown or the supernatural.” Mr. Sung said, looking at the green leaf.

“Green tea is from China, I can tell you. I do know just by looking at the few green leaves that it holds a significant place in the spiritual world, symbolizing purity, cleansing, and the journey toward enlightenment. But… what could the two mean, a black rose and tea leaf?” Sung asked the two. “Another thought is, do one of you two have a secret admirer who wants back into your lives?” asked Mr. Sung with a playful smile.

“Depends if the person giving it was goth or not.” Alyssa quipped. "Well, yes it could mean any of that. It’s also common to send dead flowers to someone who has wronged you. Of course, that doesn’t much go with the tea leaves. " as for the secret admirer, Alyssa breathed a laugh. “Not likely for me.” She paused. “Let’s watch the video tape. I have a VCR that I’ve not gotten to use yet.”

Posted by : Cindy

4

“What about those vampires? Like the ones in Chicago and Gary Indiana?” Asked Sartre. “A dying Rose would seemingly be one of their symbols. Or at least something that makes me think of them.”

Alyssa was starting to wonder why they weren’t just watching the video tape and still guessing, but still Peter’s guess was as good as any other. “That’s possible I suppose.”

“Lets try the video tape.” said Sartre.

“Whoever sent it has a penchant for the old school.” Sartre said.

A muffled voice drifted in from down the hall, groggy and tinged with annoyance.
“Why are we talking about roses and VHS tapes like it’s 1992… and not eating salami?”

Moments later, the soft pad pad pad of small feet grew louder as Cricket ambled into the room, his fur slightly tousled, ears twitching as if still recalibrating from sleep. He blinked at the gathering of humans, his expression straddling the line between confusion and concern.

“Okay, either I’m still dreaming, or someone mentioned vampires and secret admirers.” His nose twitched. “Am I awake for a horror movie or a soap opera?”

His dark eyes fixed on the strange object on the table. The black rose, resting delicately on folded white silk, drew him closer. He leaned in, giving it a cautious sniff.
“Huh… smells like death and dust. Classy.”

Then his gaze landed on the VHS tape, sitting beside the silk like some kind of forgotten relic, or buried threat. His ears flattened slightly.
“You’re all way too calm about cursed analog media,” he muttered. “That thing probably screams when it rewinds.”

He paused, giving his tail a thoughtful flick, then turned to Alyssa, one brow slightly arched in expectation.
“Do you have popcorn ready? Because if we’re gonna summon Sadako or some undead prom date, I want snacks.”

He glanced at Mr. Sung, his tone dry as old bones.
“And no, if you gave me that rose, I’d assume you were threatening me with a poetic death.”

With a final shake of his head, he hopped lightly onto the edge of the table, settling beside the tape. His claws clicked once on the plastic as he tapped it like someone sizing up a potential enemy, or a broken vending machine.

“Alright,” he said, resigned and mildly entertained. “Let’s play this creepy mixtape. If we all start bleeding from the ears, I’m blaming the goth ex-girlfriend theory.”

Cricket tilted his head as if listening for some distant warning siren only felines could hear, then let out a slow breath through his nose. The scent of old silk and dried petals clung to the air like memory. He sat back on his haunches, tail curling neatly around his paws, though the slight twitch at the tip betrayed a flicker of unease.

His gaze returned to Alyssa, narrowing slightly—not out of distrust, but in the way a seasoned cynic measures the calm before a predictable storm.

“You know this has ‘bad idea’ written all over it, right?” he said, as if needing someone else to bear witness to the common sense he felt was being ignored. “Like, somewhere in invisible ink on the label, probably written in Latin. Or pig’s blood.”

He leaned a little closer to the VHS tape again, inspecting it with the same suspicion one might reserve for a relic discovered in a haunted shop. His nose wrinkled.

“I mean, what kind of eldritch horror still sends messages on VHS? At least curse me in 4K. Is that too much to ask?”

Then he glanced over at the rose again, the contrast of deep black against blinding silk making his ears fold back slightly. His voice dropped, a little softer now—less sarcasm, more curiosity.

“You ever wonder who sends this kind of thing knowing exactly how it’ll mess with you? Like they want us to feel something before the trap springs. Nostalgia, dread, heartbreak. It’s never just a message. It’s a setup.”
He leaned over slightly toward Alyssa again, lowering his voice to a near-whisper, like sharing a secret too absurd to say aloud at full volume.

“Personally, I vote it’s either an ex, a bored ghost, or a vampire poet with too much time on their hands. Though honestly? Could be all three.”

