1 of 1- Machismo
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Offline - Registered: 12/06/2019
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Tokuverse - The Confidential Files of Graiver
Inside of a bar, a high class establishment, sat a man who looked out of place, clad in denim and leather, with a worn out face and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He took a swig of his drink before looking forward.
The Man: We take a lot of things for granted. The world functions, barely, thanks to a certain few who make it function for us. The marvels of the modern world are always on the verge of breaking and someone needs to fix them.
The bartender handed a note to the man, and he quickly read it and disposed of it.
The Man: Take for example an apartment complex. It has many rooms, running many utilities, all the damn time. Something is bound to break. That's when you call for the maintenance guy. He's there to fix things. He's there to hold it all together. But what happens when he can't hold it together? What happens when the problem is big? When it's way way too big for one man to handle? Will everything break down, or will he rise to the challenge?
File 001: Seeing Double in Harrowgate
Rain had been falling over Westhaven since late afternoon, heavy enough to overwhelm storm drains and turn every street beneath Harrowgate Apartments into a ribbon of reflected neon. By two in the morning, the neighborhood had mostly surrendered to it. The restaurants along Eastham Avenue were closed, buses had stopped running, and even the twenty four hour pharmacy across the intersection had switched off half its lights.
Harrowgate remained awake.
The eight story apartment building was almost fifty years old, built during Westhaven's rapid expansion away from Metro City. New owners had renovated the lobby three years earlier, replacing worn tile with polished stone and hanging decorative lights. Behind the walls, however, Harrowgate was still Harrowgate. Old copper pipes rattled whenever someone turned on a shower. Half the electrical panels had handwritten labels. Several maintenance shafts dated back to the building's original construction.
Martin Hale knew all of them.
At thirty four, Martin had spent six years as Harrowgate's maintenance supervisor and knew the building well enough that tenants occasionally called him before they called emergency services. He could identify apartments by the sound of their plumbing and knew which elevator would stick during humid weather.
Tonight he sat in the basement maintenance office with an electrical diagram spread across his knees and a cup of Cafe Noir coffee, which was still somehow still good cold. On the television was news coverage of a massive event in Central City, but those were getting to be more and more frequent.
His phone read 2:06 AM.
Martin leaned back in the chair and rubbed both hands over his face.
He usually worked days. Harrowgate's overnight maintenance man had called out sick three nights in a row, and the property manager had asked Martin to cover until someone else could be found.
A pipe clicked above him.
The boiler hummed behind the wall.
Rainwater thundered through the exterior drains.
Martin closed his eyes.
Five minutes. That was all he wanted.
A scream ripped through the building.
Martin was upright in an instant.
It was a woman's voice. High pitched and terrified.
Martin grabbed his master keys and radio.
Martin Hale: Leon, you hear that?
Night security guard Leon Matthews replied from the lobby.
Leon Matthews: Yeah. Sounded like seven.
Martin pushed through the stairwell door.
Martin Hale: Call police. I'm checking.
Leon Matthews: Martin, maybe wait until I get there.
Martin Hale: Call first.
He climbed.
The elevator would have been faster, but Martin had dealt with enough domestic disputes and drunken emergencies to know that entering an unknown situation inside a locked metal box was a bad idea.
Second floor.
Third.
By the fifth his lack of sleep was catching up with him.
A tenant opened his door on six.
Tenant: What's going on?
Martin Hale: Stay inside, please.
Martin continued upward.
The seventh floor hallway was empty.
Apartment 7C stood halfway down the corridor.
Its door was open several inches.
Martin knew the tenants. David and Rachel Lorne. Mid thirties. Quiet. No complaints beyond a broken dishwasher six months earlier. David worked late often. Rachel worked from home several days a week.
Martin approached slowly.
Martin Hale: Rachel? David?
Nothing.
He pushed the door wider.
A lamp lay broken beside the sofa.
One dining chair had been overturned. A ceramic bowl had shattered near the kitchen. Several fragments had been ground into the hardwood as if somebody had stepped on them.
Martin stopped.
A narrow smear of blood crossed the floor.
His fatigue disappeared.
Martin Hale: Rachel?
He raised the radio.
Martin Hale: Leon, definite disturbance in 7C. Tell them possible assault.
Leon Matthews: Police are already moving. You see anybody?
Martin Hale: No.
Martin stepped inside without touching anything.
The bedroom door stood open.
The blankets had been dragged halfway off the bed.
Another smear of blood marked the doorframe.
Bathroom empty.
Closet empty.
The balcony was locked from inside.
Martin returned to the living room.
Nothing made sense.
The elevator chimed outside.
Footsteps approached.
Martin turned.
Rachel Lorne appeared in the doorway carrying an umbrella and her purse.
She stopped when she saw him.
For a few seconds neither spoke.
Rachel's eyes moved from Martin to the broken lamp and finally to the blood on the floor.
Rachel Lorne: What happened?
Martin stared at her.
Martin Hale: Where were you?
Rachel Lorne: Downstairs.
Martin Hale: Where downstairs?
Rachel Lorne: My car. I forgot my charger.
Martin examined her.
No cuts.
No torn clothes.
Her dark sweater was completely dry.
He glanced at the umbrella.
It wasn't dripping.
Martin Hale: I heard you scream.
Rachel's brow furrowed.
Rachel Lorne: I didn't scream.
Martin Hale: Somebody screamed in this apartment.
Rachel Lorne: I wasn't here.
Martin pointed toward the floor.
Martin Hale: There's blood in your living room.
Rachel looked down.
For perhaps half a second, her expression became completely blank.
Rachel Lorne: Maybe David cut himself?
Martin Hale: Enough to bleed from the bedroom to the living room?
Rachel Lorne: I don't know.
Martin Hale: Where is David?
Rachel Lorne: Working late.
Martin studied her again.
Martin Hale: Police are coming.
Rachel sighed.
Rachel Lorne: Why?
Martin Hale: Because someone may have been hurt in here!
Rachel Lorne: Martin, nobody was hurt.
Martin Hale: You don't know that. Look around! Why are you not more panicked! Look at your apartment!
She looked at him for several seconds.
Rachel Lorne: You look tired.
Martin felt irritation push through his concern.
Martin Hale: I'm fine.
Rachel Lorne: Maybe you should sleep.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Leon arrived first with two Westhaven police officers behind him.
The next fifteen minutes left Martin feeling less certain of everything.
Rachel insisted there had been no assault.
The officers photographed the blood and damage, checked every room and found no forced entry. Rachel declined medical attention. She had no visible injuries and calmly repeated that she had gone to the parking garage shortly before the scream.
Martin found himself being asked how long he had been awake.
One officer suggested the scream could have come from another apartment.
Martin pointed to the blood.
The officer didn't disagree. He simply couldn't connect it to a crime without a victim.
By 2:45 AM, everyone returned downstairs.
Rachel remained in 7C after reluctantly agreeing not to clean anything until investigators followed up.
Martin sat behind the lobby desk.
Leon handed him fresh coffee.
Leon Matthews: You look terrible.
Martin Hale: You're really helping.
Leon leaned against the desk.
Leon Matthews: You sure it was her screaming?
Martin Hale: Yes.
Leon Matthews: Through seven floors?
Martin Hale: I know what I heard.
Leon nodded.
He believed Martin.
Or at least believed Martin believed himself.
The front doors opened at 3:17.
