[hr][center][h1][b]???[/b][/h1][/center]
 [right][b]Interactions:[/b] Grandma, perhaps?
[code]Victorian Village, the Other Night. [/code][/right][hr]

Kick, push, kick, push, to Grandmother’s house she goes. The streets were a dark and a scary place for a young woman to skate alone, especially so when headphones blocked out the calls from the wolves. Her face was obscured by the hood of her ruby red sweater and a half-full trash bag was in her hand. The bag drip drip dripped like the ax of the woodsman as the wheels of her board ka-kunk ka-kunk ka-kunked on the cracks in the sidewalk. The red rider didn’t care for the backs of mothers she breaked just like she didn’t care to brake by scraping the back of her board against the ground. The speed she built became ludicrous, breakneck. The rider swerved into the street, two white lights shining as a horn blared through the loud tunes, her dark eyes becoming reflections of the light as the horn grew louder and louder and louder and [i]screeeeee—crash![/i]

The sound of metal scraping against metal, the horn blaring nonstop as a shadow rested against the wheel of the crumpled sedan. Water shot from a fire hydrant like fountains at Caesars Palace, the red rider swerving through the arch without turning to look at the wreckage. She pulled out her phone to check a map and sharply turned down a sidestreet. The rider weaved through the overflowing garbage cans and the stirring junkies, hefting the trash bag over her shoulder to thread the needle between a stack of broken pallets and a rusted dumpster. Ollieing over a fallen stack of splintering 2x4s, the red rider found herself out of the urban woods and on the outskirts of the Victorian village. 

She scraped the board sharply against the ground with a screech, kicked it up, and tucked it underneath her arm. Black placards trimmed in gold and engraved with golden script claimed the area to be historical, and if there was one thing the red rider knew about history it was that the residents here didn’t want her in their parts.  She tightened the red hood around her head and adjusted the black shawl pulled up over her nose. It was late enough that nobody should be up, but cameras never slept. She kept her head down and lowered her headphones, the crunchy sound of music scraping its way through a blown-out speaker. 

The red rider stopped in front of a beautiful Victorian-style home with a wrap-around porch, an ugly colored door, and magnificent lawn. Someone had left the front porch light on. She pulled out her phone, looked back up at the address, and recklessly stomped through the yard as she made her way around to the back of the home. No other lights appeared to be on as she rounded to the backyard, stopping suddenly in her tracks as she felt a pair of eyes on her. The red rider turned sharply, her dark eyes scanning across the neighborhood. Old houses stared unwelcomingly back at her, but there was not a soul out or about. She turned her eyes down and stepped back as she made eye contact with a horrendous creature with beady black eyes. Her shoulder’s lowered as she recognized the figure to be nothing more than a classic garden gnome.

She continued on until she made it to the rear door. It had once been a servant’s entrance, allowing the cooks to bring in groceries without trudging their poor and dirty feet through the living rooms of their superiors or for the misters to sneak out their mistresses when their missus returned from their prayer meetings and temperance movements. A glass pane had been fitted on the door so that the help could see who they were letting in, and it was through that glass pane that the rider would make their way into the home. Her eyes fell on the security sticker. It didn’t bother her. The odds were in her favor that it was little more than just a sticker. Otherwise, there were ways to get around it. 

She propped her skateboard up against the wall, set the trash bag down on the ground with a wet plop, and placed a finger against the glass. A light drizzle began to fall in the Victorian village. Slowly she dragged her finger in the shape of a circle, etching heavily at the top  and bottom of it and wincing ever so slightly at the high pitched squelch of claw on glass. She placed her nails at the top of the circle and carefully popped the bottom in, catching the piece of glass as it pivoted to stop it from shattering on the ground. She awkwardly threaded her arm through the small gap she had made for herself, unlatched the lock, and opened the door. She pushed the piece of glass back in place, pulled the trash bag inside, and closed the door. 