Cricket stood up, stretched once, catlike and deliberate, then circled the tape like a priest preparing for a reluctant exorcism.

“And for the record,” he muttered toward the tape, “if this thing eats the VCR or chants in Aramaic, I’m hiding under the couch until next week.”

He turned back to Alyssa once more, tail swishing.

Alyssa shook her head, “Well, of course it’s more than just a video tape. Why would we get anyone normal sent to us? That’s what makes it interesting.”

Cricket let out a low, skeptical chuff through his nose, his ears angling sideways like miniature radar dishes catching sarcasm.

“Right. Because normal would be just sooo boring,” he muttered, drawing the word out like a bad flavor. He arched his back in a lazy stretch, though his eyes never left the tape, narrowed in wary focus. “God forbid we get a postcard or a text message like regular people.”

He paced once across the table’s edge, tail flicking like a metronome of rising unease.

“Interesting is how people die in horror movies, Alyssa. Interesting is how you end up possessed and vomiting Latin while crawling backwards up the walls.”

He crouched low beside the tape again, eye-level with the tiny spool window, glaring into it like he expected it to blink first.

“But nooo, let’s press play on the black rose death reel because mystery is fun,” he muttered. “Just don’t come crying to me when this turns into a found footage snuff film starring us.”

A final glance at Alyssa. Deadpan.

“Next time someone sends cursed media, I’m voting we send it back with a note that says, ‘Return to sender. We don’t subscribe to trauma.’”

Sung chuckled at Cricket’s last comment. “We could, but we do not get paid,” Mr. Sung said with some sarcasm in his tone of voice. Cricket, I am not too sure how good your smell is. But did you smell anything unusual with the rose or tape?" asked Sung, putting on some gloves to pick the tape up and place it in the player.

The caption on the screen at the bottom read, “Midnight service, Under Death, the occult of the Sun of Dark Light. Location: Savannah, Georgia, March. The Sword and Rose is a Spiritual and Metaphysical Shop.” It read in black letters as it scrolled across the screen. The pitcher was scratchy, like an old sci-fi movie. It looked to be in a room with no windows, and the piping gave the impression it was in a basement. The camera position was from the rear, near the ceiling. A sign in Latin said The Queen of Heaven welcomes all who seek clarity and direction on Their Own Unique Path.

A person stood on a stage in the front of the room, wearing a white and gold robe trimmed in red. They are talking to the people sitting in dark green cloaks. It is hard to tell if they are men or women from behind. The person also had their hood up. Curly red hair came out of the hood to mid chest. By the body shape, it looked like a woman.

It was strange. There was no sound, but the ritualistic movement of the hands told me that some ritual was being performed. After a moment, the red-haired woman picked up some beautiful and vibrant roses. She lifted them into the air, and they turned dark. The leaves fell off the stems, and the roses turned the same color as the rose in the box.

Then they stepped off the stage and tapped the roses on the head of one of the people in the green cloaks. The cloak dropped to the floor as if the person had disappeared. Dust could be seen where the person was. Everyone in the room raised their hands in the air. You get the feeling they were chanting something. Then the recording goes blank.

“Well, that was… something.” Alyssa said, with a sigh. She pulled out a small notebook and seemed to be drawing something. She didn’t speak for a few moments. “I’ll research the symbols and see if I can figure out what they are but I’m going to say they are ancient and not relates to Latin from what I can see.” Being fluent in Latin was of no help here. “So, I guess we’re headed to Savannah?”

“The mother of heaven is usually a reference to the Virgin Mary. It seems as if this cult is or was worshiping a version of her or a stand in for her. Perhaps a radical Catholic offshoot or some sort of Gnostic offshoot of worship of the Divine feminine.” said Sartre.

Cricket’s whiskers twitched the instant the tape began to play. He squinted at the flickering screen, transfixed by the scrolling caption, ears pricking at words he couldn’t hear but somehow felt anyway.

When the hooded woman lifted the roses and they blackened in her grasp, a low hiss escaped him, almost feline. He leaned forward, nose nearly touching the glass of the TV, as if scent alone might decode the ritual. The moment the cloaked figure collapsed into dust, Cricket jerked back, fur bristling down his spine.

“Okay… that’s definitely not your grandma’s midnight mass,” he muttered, voice tight with unease.

He paced along the edge of the coffee table, claws clicking in nervous rhythm while his eyes never left the screen’s static haze.

“Roses that rot on command, people turning to powder, yeah, that tracks with ‘bad idea’ in invisible ink.”