David Lorne entered beneath the awning, soaked from the rain and carrying a laptop bag over one shoulder.
David Lorne: Morning.
Martin stood.
Martin Hale: David.
David stopped.
David Lorne: What's wrong?
Martin Hale: Is Rachel okay?
David stared at him.
David Lorne: Rachel?
Martin Hale: There was some trouble upstairs earlier.
David looked confused.
David Lorne: Rachel isn't here.
Martin felt the room contract around him.
Martin Hale: What?
David Lorne: She's staying with her mother tonight.
Martin didn't answer.
David Lorne: Martin?
Martin Hale: I spoke to her forty minutes ago.
David laughed once.
Then stopped.
David Lorne: No, you didn't.
Martin Hale: She walked into your apartment while I was standing in it.
David pulled out his phone.
David Lorne: She texted me around midnight. She was heading to her mother's.
He called.
They waited.
Nothing.
David called again.
A faint electronic melody answered somewhere beneath them.
Martin slowly looked toward the floor.
Leon straightened.
David lowered the phone.
David Lorne: That's hers.
The basement corridor smelled of wet concrete and machine oil.
The ringtone became louder as they approached the old laundry room.
Martin switched on additional lights.
A maintenance drain ran along the wall.
Rachel's phone lay beside it.
David moved toward it.
Martin Hale: Don't touch anything.
David stopped.
There was blood across the screen.
More than upstairs.
David Lorne: Rachel?
A voice behind them answered.
Rachel Lorne: What are you doing with my phone?
David spun around.
Rachel stood at the opposite end of the corridor.
Martin's stomach dropped.
Rachel Lorne: I was looking for that.
David stepped backward.
David Lorne: Rachel?
Rachel Lorne: What?
David Lorne: Where were you tonight?
Rachel Lorne: Upstairs.
David Lorne: You weren't supposed to be here.
Rachel Lorne: I came home.
David Lorne: Why?
Another pause.
Rachel Lorne: Because I wanted to.
David's breathing changed.
David Lorne: Honey, you're confusing me. You said your mother needed you. In fact, you called me on your way there.
Rachel didn't answer.
David backed away.
David Lorne: Rachel, what's wrong?
Martin Hale: This phone has blood on it, just like in your apartment!
David Lorne: Our apartment? What happened?!
Martin Hale: And when I saw her earlier, she said she had gone out to her car, but her clothes and umbrella were dry.
David Lorne: Rachel, what's going on?
Something inside Rachel's face shifted.
Her jaw moved several centimeters to the left with a wet crack.
David froze.
Her head snapped sideways far beyond what a human neck should allow.
Skin tightened against something moving beneath it.
Martin grabbed David by the jacket.
Rachel dropped onto all fours and rushed them.
Martin shoved David through the fire door and followed.
The creature slammed into the opposite side hard enough to buckle the metal.
Martin locked it.
Another impact shook the frame.
David fell against the wall.
Martin looked through the wired glass window.
Nothing.
The corridor beyond was empty.
David slid down the wall.
David Lorne: What the hell was that thing?! Where is my wife?!
Martin looked toward Rachel's bloody phone.
He had no answer.
By 4:05 AM, Harrowgate had become a crime scene.
Police searched the basement, roof, garage and every public corridor.
They found nothing.
Rachel's mother confirmed Rachel had never arrived at her house.
Her messages had stopped shortly before midnight.
Forensic officers collected blood samples from Apartment 7C and the basement.
Tenants were instructed to remain inside until police determined whether an intruder was still in the building.
Martin sat in the security office reviewing footage with Leon and David.
At 1:53 AM, Rachel entered Harrowgate.
She walked through the lobby.
Same clothes.
Same purse.
She didn't use the elevator.
She went directly toward the basement.
Martin leaned closer.
Martin Hale: Keep going.
The recording continued.
Rachel never returned.
At 2:11 AM, she appeared on the seventh floor hallway camera stepping out of the elevator.
David stared.
David Lorne: How?
Martin looked toward the building diagram pinned to the wall.
Harrowgate had been modified repeatedly over five decades. Old laundry shafts had been sealed but not removed. Plumbing access spaces crossed between floors. Some maintenance passages were barely wide enough for a man to crawl through.
Martin Hale: The walls.
Leon frowned.
Leon Matthews: What?
Martin Hale: It didn't use the halls.
The monitors flickered.
Every screen went black.
A second later they returned.
One camera showed the seventh floor corridor.
A man stood directly beneath it.
Martin Hale.
Same gray work shirt.
Same exhausted face.
Martin stared at himself.
The other Martin raised one hand.
Waved.
The feed died.
Nobody spoke.
Martin's radio crackled.
Tenant: Martin?
He grabbed it.
Martin Hale: Yeah?
Tenant: Why are you telling everyone there's a gas leak?
Martin stopped breathing.
Martin Hale: I'm not.
Tenant: You just knocked on my door.
Another tenant interrupted.
Tenant Two: Martin, are we evacuating or not?
A third voice followed.
Tenant Three: You said we had to go downstairs.
Martin looked at David.
Martin Hale: Everybody listen to me. Stay inside your apartments. Lock your doors. Do not open them for me!
Silence.
Martin Hale: I mean it. If I knock, don't open the door!
Martin switched off the radio.
David looked sick.
David Lorne: That was you. That thing...it has your face.
Martin Hale: Yeah.
Leon Matthews: Why?
Martin stared at the dead camera.
Martin Hale: Maybe because people open doors for me.
Martin grabbed his keys.
Leon Matthews: Where are you going?
Martin Hale: Upstairs.
Leon Matthews: Police are already here.
Martin Hale: And half the building thinks I told them to evacuate.
Leon stepped toward him.
Leon Matthews: You're not going alone.
Martin Hale: Stay here and show the cops the footage. They need to believe this before someone shoots me.
Leon didn't like it.
Martin didn't either.
He left anyway.
The sixth floor stairwell door stood open.
A family had gathered in the hallway carrying bags.
Martin hurried toward them.
Martin Hale: Go back inside.
The father stared.
Father: You just told us to come down.
Martin Hale: That wasn't me.
The man's expression hardened.
Father: You were standing right there.
Martin Hale: Listen to me. Get your kids inside and lock the door.
The elevator chimed.
Everyone looked toward it.
The doors opened.
Empty.
The family hurried into their apartment.
Martin remained still.
Something scraped above the ceiling.
He looked up.
One tile shifted slightly.
His radio crackled.
Static.
Then his own voice.
Martin's Voice: Sixth floor is clear.
The ceiling tile dropped.
He jumped backward. Nothing.
Martin forced himself to keep walking.
On seven, Apartment 7C stood open again.
Blood marked the hallway.
Fresh blood.
Martin entered.
Rachel's living room was dark.
He followed the blood into the bedroom.
One shoe lay beside the bed.
Rachel's.
Something protruded from beneath the frame.
Fingers.
Martin moved the mattress.
Rachel Lorne lay beneath the bed.
The real Rachel.
Her throat had been torn open.
Martin stumbled backward.
She had been dead the first time he encountered her.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Martin turned.
His own face stood in the doorway.
And it smiled.
Creature Martin: Rachel?
Martin backed away.
Creature Martin: Rachel?
It stepped forward.
Martin ran.
The creature followed him into the hall.
Martin grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall and swung.
The cylinder connected with the thing's chest.
Its body folded unnaturally before straightening again.