She had so much work to do, but first she had to check and see if Grandmother or Granddaughter was home. The red rider slipped off her shoes so that their socks would soften their footfalls as she slinked through the Victorian home like a wolf on the prowl. Kitchen, dining room, living room, basement clear. Up the stairs, up the stairs, light footfalls lest a step called out her approach. Master bedroom, guest bedroom, office, hall bathroom clear. The thing with these old homes was that they always had more rooms than they appeared to on the outside. Another flight, another flight, careful now careful. Rec room, clear, another bedroom clear. One more half flight up to the attic, lift the creaky door so it isn’t so damn loud, attic cle—uh. 

The red rider’s eyes darted around at the magic circle and broken ring of salt on the ground, the unlit candles melted around the room, the archaic runes painted on the walls, the Ouija board stabbed by a bloodied ritualistic dagger in the center of the circle, and the nearly empty handle of whiskey next to it. She reached up, pulled the shawl down from around her face, lowered her hood, and shook out her dark curls. She tentatively stepped into the magic circle, grabbed the bottle of whisky, twisted off the cap, took a swig, and threw her head back in revulsion as her mouth burned with what might as well have been gasoline. She looked at the bottle, her eyes bugging out  at the ABV.

[color=darkcyan]“Holy shit, bro,”[/color] sputtered Vashti as she took another pull from the bottle. 

Attic clear.

Time to do a little remodeling.

[hr][center][img]https://txt.1001fonts.net/img/txt/dHRmLjEwNi4wMDhiOGIuVmtGVFNGUkpJRTVQVlZJLjA/raindrop-splash.regular.webp[/img] [img]https://i.imgur.com/xer3sr5.png[/img][/center]
 [right][b]Interactions:[/b] All Lila’s Shit [@NoriWasHere]
[code]Home Sweet Home. [/code][/right][hr]

A crack of light cut through the dark kitchen as Vashti popped open the fridge, poking and prodding at the leftover tupperwares in Lila’s fridge. She pulled out what appeared to be soup, popped the lid, and took a sniff. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she tossed it over her shoulder, the minestrone splattering over the clean linoleum. She took a sip out of a jug of milk before transferring it to the top of the fridge, poking three little holes in the bottom of it to make it leak down over everything. Her eyes widened in delight as she spotted the tub of icecream in the freezer. It was frozen solid. She tossed it in the sink and let the cold tap run over it, knocking in the drain stop. Vashti paid no mind to the sound of water spilling on the floor as she grabbed a carton of eggs out of the fridge and left the door ajar.

A series of ornate glass elephants were all in a row on the coffee table like they were lined up for a firing squad. The couches had been pushed to the side of the room to give Vashti plenty of room to play. She spun an egg on the back of her hand, lobbed it in the air, and went to catch it—the egg slipping between her fingers and cracking on the floor. Vashti watched as the yolk oozed into the original wood floorboards, shrugged, and tried again. She caught the egg this time and whipped it at one of the elephants, coating it in a sticky mess. Again and again she went down the line, the elephants getting knocked over or pushed back, but otherwise salvageable as shells and yolk splattered around the coffee table. Vashti pitched another one and winced as the elephant shattered into tiny little shards of glass. She darted to the window, looking for any lights to come on in the neighbor’s house, pulling down her headphones to listen to any stirring.

Nothing.

She pulled back up her headphones. Rechecking the carton, she saw a black line drawn across the carton marking a spot for hard boiled eggs. Popping a hard boiled egg in her mouth, Vashti’s attention was drawn to a series of oil paintings lovingly hung on the walls. She chewed loudly as she admired the art, thinking of how it could use some improvements. She pulled a thick black sharpie out of her hoodie and began updating the old crap, drawing mustaches and exaggerated anatomy on the figures. Stepping back she smiled at her handiwork, even taking the time to slash out the old artist’s initials with her nails and carve in her own. Better. Much better. The stupid fucking things were probably worth something now. Lila better write her a thank you letter.