A faint shiver rippled through his tail as the recording cut to black. He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, then shot a wary glance toward the ornate box on the table.

“Just for the record,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “if anybody tries tapping me on the head with a bouquet, I’m bolting for the nearest air vent.”

He settled into a cautious crouch, ears swiveling for threats only he could scent.

Pretty sure the only unusual smell here is imminent doom marinated in floral.”
Cricket closed his eyes, drew a slow breath through his nose, and let the scent roll across his palate like a sommelier sampling sorrow.

Posted by : Cindy

5

“Metal oxide, old celluloid, a whisper of mildew, normal vintage-tape funk,” he murmured. Then his brow furrowed and his ears flattened a notch. “But underneath? Something… sweet-rot, like funeral lilies left too long in heat. Same ghost-odor clinging to that black rose.”

He opened his eyes, tail twitching once. “So, yes, nothing good, nothing natural, and definitely nothing I want rubbing off on my fur.”

Then, no one touched anything without gloves, and these thicker gloves are for bio-warfare, not just surgical gloves, he warned sternly. “Any other information anyone sees with what we have here?” Mr Sung asked as he used some tweezers to pick up a leaf and take it over to the forensics table.

“We could possibly be looking at people worshiping ancient forces, quite similar to the forces we encountered back at the apartment building. They’ve been around for a very long time. Those beings at the apartment building seemed quite benevolent though.” said Sartre.

“The ones in the apartment building were but I’m not thinking they all are. Maybe I should bring the talismans I got that day with us?” Couldn’t hurt anything, unless it did. Alyssa didn’t really know what to add to what they had just witnessed. “I think I’ll leave the handling of possibly hazardous, esoteric substances to both of you.” Indicating she meant Sung and Peter. “I’m like a magnet for creepy stuff, might be best if I don’t mess with that.” Pointing to the flower.

“It might be good if you bring the talisman’s Alyssa.” said Sartre. “Where should we start?”

“Well, I’ll let both of you start with the evidence. I’ll start by getting the RV ready to go and running the symbols though my tech, see if anything comes of it. Actually, I’ll start on the symbols first as that might take awhile, so I can do the RV as I’m waiting.” Alyssa explained, then turned to their newest member. “Cricket, you want to help me with the RV?”

Cricket tilted his head, eyes narrowing with the kind of skepticism usually reserved for vacuum cleaners and suspicious tuna cans.

“The RV?” he echoed, as if she’d just invited him to help perform dental surgery on a truck.

A long pause. Then, with the weight of a thousand unspoken feline grievances, he rose to his feet, stretched like he had all the time in the world, and flicked his tail once.

“Fine. But if I end up covered in axle grease or haunted axle grease, I’m filing a complaint with the nearest union of sarcastic familiars.”

He hopped down from the table, padded toward the door, and added under his breath, “Also, I’m not holding a flashlight this time. Last time it flickered, and I saw my own existential dread in the reflection.”

“Not the engine, the interior.” Alyssa responded. “Well, more stuff like that.” The hacker gave Peter a peck in lips. “If you need me, let me know.” As Alyssa left the room she added. “Don’t either of you get killed or possessed.” With that and making sure Cricket was with her the young woman left the room.

After looking at the evidence and running some tests on the rose leaves, Mr. Sung made some hum… noises. "Whoever even bred this rose is a genius, " he commented. He looked at some of the leaves under the electron microscope. He looked at the screen for a few minutes, then started typing on the computer and trying to match them to the pitchers on the screen. He backed away, looked over the table, carefully took all the samples, and locked them up.

He took off his gloves and disposed of them carefully. “The Rose is bio-engineered with Nightshade, Curare, and Rose, making one of the most deadly flowers in the world. I have never seen anything like it.” He said out loud, then texted his findings to the others as he cleaned up and prepared for the trip.

In the chip: Anything interesting going on in the RV?" asked Sartre.

In the RV, Alyssa had turned on the engine and it seemed to be running fine. She then hooked up the refrigerator as it needed to run a bit before it could be used. “Nope.” The hacker responded into the chip. “Just typical getting stuff ready. You could join us.” Not that he needed an invitation. Then outloud, “OK, Cricket let’s get your sleep area situated.”

Sartre made his way to the RV eager to see the hacker and the raccoon anima buddy.
Cricket leapt onto the narrow counter with practiced ease, tail swishing as he surveyed the inside of the RV like a landlord inspecting a rental after a rave.

“My sleep area, huh?” he said, ears twitching. “Can’t wait to see what five-star amenities you’ve lined up. Let me guess, folded towel in a cabinet and half a packet of beef jerky for turn-down service?”