For an instant its face rippled between Martin and Rachel.
Martin ran for the stairs.
The creature stopped pursuing.
That bothered him.
He didn't understand why until he reached the lobby.
Police officers immediately drew weapons.
Officer: Hands up!
Martin stopped.
Martin Hale: Wait. It's me.
Officer: Hands where I can see them.
Martin raised them.
Martin Hale: There's something upstairs.
Officer: We know.
Martin followed the officer's eyes toward the front enLandersce.
Another Martin Hale stood outside beneath the awning, calmly speaking with two officers.
Martin went cold.
The false Martin pointed through the glass.
Creature Martin: That's him.
Martin couldn't hear the words, but he knew them.
Martin Hale: Ask him something!
The officer beside him frowned.
Martin Hale: Something only I should know.
Officer: How could I know what you know?! I don't even know what the hell is going on here!
Martin Hale: Ask him how to fix the boiler downstairs! I'm the maintenance guy! I know this answer!
The question was relayed.
Outside, the false Martin stopped.
Its expression went blank.
The officer repeated the question.
The creature looked toward the building.
For the first time Martin saw uncertainty in its stolen face.
An officer grabbed its arm.
The thing threw him across the hood of a cruiser.
Gunfire cracked through the rain.
The creature disappeared through a side enLandersce.
Police began preparing a controlled evacuation.
Martin objected immediately.
Martin Hale: I think that's what it wants.
The detective in charge looked at him.
Detective Rowan: Explain.
Martin unfolded an old building plan across the security desk.
Martin Hale: It told people there was a gas leak. It was sending everyone downstairs.
Detective Rowan: Why?
Martin Hale: Because it lives underneath us.
He pointed toward the old laundry room.
Martin Hale: There used to be a sub basement below the boiler level. Flooded twenty years ago. Owners sealed it instead of repairing it.
Detective Rowan: What's down there now?
Martin Hale: I don't know, but I could guess.
David stood behind them.
David Lorne: Rachel...she-
Martin looked at him.
David already knew. He immediately left the room to throw up.
The access door behind the abandoned laundry room had been broken from the inside.
Detective Rowan ordered two officers down with Martin because he knew the layout.
They entered the sub basement shortly after 5:00 AM.
The smell reached them first.
Wet earth and rot.
Something chemical Martin couldn't identify.
Their flashlights moved across rusted boilers and concrete supports.
At the far end, between two old water tanks, clothing had been arranged in piles.
Some remains were months old.
The creature had been hunting Harrowgate slowly.
Quietly.
People who lived alone? Those who suddenly "moved out".
Visitors nobody connected to the building.
A police officer whispered.
Officer Martinez: How long has it been down here?
Martin looked at the remains.
Martin Hale: I don't want to know.
Something moved behind them.
Martinez vanished.
No scream.
No struggle.
One second he was there.
The next his flashlight rolled across the floor.
The other officer raised his pistol.
Officer Grant: Martinez?
Martin grabbed his arm.
Martin Hale: Don't.
From somewhere beyond the boilers:
Officer Martinez: Help me!
Grant's face changed.
Martin Hale: That's not him!
Officer Martinez: Help me! Please!
Grant fired toward the voice.
Muzzle flashes illuminated pieces of a body moving behind the machinery.
Something pale beneath all three.
The creature hit Grant from the side and hurled him into a pipe.
Martin ran toward a cry from deeper in the room.
He found Sophie Landers from Apartment 5A hiding behind an old water tank.
She had blood on her forehead.
Martin Hale: Sophie? Sophie!
She recoiled.
Sophie Landers: Stay away from me! Stay away!
Martin stopped.
Martin Hale: It's really me. Please, you have to believe me!
Sophie Landers: It said that already!
Martin kept his distance.
Martin Hale: Listen...please listen to me. Your kitchen sink burst last month.
Sophie Landers: Everybody heard about that.
Martin Hale: You called me an incompetent asshole because I shut off the wrong valve.
Sophie stared.
Martin Hale: You apologized afterward. I told you I've been called worse.
Her eyes filled with relief.
Sophie Landers: Martin.
He helped her stand.
Footsteps approached behind him.
Another Sophie emerged from the darkness.
Martin froze.
Second Sophie: Martin, don't listen to her.
Sophie Landers: That's it.
Second Sophie: No. That's it.
Martin looked between them.
Both had the same injury.
Same clothes.
Same frightened breathing.
Martin Hale: Oh no.
Second Sophie: Martin, I don't know what I can say to make you believe me, but I don't want you to die! Please, believe me!
Martin Hale: ...Aw hell.
Martin shoved his Sophie aside.
Its jaw opened sideways.
Skin split along the cheek.
Its body unfolded.
For the first time, Martin saw what had been living inside Harrowgate.
It stood almost eight feet tall when fully extended, although its spine remained bent from years of moving through confined spaces. Pale gray skin stretched over a narrow but powerful frame. Its limbs were disproportionately long, ending in hooked fingers suited for climbing concrete and gripping inside maintenance shafts.
Its head was worse.
Layers of soft tissue moved across the front of its skull like overlapping masks. Human features appeared within those layers only briefly before disappearing again.
The creature screamed through several voices at once.
Sophie stumbled.
Martin grabbed a length of pipe and swung.
The creature caught it.
It threw him across the room.
Martin hit concrete hard enough to lose his breath.
Sophie ran.
The creature went after her.
Martin grabbed its ankle.
It kicked him away.
Sophie reached the stairwell.
The creature caught her before she could climb.
Martin saw an old fire axe mounted inside a broken emergency cabinet.
He pulled it free.
Martin Hale: Hey!
The creature turned.
Martin charged.
The axe bit into its shoulder.
Black blood struck the wall.
The creature shrieked.
Martin swung again.
It caught his wrist.
One claw struck across his chest.
Martin slammed into a support pillar.
Pain exploded through his shoulder.
The axe fell away.
Sophie screamed.
The creature approached Martin wearing his own face again.
Creature Martin: I'm Martin Hale.
Martin tried to stand.
His arm barely moved.
Creature Martin: I'm Martin Hale.
The thing crouched in front of him.
Martin spat blood.
Martin Hale: You're not even close.
The creature raised one claw.
A metallic impact echoed from somewhere behind it.
A single heavy step.
The creature stopped.
Martin looked past it.
A figure stood at the entrance to the sub basement.
Black armor.
Sharp silver gray plating.
Thin red lines running across the body.
A helmet with long angular fins rising from either side of the head.
Bright cyan eyes burned through the darkness.
Martin forgot the pain in his shoulder.
The creature slowly turned.
For the first time since Martin had encountered it, the thing stepped backward.
The armored man looked at Martin.
Martin Hale: Who are you?
The figure's voice came through the helmet, low and perfectly human.
Mysterious Figure: Can you move?
Martin blinked.
Martin Hale: What?
Mysterious Figure: Can you move?
Martin pushed himself against the wall.
Martin Hale: Yeah.
The figure looked toward Sophie.
Mysterious Figure: The name is Graiver. Get her upstairs for me, would you?
The creature attacked.
Graiver moved.
The first punch caught the monster beneath the jaw and lifted it completely off the floor.
Martin had heard about the things happening in Hanta City and Avalon. This was different, more visceral. 
Seeing something like that from fifteen feet away was also dangerous.
The impact shook dust from the ceiling.