Vashti splashed through the puddle of water coming from the kitchen sink and made her way to Lila’s room, snatching the black trash bag from the couch that left a dark stain in the cushion. She casually slung the bag across the room into a chair where it landed with a wet squish that reminded her of her wet socks. She pulled them off and slingshotted them across the room, rummaging through Lila’s drawer for a fresh pair. And well, since she was already in the dresser Vashti might as well see if anything else Lila had would be a good fit. Moments later clothes were strewn around the room like a tornado had come through as Vashti stood in front of the mirror sneering at the crop top draped over her hoodie. All crap. All crap. 

She twirled like a ballerina and dove into Lila’s bed, burying her face into a pillow and breathing in deeply. She exhaled and pulled the pillow down to her chest in a hug, knees pulled up so her legs could wrap around it too. She rolled back and forth, fuming. Vashti and Lila had no bad blood, none that she was aware of anyway, but she had pissed off Emily. Like, really pissed off Emily. But Emily had started it. Emily always started it. Emily was stupid. Emily was so fucking stupid. A low growl began to grow inside of Vashti’s throat. Take care of it, Vashti. Deal with it, Vashti. Handle it, Vashti, like you always do. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was like she was a dog. She was no dog. She certainly wasn’t Emily’s dog. 

But if she was, she’d be rabid.

Vashti violently rolled off the bed and crashed to the floor, the pillow beneath her forming into Emily. She wrapped her hands around her stupid little throat, Emily’s eyes bugging as her dumb little pillow arms tried to fight back against the superior being. Vashti began to bang Emily’s head against the floor, feathers popping up out of the pillow case as it split from the force of the blows. Just as pillow-Emily’s life was about to be completely snuffed out of her, Vashti let go of her throat, wrapping her arms around the pillow in a tight hug, her hand stroking the back of the pillow. Vashti buried her face into the pillow and whispered something sweetly, pulling away but not before giving a little peck to the forehead of the pillow. 

She jumped to her feet and looked at the seeping trash bag. A strange smell had begun to overwhelm the room, a sweet fragrance of wet and rot that clung to clothes and stung the eyes. It was the best of perfumes. Vashti hefted the bag over Lila’s bed and stuck a claw in one side of it. Earlier that day a couple had a wild experience at a local park, watching what they had presumed to be a drug addict going berserk. By the time the police arrived the only evidence had been carried away on the wind and washed away by the rain. Thanks to Emily, it had been quite a fun day. 

Vashti slit the bag open with her finger. The contents hit the mattress with a wet plop. Inside the bag it had all become a congealed mess—black feathers slick with blood, little doll eyes staring up in accusation at the smiling woman.  She reached into the pile of meat and feathers with her bare fingers, handling the bodies with the delicacy of a priestess performing a ritual, untangling the legs and wings from one another with sickening plops. Vashti jumped up on the bed, giving it a couple of bounces to test its stability, and fished a pack of long nails out from her hoodie. She reached down, grabbed one of the carcasses, and stared at the blank canvas. 

Specks of old blood splattered on Vashti’s face as she used her fist as a hammer, driving nail after nail into the wall above Lila’s bed. She reached down into the muck and viscera as if it was the paint and her hand the paint brush as she wrote a message on the wall. She hesitated momentarily as she began to draw the first line for the letter M, shaping it instead into a capital L. She hopped off of the bed, smearing her dirty hands on some of Lila’s clean clothes to tidy them up and accomplishing little more than making an even bigger mess. She looked at the wall, nodding in approval. She should’ve been an artist.

A short while later a figure emerged from the shadows behind Grandma’ house. She was wearing one of Lila’s hoodies, her own bloody one unceremoniously dumped near a trash can, and eating a tub of ice cream. The figure walked down the sidepath, tossing the half-eaten gallon into the bushes, and then paused. She turned around and grabbed the garden gnome. Moments later, Vashti and her new little buddy were skating out of the Victorian Village as the rain cleared, the morning sun beginning to rise. Its light fell through the windows of Lila’s room, revealing the eviscerated bodies of crows crucified to the walls as well as a message written in their red-black blood and bedazzled with tufts of feathers. It read:

[center][b][color=red]You’re Next, Lila![/color][/b][/center]