He sniffed the air once, then gave a small nod.
“Engine smells like it won’t explode today. That’s progress.”

With a low, deliberate stretch, he padded toward the back, poking his head into a storage nook.

“I’m calling dibs on the space under the bunk unless someone else already claimed it for occult artifacts.
He looked back over his shoulder, tone dry.
“Also, if there are spiders, I’m charging hazard pay.”
“How’s my hacker doing?” Sartre said as he began to play with Alyssa’s hair.

“Well, the RV is big enough. Peter and I have our room up there,” Alyssa spoke to Cricket, and pointed to the area above the kitchen. “Sung has the room back there,” as she pointed towards the back of the van. “I figured I could use this area.” She opened a smaller area above the living area that had a bed, and a small night stand, and a small ladder leading up to it. “When we’re moving the ladder will have to be put up but it’s all yours.” She smiled slightly. “No spiders, unless you put them there.”

The hacker leaned a little into Peter. “Good. Glad to see neither you or Sung got possessed by the rose. We should be ready to leave in a few hours or we can leave in the morning.”

Walking up and into the RV, Mr. Sung started to put his gear away. He placed some of his swords under the bed in a drawer under the bunk, his suit bag in a skinny closet next to the bunk, and a bag on the bunk. Then he saw Cricket pop his head out. Sung looked at him for a moment. It had been 20+ years since he had a bunkmate.

Sung sighed. “If you leave food under there, I will throw you in a storage compartment under the RV,” Worned Sung added, sinisterly. " And no one here will be able to save you. "

Cricket craned his neck upward, eyes narrowing at the lofted nook with the ladder like he was appraising a throne made of secondhand upholstery.

“Oooh. Elevated. Private. Slightly claustrophobic. I love it.”

He bounded halfway up the ladder, then paused, glancing back down with a deadpan flick of his tail.

“And no spiders… yet. But I make no promises if someone leaves open snacks.”

Reaching the top, he nosed around the pillow, then circled once before flopping into a loose sprawl.

“This’ll do. I’ve had worse. Once had to share a motel mini-fridge with a cursed mummified chihuahua. At least this one doesn’t whisper in Latin when the lights go out.”

From his perch, his voice floated lazily back down.

“And don’t worry. If that rose starts crawling across the floor like it wants to flirt, I’ll bite it.”

“Well, I will start packing the non-refridge food from the kitchen but we’ll need at least an hour before the fridge is ready.” Alyssa stated and “I’ll get my clothes and such. Anything else we need from the house?”

He thought for a moment, “You already grabbed the talismans, go ahead and grab my assault rifle and my pistol.” You may want to possibly bring your knife as well, but you need to be careful when using that because of the power that it contains. What exactly happens when you use it?"

“We can discuss that later.” Alyssa responded to Peter. “I can grab all of that but don’t you want to pack any clothes?” Maybe, when they were getting ready to go. “And I have my knife with me. I think Prue might have something to say about it if I don’t bring it - it’d probably show up on its own.”

“Grab my suit and tie .”

Guys. Alyssa thought but didn’t say outloud. “OK.” Though, thinking he might want a few things like socks, she’d pack him a few more things and shove them into her bag. “What are you going to be doing while I’m doing all of that?” She didn’t suddenly become his maid after all.

“Just need to have the proper attire in case we need to convince someone. I prefer casual dress as well. It would be cool if you could go around in your hacker outfit. The hoodie and the sunglasses.” said Sartre as he smirked.

“We don’t know how long we’ll be there figured you might want you know some essentials as well.” Alyssa responded. “I’ll pack you some stuff but I can’t carry all of that by myself. I’ll text you when it’s ready and you can come help me.” That last part wasn’t a question. “And you didn’t answer me, what are you going to be doing?”

“Asking around occult circles. Seeing if they know of any references on the tape.”

Alyssa nodded and headed off to get stuff ready.

Cricket perched on the armrest of the RV’s couch, ears twitching with interest as the conversation floated past him like warm air from a vent.

At Sartre’s mention of hacker outfits and sunglasses, he let out a short snort.

“Yeah, nothing says ‘blend in’ like dressing like you’re about to livestream from a bunker in Belarus.”

He stretched, spine arching, before hopping down to the floor with a soft thud, tail flicking lazily.

“Also, if you’re packing for me, I request the essentials: snacks, a blanket that doesn’t smell like Sung’s meditation mat, and one of those tiny travel fans. Drama gets hot.”