The creature hit the wall, recovered almost instantly and rushed Graiver on all fours.
Graiver blocked one claw.
The second struck his shoulder armor and threw sparks.
He twisted the creature's arm and drove his knee into its chest.
Bone cracked.
The monster screamed with Rachel's voice.
Martin Hale: It copies people. Faces, voices, anything it sees!
Graiver nodded.
The creature changed again.
Its body contracted.
Black armor began forming across its skin.
Martin stared.
It was trying to copy Graiver.
The transformation stopped halfway.
The flesh across its torso convulsed.
Armor like shapes formed and immediately collapsed.
The creature shrieked.
Graiver's head tilted slightly.
Even he seemed surprised.
The monster tried again.
Nothing.
Whatever Graiver was, the creature couldn't reproduce it.
That frightened the creature.
Martin could see it.
It abandoned the imitation and attacked wildly.
Graiver met it head on.
His fighting style was brutal. He was there to kill it, violently if needed.
The creature climbed a pillar and launched itself from the ceiling.
Graiver caught it in midair.
They crashed through one of the abandoned boilers.
The creature's claw raked across Graiver's chestplate.
Sparks burst, and Graiver staggered.
The creature lunged again.
A dark blade extended from Graiver's right forearm with a mechanical snap and cut across the creature's chest.
Black fluid sprayed across the boiler.
The monster screamed.
Faces rippled across its head.
It attacked again.
Graiver ducked beneath one claw and drove the forearm blade through its side.
The monster twisted and slammed him into the wall.
Graiver lost the blade.
It retracted as he fell.
The creature went for Sophie.
Martin grabbed the fire axe.
His shoulder screamed in protest.
He swung anyway.
The blade struck the monster's leg.
It turned toward him.
Martin Hale: I'm getting really tired of my face!
The creature became Martin again.
Graiver hit it from behind hard enough to send it rolling across the floor.
Graiver: Take her upstairs, now!
Graiver's glowing eyes shifted toward the creature.
He pulled Sophie toward the stairwell.
They had almost reached it when Sophie stopped.
Sophie Landers: Martin.
He followed her gaze.
The creature's real body had finally emerged completely.
Its face peeled open.
Underneath the stolen features was a narrow skull with a circular mouth lined in hooked teeth.
It charged Graiver.
Red light traveled along the thin lines across Graiver's armor.
Graiver ran forward.
He planted one foot against the broken boiler and launched himself upward.
His right leg ignited with white and red energy.
He twisted.
The kick struck the creature directly in the chest.
The impact produced a deep crack that Martin felt through the floor.
The monster flew backward.
For an instant every stolen face appeared across its body at once.
Then white cracks spread across its skin.
The creature collapsed inward.
Not a giant explosion.
No fireball through the building.
Its body broke apart into black ash and pale fragments that struck the floor and stopped moving.
Silence filled the sub basement.
Graiver landed on one knee.
For several seconds he didn't move.
Graiver slowly stood.
Martin Hale: You okay?
Graiver looked at him.
Graiver: Are you?
Martin almost laughed.
Martin Hale: Not particularly.
Graiver approached the remains.
He crouched.
Examined them.
Martin Hale: You know what that thing was?
Graiver didn't answer immediately.
Graiver: Yes.
Martin Hale: Care to tell me?
Graiver: No.
Martin stared at him as he began to leave.
Martin Hale: Who are you?
The armored figure continued toward the darkness beyond the boilers.
Martin followed several steps.
Martin Hale: Are you with the EDF?
No answer.
Graiver disappeared behind a support column.
Martin hurried after him.
Nothing.
No door.
No access shaft large enough to explain where he had gone.
Just empty concrete.
Sophie reached Martin.
Sophie Landers: Where did he go?
Martin stared into the darkness.
Martin Hale: I have no idea.
Morning arrived quietly.
The rain stopped shortly after sunrise.
Harrowgate Apartments remained surrounded by police vehicles, medical units and biological containment crews. The sub basement was sealed while specialists collected what remained of the creature.
The evidence removed any possibility that Martin had imagined the night's events.
The creature had been real.
That part, at least, could be explained.
Sophie sat across from Martin inside an ambulance while a paramedic wrapped his shoulder.
Sophie Landers: You look terrible.
Martin Hale: Everybody keeps telling me that.
Sophie Landers: Maybe there's a reason.
She moved closer and showed him her phone.
Someone from an apartment across the street had filmed the exterior during the police response.
The video was only eleven seconds long.
Graiver stood on the roof of Harrowgate.
The figure looked down toward the street.
The person filming zoomed in.
Graiver stepped backward.
Gone.
Martin smiled despite himself.
Sophie Landers: What?
Martin Hale: Nothing.
He replayed the footage.
Sophie Landers: He saved us.
Martin nodded.
That much was true.
Sophie Landers: Think we'll ever see him again?
Martin paused the video.
The strange armored face stared back at him.
Martin Hale: Honestly, I hope not. If we see HIM...that means something horrible is about to happen.
Sophie couldn't argue with that.
### CLASSIFIED INCIDENT FILE 001
**LOCATION:** Harrowgate Apartments, Westhaven
**STATUS:** Contained
**CASUALTIES:** Seven confirmed deceased and four recovered alive
**ANOMALOUS ORGANISM:** Destroyed
**UNIDENTIFIED ARMORED SUBJECT:** Confirmed
**DESIGNATION: GRAIVER**
**AFFILIATION: UNKNOWN**
**IDENTITY: UNKNOWN**
**ORIGIN: UNKNOWN**
**METHOD OF ARRIVAL: UNKNOWN**
**FILE STATUS: CLASSIFIED**
**END**
Last edited by Machismo (9/23/2026 6:07 am)
- Machismo
- Administrator
Offline
- Registered: 12/06/2019
- Posts: 2,146
Re: Tokuverse - The Confidential Files of Graiver
The Man had a dangling cigarette from his mouth as he played a game of pool.
The Man: In a game of pool, you shoot your shot, and you hope everything falls into place. You know where you want the balls to go, but unless you're an expert, and sometimes even then, they will go where they want to go. Having a plan and a destination is one thing-
The bartender handed a note to the man, and he quickly read it and disposed of it.
The Man: But what happens when your plans are thrown into disarray. What happens when you go down a path you weren't planning. Can you pull off the win? Or will you go down, the 8-ball in the corner pocket?
File 002 — THE LAST HOUSE ON BARROW ROAD
Leah Carver knew they should have stopped twenty miles earlier.
She had said it when they passed the service plaza near Crown Junction, and she reminded her husband of it now as rain struck the windshield so hard that the wipers barely accomplished anything.
Leah Carver: I specifically remember saying we should stop.
Evan Carver leaned closer to the windshield.
Evan Carver: You did.
Leah Carver: And I specifically remember somebody saying the storm was supposed to miss us.
Evan Carver: That person sounds irresponsible.
Leah Carver: He was extremely confident.
Evan Carver: Those are the worst ones.
Despite herself, Leah smiled.
They had been married for nearly two years, although the car still contained enough wedding related junk to suggest the event had happened last weekend. A little silver ribbon remained tied around the handle above Leah's door because neither of them had ever bothered removing it. An envelope containing photographs from the ceremony had lived in the glove compartment.
They were supposed to be spending the weekend with Evan's sister in Northbridge. Instead, a wreck on Route Nine had pushed them onto county roads, followed by another detour that directed them toward Barrow Road.
Leah checked her phone.
No service.
Again.
Leah Carver: Still nothing.
Evan Carver: Mine either.
The navigation display had frozen twelve minutes earlier. The road ahead had narrowed considerably since then, losing painted lines before eventually becoming little more than cracked asphalt twisting between dense woods.
Leah looked through her window.
Nothing.
No houses.
No businesses.
Not even streetlights.
Leah Carver: Are we sure this is Barrow Road?
Evan Carver: The sign said Barrow.
Leah Carver: The sign was barely hanging on. We hoped that's what it said.
Evan Carver: That's how you know it's authentic rural infrastructure.
Something slammed beneath the car.
Evan swore and grabbed the wheel.
The vehicle jerked violently to the right.
Leah caught the dashboard.
Leah Carver: Evan!
Evan Carver: I've got it.
The steering had become loose.
Evan fought it for perhaps fifty yards before the car rolled onto the muddy shoulder and stopped at an angle.
The engine remained running.
Neither moved immediately.
Leah Carver: Please tell me we hit a branch.
Evan turned the wheel.
Nothing happened.
Evan Carver: I don't think we hit a branch.
He found a flashlight in the glove box and climbed out.
Leah remained inside while rain immediately swallowed him.
A minute later he returned soaked from his shoulders downward.
Evan Carver: Front tire's fine. Tie rod isn't.
Leah Carver: Is that fixable?
Evan Carver: Here? Sure. If you happen to have a replacement tie rod and a hydraulic jack in your purse.
Leah opened her handbag and pretended to search.
Leah Carver: Gum. Lip balm. Receipt.
Evan Carver: Keep looking.
Thunder cracked somewhere nearby.
Leah's amusement disappeared.
The woods beyond the headlights moved beneath the wind.
Leah Carver: So what do we do?
Evan looked at the rearview mirror.
They hadn't passed another car for almost half an hour.
Evan Carver: Wait for somebody.
They waited.
Nobody came.
The temperature began dropping.
Worse, water was rising along the roadside ditch. If the storm continued, the shoulder might become unstable.
Evan climbed out again and walked ahead far enough that Leah almost called him back.
When he returned, his expression had changed.
Evan Carver: There's a light.
Leah Carver: A car?
Evan Carver: House. Maybe half a mile.
Leah looked toward the darkness.
Leah Carver: Half a mile in this?
Evan Carver: Better than being in the car if the shoulder washes out.
He was right.
That irritated her more than usual.
They took their phones, coats, Evan's backpack and the emergency flashlight. Leah left her suitcase behind despite Evan's suggestion that they might need clothes.
They locked the car and started walking.
The rain made the half mile feel like five.
Water flowed across the road in shallow streams. Branches whipped overhead. Leah kept one hand around Evan's arm, less from fear than from the genuine possibility that the wind might knock one of them sideways.
The light eventually became two lights.
Then three.
A farmhouse emerged beyond an open iron gate.
It was enormous.
Older than Leah expected, with a stone foundation beneath weathered timber siding and a front porch stretching almost the entire width of the building. Light burned behind curtained windows on both floors. A barn sat farther back behind the house, almost invisible in the rain.
A wooden plaque near the gate read:
ROOKE FARM — 1891
Leah looked at Evan.
Leah Carver: People still have farms like this?
Evan Carver: Apparently.
Something about the place bothered her.
She couldn't identify what.
Maybe it was simply the hour.
Maybe the weather.
Evan knocked.
Nothing.
He knocked again.
Locks moved inside.
The door opened.
An elderly man stood beneath the warm hallway light.
He was tall and thin, somewhere in his late sixties by Leah's estimate, with silver hair combed carefully away from his forehead. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark suspenders.
His eyes moved over them.
Silas Rooke: Good Lord. Come inside.
They did.
The warmth almost hurt.
The man closed the door behind them and immediately called toward the rear of the house.
Silas Rooke: Marge! Bring towels.
A woman appeared moments later.
She looked slightly younger than Silas, her gray hair pulled back tightly behind her head. She carried folded towels and regarded Leah with such immediate concern that Leah felt embarrassed by her earlier unease.
Marge Rooke: You're soaked through.
Evan Carver: Sorry to bother you this late. Our car broke down maybe half a mile back.
Silas Rooke: On the bend?
Evan Carver: Just before it.
Silas grimaced.
Silas Rooke: That section washed out twice last spring. They were supposed to repair it.
Marge handed her a towel.
Marge Rooke: You shouldn't be on Barrow Road tonight.
Leah Carver: We didn't intend to be.
Silas Rooke: Nobody does anymore.
Silas smiled.
They introduced themselves.
Silas and Marge Rooke had lived on the farm for thirty nine years, although Silas mentioned that his family had owned the property for considerably longer. Two other relatives were staying in the house, Silas's younger brother Amos and Marge's niece, Lydia.
There was no cell service.
The landline had stopped working shortly after the storm began.
Their nearest neighbor was almost three miles away.
A vehicle could not safely reach Barrow Road until morning if the flooding worsened.
Silas offered them the guest room.
Leah looked at Evan.
He shrugged. What alternative did they have?
Dinner had apparently ended only an hour earlier, and Marge insisted on reheating food. Leah initially declined, but the smell drifting from the kitchen changed her mind.
The dining room looked as though it belonged in another century.
Oil paintings.
A grandfather clock against the wall.
Every surface had been maintained almost obsessively.
What caught Leah's attention were the photographs.
Dozens covered one wall.
Some were modern.
Others sepia.
Generations of the Rooke family stood in front of the same farmhouse.
Leah walked closer.
The oldest photograph showed perhaps eight people.
The next, six.
Then seven.
Different decades.
Different clothing.
Different faces.
She smiled faintly at one from the 1950s.
Leah Carver: You really do have the whole family history here.
Marge glanced over while setting down plates.
Marge Rooke: We remember everyone.
Leah studied another photograph.
Something nagged at her.
Not the faces.
The arrangement.
An older man always stood on the far left.
An older woman beside him.
A younger man at the center.
A younger woman beside him.
Sometimes children.
Even when decades separated the photographs, the composition barely changed.
Leah leaned closer.
Small brass labels had been attached beneath several frames.
She looked at another photograph thirty years later.
Different people.
Same labels.
Leah Carver: You reuse names?
Marge stopped moving.
Marge Rooke: Sometimes.
Leah Carver: Thomas and Grace show up a lot.
Silas entered carrying a bottle of wine.
Silas Rooke: Old family tradition. Names matter around here.
Evan appeared beside Leah.
Evan Carver: My family can't even agree on what to eat.
Silas laughed.
Silas Rooke: Perhaps your family has more sense than ours.
The tension dissipated and they ate.
Roast chicken, potatoes, green beans, bread Marge had baked that afternoon.
Amos Rooke joined them halfway through.
He was a broad, quiet man in his late fifties who walked with a pronounced limp. He shook Evan's hand and barely looked at Leah.
Lydia arrived last.
She was perhaps twenty five.
Thin. Dark-haired.
Pretty in an exhausted way.
She sat across from Leah.
Lydia Rooke: You're married?
Leah glanced at Evan.
Leah Carver: Yeah.
Lydia Rooke: How long?
Leah Carver: Almost two years.
Lydia looked down at their rings.
Lydia Rooke: That's good.
Marge placed her fork down.