Padding after Alyssa for a few steps, he added dryly under his breath, “And if I help carry this stuff, I expect to be promoted from mascot to ‘fuzzy logistics consultant.’”

He paused, glancing back toward Sartre’s retreating form.

“Asking around occult circles, huh? Just don’t trade anyone a fingerbone for info. Or if you do, make sure it’s not yours.”

The hum of the vehicle’s systems filled the quiet, but the feline’s ears remained still now, tuned instead to the thoughts winding through his own head.

He leapt lightly onto the kitchen counter, avoiding a stack of gear with practiced grace, and curled his tail neatly around his paws. His eyes, sharp and too intelligent for comfort, scanned the RV interior without really seeing it.

“Alright…” he muttered to himself. “So we’ve got a VHS tape that smells like mildew and malice, a rose that sucks the life out of people and leaves them as human-shaped dust piles, and a robed death-witch pulling vanishing acts in the middle of a metaphysical basement rave.”

His whiskers twitched. “This has Dragon fingerprints all over it—or worse, something using their style to cover ritual magic that predates plumbing. That’s never good. And those green-cloaked followers? If they were volunteers, I’ll eat Sung’s entire philosophy library.”

He hopped down and began pacing slowly across the small floor, voice low, more to himself than anyone else. “No sound on the tape… but the visuals had enough symbolism to choke a Rosicrucian. Black roses, transformation, disappearance… Could be blood magic, could be necromancy, could be performance art by cultists who never got into Juilliard.”

Pausing at the RV window, he peered out through the tinted glass, watching the motionless house.

“Savannah, Georgia. Why’s it always somewhere humid and haunted? And what the hell is a ‘Sun of Dark Light’? Sounds like something Nietzsche would mumble in his sleep during a fever dream.”

He sighed, more tired than annoyed.

“Too many unanswered questions. Not enough salami.”

Cricket padded toward the front of the RV, then sat near the driver’s seat, gazing out at the yard like a sentinel—or a cat waiting for the next chapter to begin.

Packing didn’t take long, and Alyssa did pack a bag for both her and Peter to make sure he had what he might need.

She shut down anything that needed her touch. Packed anything needed and then loaded it into the RV.

Later Alyssa started up the RV, made sure everyone was ready to go and headed out. It would be a seven - eight hour trip and late by the time they arrived.

The trip was long and uneventful. Traffic was a pain, as always, and the detours to the RV height were not making things any easier. However, living in the morning and arriving around four made for a relatively uneventful trip overall. They pulled into an RV park area by the beach, with a spot off almost by itself. It was a lovely day, with a gentle breeze and warm sun. The smell of the ocean was everywhere. The beach sand was decently clean.

The city has a rich history, lending Savannah a unique character and numerous historic buildings. There are manicured parks, horse-drawn carriages, gothic buildings, and haunted houses. But it is a city with something to hide underneath its beautiful character, something dark that most could not see or sense.

With a bit of research, many places could be worth investigating. Or fit what the team was looking for, thanks to the hacker who could find an electronic fly across the world away. The Mystic Apothecary, Roses Conjure, and The Sword and Rose, three shops, looked promising to get some information. Most are downtown and are popular.

Sartre said, “The Sword and Rose is the obvious starting point. It’s the only one named after an object directly on the tape. Most shops like that live in metaphor, euphemism, mystery marketing. But putting that name in black letters across the screen like it’s a news chyron?” He shook his head. “That’s a message. Maybe a signature.”

“The phrase ‘Mother of Heaven welcomes all who seek clarity’—that’s not just new age mysticism. That’s liturgical. Rooted. That phrasing doesn’t come from a book of spells you buy at a tourist trap. It sounds Gnostic. Maybe even Marian reinterpretation. Or something older pretending to be Catholic.”

He turned to the rest of the group

“We’re dealing with a group that uses religious architecture, symbols, language, ritual, to mask transformation. That woman on the tape wasn’t performing a spell. She was conducting a rite. That’s ceremony. That’s hierarchy. That’s theology. The kind of theology that builds a church beneath a store and calls it sanctuary.”

“I’ve seen cults that believe in salvation through erasure. This feels like that. Like they’re preparing for something. Or someone.”

“We start with the Sword and Rose." He looked to see what the group thought.

Posted by : Cindy

6

Episodes like this really show why The Horned God storyline stands out. The atmosphere, pacing, and lore feel deliberate instead of rushed, which is rare. I like how it leans into mystery rather than overexplaining everything. Moments like this remind me why community-driven storytelling still works when developers give it room to breathe instead of forcing constant action.