Marge Rooke: Lydia.
Lydia became quiet.
Silas poured more wine.
Silas Rooke: My niece hasn't had much company lately.
Lydia Rooke: I'm not your niece.
The room became still.
Silas continued pouring as though he hadn't heard.
Marge's eyes fixed on Lydia.
Marge Rooke: You've had a difficult evening.
Lydia stared at her plate.
Lydia Rooke: Yes, Mother.
Leah's fork stopped halfway to her mouth.
Mother?
Marge had introduced Lydia as her niece.
Silas smiled apologetically.
Silas Rooke: Family jokes.
Nobody laughed.
Leah drank water instead of wine.
She had already had half a glass and felt strangely heavy.
Evan, who had finished his, rubbed his forehead.
Evan Carver: That storm's catching up to me.
Marge Rooke: You should both sleep.
Leah looked at Lydia.
The young woman wouldn't meet her eyes.
The guest bedroom was on the second floor.
Marge provided clean clothes that had supposedly belonged to visiting relatives. Evan received a pair of loose pants and a shirt. Leah was given a long nightgown that looked older than she was.
The door closed behind Marge.
Leah immediately turned the lock.
Evan sat on the edge of the bed.
Evan Carver: That was weird.
Leah Carver: Very.
Evan Carver: Nice people, though.
Leah looked at him.
Evan Carver: Okay. Mostly nice people?
She crossed to the window.
Rain obscured almost everything outside.
Their car wasn't visible.
Neither was the road.
Leah Carver: Lydia isn't their niece.
Evan Carver: Maybe Marge raised her.
Leah Carver: And the photographs?
Evan lay backward.
Evan Carver: Old family with creepy naming conventions.
Leah Carver: You drank too much of that wine.
Evan Carver: Half a glass.
Leah Carver: You had three.
He opened one eye.
Evan Carver: Did I?
Leah turned.
Evan's face had become pale.
Leah Carver: Are you okay?
Evan Carver: Just tired.
He tried standing.
His knees buckled.
Leah caught him.
Leah Carver: Evan.
He blinked hard.
Evan Carver: Something's wrong.
Leah went to the door.
The lock wouldn't turn.
She tried again. Nothing.
Leah Carver: Silas!
No answer.
She pounded.
Leah Carver: Marge!
Footsteps approached.
Leah backed away.
The door opened from the other side.
Amos stood there.
Silas behind him.
Marge held a folded towel.
Amos grabbed her.
Leah Carver: GET OFF ME!
Evan tried to stand.
Silas caught him easily.
Evan Carver: What did you give us?
Silas Rooke: Shhh.
Leah kicked Amos in the shin.
His grip tightened.
Leah Carver: LET HIM GO!
Marge stepped closer.
There was genuine sadness in her face.
Marge Rooke: It'll be easier if you don't fight.
Leah spat in her face.
Marge flinched.
Amos dragged Leah into the hallway.
She watched Evan disappear behind the closing bedroom door.
Evan Carver: LEAH!
Leah Carver: EVAN!
The door slammed.
Leah woke beneath a white ceiling she didn't recognize.
For several seconds she couldn't move.
Her head felt stuffed with cotton.
Her tongue was dry.
Something scratchy covered her arms.
She looked down.
A faded cream colored dress with lace across the sleeves.
Leah sat upright.
The room was small.
Old wallpaper.
Vanity.
Wooden wardrobe.
No windows.
The door was locked.
Her wedding ring was gone.
Leah stared at the empty space on her finger.
Panic hit her so suddenly that she nearly vomited.
She searched the room.
Nothing useful.
The drawers contained clothing.
Women's clothing.
Different sizes.
Different eras.
Blouses.
Dresses.
Shoes.
All carefully preserved.
She found photographs inside the vanity.
Women.
Dozens of them.
Many wearing the same cream dress.
Different faces.
Same room.
Names had been written across the backs.
Grace Rooke — 1931.
Grace Rooke — 1959.
Grace Rooke — 1988.
Grace Rooke — 2007.
Leah's hands began trembling.
The woman in the 2007 photograph wasn't Lydia.
Leah turned it over again.
Grace Rooke.
The doorknob moved.
Leah grabbed the vanity stool.
Marge entered.
Leah swung.
Marge stepped backward just far enough for the stool to hit the doorframe.
Amos appeared behind her.
Leah stopped.
Marge Rooke: Put it down, Grace.
Leah's entire body went cold.
Leah Carver: My name is Leah.
Marge's expression hardened slightly.
Marge Rooke: Not here.
Leah Carver: Where is my husband!?
Marge Rooke: Thomas is resting.
Leah Carver: His name is Evan!
Marge Rooke: You'll make this much harder.
Leah hurled the stool and tried to run.
Amos knocked it aside and caught her before she made the hallway.
Leah fought until she couldn't breathe.
Marge watched without anger.
Marge Rooke: I did that too.
Leah stopped.
Marge slowly rolled up one sleeve.
A faded tattoo remained on her forearm.
Numbers.
8-17-87.
Marge Rooke: My name wasn't Marge either.
Leah stared at her.
Marge lowered the sleeve.
Leah Carver: Then help me!
Something flickered across the older woman's face.
For an instant Leah saw the person she might once have been.
Then it vanished.
Marge Rooke: You learn.
Leah Carver: No.
Marge Rooke: Everyone learns.
Evan was alive.
Leah heard him sometime later.
A thud came from behind the wall.
Then another.
She pressed her ear against it.
Leah Carver: Evan?
Silence.
Another impact.
Evan Carver: Leah?
Her knees nearly collapsed.
Leah Carver: I'm here.
Evan Carver: Are you hurt?
Leah Carver: No. Are you?
Evan Carver: Not yet.
His attempt at humor almost broke her.
Leah Carver: They're calling me Grace.
Silence.
Evan Carver: They're calling me Thomas.
Leah closed her eyes.
Evan Carver: I found pictures.
Leah Carver: Me too.
Evan Carver: These people have been doing this for a long time.
Leah Carver: Marge was taken too.
Evan Carver: What?
Leah Carver: She told me. Not directly, but... she wasn't born here.
Evan went quiet.
Evan Carver: Leah, listen. There's a vent near the floor. I think it connects between the rooms.
She found it.
Old iron grille.
Leah used the metal clasp from her dress.
It took almost twenty minutes to loosen the first screw.
Evan worked from his side with something harder.
Evan Carver: When we get out, you're choosing every hotel for the rest of our lives.
Leah Carver: We're never going on another trip again.
Evan Carver: Home bodies for life.
The second screw dropped.
Footsteps sounded outside.
Leah froze.
Leah Carver: Someone's coming.
Evan Carver: Hide it.
Leah pushed the grille back into place.
Silas entered carrying a tray.
A small bowl filled with something milky.
Silas Rooke: You should eat.
Leah stared at him.
Leah Carver: What do you want from us?
Silas placed the tray down.
Silas Rooke: The same thing my father wanted. And his father.
Leah Carver: You kidnap people.
Silas Rooke: We preserve the family.
Leah Carver: You're insane.
Silas considered that.
Silas Rooke: Perhaps.
He sat.
Silas Rooke: Thomas and Grace died eight months ago.
Leah said nothing.
Silas Rooke: Automobile accident. We waited. We don't take people carelessly.
Leah Carver: That's supposed to make this better?
Silas Rooke: No.
His honesty disturbed her.
Silas Rooke: It simply makes it necessary.
Leah Carver: Necessary for what?
Silas looked toward the floor.
Leah noticed.
Silas Rooke: This house has endured for one hundred and thirty five years. Crops survived droughts that ruined every farm around us. None of us suffer illness for long. Wounds close. Age comes slowly.
Leah remembered the photographs.
Silas looked sixty eight.
The earliest color photograph showed a young man who looked exactly like him.
Her stomach turned.
Leah Carver: How old are you?
Silas smiled.
Silas Rooke: One hundred and four.
Leah didn't believe him.
Then she looked at his hands.
No tremor.
No arthritis.
Silas Rooke: There's something beneath this house. It was here before my great grandfather built the first walls. He found it after livestock began disappearing near the spring.
Leah Carver: What is it?
Silas Rooke: Family.
That answer chilled her more than any explanation could have.
Silas Rooke: It has fed us. Protected us. All it asks is that we remain together.
Leah Carver: Monsters don't care what names you call yourselves.
For the first time Silas's expression changed.
Leah had struck something.
Leah Carver: Does it even know?
Silas stood.
Silas Rooke: Eat.
He left.
Leah stared at the milky substance on the tray.
A skin had formed across its surface.
She didn't touch it.
Evan had managed to loosen his grille completely. The shaft between the rooms was tight, but Leah was able to crawl far enough to reach him.
He looked terrible.
Bruised face.
Split lip.
One wrist swollen where he had fought restraints.
Leah threw her arms around him.
For several seconds the house disappeared.
Evan Carver: We need to move.
They found a service stairwell.
Instead of heading down, Evan led her upward.
Leah Carver: Why are we going up?
Evan Carver: Front door's going to be watched.
There was an attic window overlooking the rear roof.
If they could cross it, they might reach the barn, find tools, perhaps even another vehicle.
They almost made it.
The attic contained records.
Missing person notices.
Newspaper clippings.
Evan opened one while Leah searched for the window latch.
A photograph fell out.
A young woman.
Leah recognized Marge immediately despite forty years of difference.
The clipping read: LOCAL WOMAN MISSING AFTER VEHICLE FOUND ON BARROW ROAD
Her name had been Cynthia Bellows.
Another clipping showed Amos.
Missing from Northbridge in 1995.
Another showed Lydia.
Leah looked at Evan.
Leah Carver: None of them are actually Rookes.
Evan opened another ledger.
Names had been crossed out and replaced.
The family wasn't a bloodline anymore.
It hadn't been for decades.
It was a structure.
Evan Carver: Silas could be. He might be the only one actually born here.
A floorboard creaked below.
They ran.
Evan forced the attic window.
Rain exploded inside.
He climbed onto the roof first and helped Leah through.
They crossed carefully.
The barn sat forty yards away.
Freedom seemed possible.
A gunshot shattered the roof tile beside Evan.
Leah screamed.
Silas stood in the yard holding a rifle.
Silas Rooke: Come down.
Evan pulled Leah behind the chimney.
Evan Carver: Don't move.
Leah Carver: Evan—
Evan Carver: I'm going to draw him left. Get to the other side and jump onto the porch roof.
Leah Carver: No.
Evan Carver: Leah.
Leah Carver: We're staying together!
He looked at her.
Rain ran down his face.
Evan Carver: Okay.
That was why she loved him.
Even terrified, he didn't pretend he had some brilliant plan.
They moved together.
Another shot.
Wood exploded.
They reached the edge.
Evan lowered himself first.
He dropped onto the porch roof.
Leah followed.
Something caught her ankle.
Amos had climbed through the window behind them.
Leah kicked.
He pulled.
Evan grabbed her arms.
For several horrible seconds she hung between them.
Evan won.
Leah fell onto the porch roof.
Amos dropped after them.
Evan tackled him.
They rolled.
Leah crawled toward the edge.
Amos struck Evan repeatedly.
Evan managed to throw him off.
They jumped.
The porch roof was low enough.
Leah hit the ground hard but remained upright.
Evan landed beside her.
The barn.
They ran.
Lydia stood in their path.
She held a knife.
Her hand trembled.
Lydia Rooke: Stop.
Leah slowed.
Leah Carver: Melanie! I saw! Your name is Melanie!
Lydia's face changed.
Leah Carver: Your name is Melanie Andrews.
Lydia Rooke: No.
Leah Carver: We found your picture.
Lydia Rooke: Stop.
Leah Carver: They took you years ago!
The knife shook.
Lydia Rooke: Stop saying that.
Marge's voice carried from behind them.
Marge Rooke: Lydia!
The young woman flinched.
Leah stepped closer.
Leah Carver: Melanie!
The knife lowered.
That was enough.
Evan grabbed Leah.
They ran past.
The barn doors were chained.
Evan searched for another entrance.
A shotgun fired.
He stopped.
Leah didn't understand at first.
Evan looked down.
Blood spread through his shirt.
Silas stood beneath the porch with the weapon lowered.
Leah caught Evan as his knees failed.
Leah Carver: No. No, no, no.
Evan tried to speak.
Nothing came.
She pressed both hands against the wound.
Leah Carver: Stay with me. Evan, look at me.
His eyes found hers.
For one second, he smiled.
Not because anything was funny.
Because she was there.
Then his body became heavier.
Leah screamed his name.
Silas approached slowly.
Silas Rooke: Grace.
Leah looked at him.
Something inside her broke.
She launched herself at Silas.
Amos caught her before she reached him.
Leah clawed, kicked, screamed, bit his hand hard enough to taste blood.
It didn't matter.
Evan remained in the mud.
Rain washed blood from his shirt into the earth.
Marge watched from the porch.
And Lydia stood behind her crying silently.
They dressed Leah for a wedding.
She stopped screaming.
Stopped asking questions.
Stopped begging.
Marge brushed her hair while Amos stood outside the bedroom door.
The dress had yellowed with age.
The veil smelled like cedar.
Leah stared at herself in the mirror.
She barely recognized the woman looking back.
Marge pinned the final section of hair.
Marge Rooke: Grace wore this in 1931.
Leah's voice was flat.
Leah Carver: My husband's dead.
Marge's hand paused.
Leah Carver: Your family killed him.
Marge Rooke: I know.
Leah Carver: And you expect me to become one of you.
Marge looked at her reflection.
Marge Rooke: You think I didn't hate them?
Leah finally looked at her.
Marge Rooke: I broke three fingers trying to escape. Silas's father chained me downstairs for six days. I screamed until I couldn't make noise anymore.
Leah Carver: And now you do it to someone else.
Marge's eyes hardened.
Marge Rooke: Because I finally understood.
Leah Carver: No. Because they won. They broke you.
Marge slapped her.
Leah's head turned.
Slowly, she looked back.
Marge couldn't meet her eyes.
Amos opened the door.
Amos Rooke: It's time.
They took her downstairs.
Past the dining room.
Past a door Leah hadn't noticed earlier.
Stone steps descended beneath the house.
The smell reached her halfway down.
Wet soil.
Rot.
Something strangely sweet.
Lanterns burned along the walls.
The cellar predated the farmhouse.
Rough stone surrounded a circular pit perhaps twenty feet across. Old iron chains hung from beams overhead. Shelves along one wall contained glass jars filled with the same pale fluid Silas had offered Leah earlier.
The family gathered around the pit.
Silas.
Marge.
Amos.
Lydia.
Nobody spoke loudly.
They were afraid of what lived below.
Silas stepped beside her.
Silas Rooke: You'll drink. Then you'll be presented.
Leah Carver: Presented to what?
Silas looked into the pit.
Something breathed.
Deep.
Slow.
Leah's skin crawled.
Silas took a lantern.
Light reached the bottom.
At first she thought she was looking at roots.
Then one moved.
A hand.
Far too large.
Pale fingers unfolded from the darkness.
Another hand gripped stone.
Something pulled itself upward.
The Patriarch wasn't human.
Its body was long and hairless, folded unnaturally to fit inside the underground chamber. Loose pale skin hung between protruding bones. Its eyes had sealed beneath translucent tissue long ago. Several fleshy tendrils extended from its abdomen into cracks in the stone, feeding from groundwater or whatever lived beneath the property.
Its mouth opened vertically.
Leah heard Marge whisper a prayer.
The creature climbed higher.
Its torso was covered in scars.
Silas Rooke: Father.
The creature turned toward the sound.
Leah stared.
This was what they had worshiped for generations.
Perhaps it truly gave them longer lives.
Perhaps the fluid in those jars healed them.
But Leah knew Silas had been lying about one thing.
That creature did not care whether the family remained whole.
It didn't care whether she was Grace.
It wanted food.
The rest was something people had built around it.
An excuse.
A prison.
Silas held the bowl toward Leah.
Silas Rooke: Drink.
Leah looked at him.
Leah Carver: Go to hell!
Amos grabbed her jaw.
She fought.
Silas brought the bowl closer.
A heavy impact sounded above them.
Everyone stopped.
Silas looked toward the stairs.
Another impact.
Wood splintered somewhere inside the house.
Amos released Leah.
Amos Rooke: Someone's inside.
Silas raised the shotgun.
Silas Rooke: Go.
Amos climbed several steps.
The cellar door exploded inward.
Amos came down with it.
He struck the stone floor and didn't move.
Dust drifted through the lantern light.
A figure stood at the top of the stairs.
Black armor.
Thin red lines glowed across his body.
Long angular fins rose from either side of his helmet.
Cyan eyes burned through the darkness.
Leah had never been happier to see something she didn't understand.
Silas raised the shotgun.
His face changed.
For the first time all night, Silas Rooke looked terrified.
Silas Rooke: You.
The armored man walked down the steps.
Silas fired.
Graiver didn't flinch.
The blast struck his chestplate and scattered sparks across the stone.
He kept walking.
Silas fired again.
Graiver reached him before he could fire a third time.
One armored hand closed around the shotgun barrel.
Metal bent.
Graiver ripped the weapon away and drove his shoulder into Silas's chest, sending the old man across the room.
Marge screamed.
Lydia ran.
Graiver didn't pursue her.
His glowing eyes found Leah.
He looked at the dress.
The restraints.
The blood on her face.
Something in his posture changed.
Graiver: Are you hurt?
Leah stared at him.
Leah Carver: My husband is dead!
Graiver went still.
He didn't offer some useless reassurance.
Didn't tell her everything would be okay.
He simply looked toward Silas.
Graiver: Where?
Leah Carver: Outside. By the barn.
Silas tried to crawl toward a fallen rifle.
Graiver stepped on his hand.
Silas screamed.
Graiver: You killed him?
Silas looked up.
Silas Rooke: You don't understand! It protects us!
Graiver glanced toward the pit.
The Patriarch had climbed halfway out.
Graiver: What's going to protect it? You?
The creature screamed.
The sound struck Leah physically.
Lantern flames shook.
The Patriarch pulled itself free.
It was much larger than she had realized.
Nearly ten feet when hunched.
Long arms dragged along the stone.
Its tendrils tore loose from the pit with wet snapping sounds.
Graiver turned toward it.
Silas laughed.
Blood ran from his mouth.
Silas Rooke: You think you're going to kill him? He's older than this country!
Graiver looked back at him.
The Patriarch attacked.
Graiver met it head on.
The collision sounded like a car wreck.
The creature drove him through a wooden support.
Stone dust filled the cellar.
Leah backed against the wall.
Graiver emerged immediately.
His fighting style wasn't elegant.
It was brutal.
He hit it as though he wanted it dead.
A fist into the ribs.
Elbow across the jaw.
Knee into the abdomen.
The Patriarch slashed at him.
Claws carved sparks across Graiver's shoulder.
He caught one wrist and twisted until bone broke.
The creature screamed.
Graiver didn't stop.
The Patriarch drove Graiver into the pit wall.
Graiver slammed his helmet into its face.
The creature reeled.
Red lines brightened across Graiver's armor.
Silas stared in disbelief.
Silas Rooke: Father!
Graiver grabbed the creature by the throat and threw it into the stone altar.
The altar broke.
Glass jars crashed from the shelves.
Pale liquid covered the floor.
Marge screamed and dropped to her knees.
Marge Rooke: Stop!
Graiver looked at her.
Marge Rooke: We'll die without him!
Graiver's voice remained calm.
Graiver: Reap what you sow.
The answer destroyed her.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was true.
The Patriarch recovered.
One tendril wrapped around Graiver's leg.
Another caught his arm.
It dragged him toward the pit.
Graiver planted his feet.
Stone cracked beneath his boots.
The creature pulled harder.
Graiver looked toward the tendrils.
A black blade extended from his forearm.
One cut.
The tendrils fell.
The creature shrieked.
Graiver charged.
He drove the blade beneath its ribs.
Black blood poured over the armor.
Graiver ripped upward.
The Patriarch struck him hard enough to send him across the cellar.
He rolled and rose.
The monster lunged.
Graiver stepped aside and caught its arm.
He twisted.
Used its momentum.
The Patriarch crashed into the support beams holding the oldest section of the cellar ceiling.
Wood fractured.
Leah saw dirt begin falling.
Leah Carver: The house!
Graiver looked up.
Silas realized what was happening too.
Silas Rooke: No!
Graiver looked toward Leah.
Graiver: Run.
She nodded.
Graiver: Go.
Leah Carver: What about you?
Graiver: Go!
Leah ran.
Lydia was waiting near the stairs.
For a moment Leah expected her to attack.
Instead the young woman grabbed Leah's hand.
Lydia Rooke: Come on.
Leah stared at her.
Leah Carver: Melanie?
The young woman's face crumpled.
Melanie Andrews: Yeah.
They climbed.
Behind them, the fight continued.
The farmhouse shook.
Leah and Melanie reached the kitchen.
Smoke filled the hallway.
Somewhere during the chaos a lantern had overturned.
Fire climbed the wallpaper.
Marge stood in the dining room staring at the photographs.
Melanie Andrew: Cynthia!
Marge froze.
That name reached someplace Marge had buried forty years earlier.
Melanie Andrews: COME WITH US!
Marge looked toward the cellar.
Then toward the photographs.
Leah knew what she would choose before Marge moved.
Marge Rooke: I'm sorry.
She stayed.
She and Melanie reached the porch.
Leah looked toward the barn.
Evan still lay where he had fallen.
She stopped.
Melanie grabbed her arm.
Melanie Andrews: Leah. I'm so sorry!
Leah pulled free.
She crossed the yard.
She knelt beside Evan.
Leah touched his face.
Leah Carver: Evan. I love you.
The farmhouse groaned.
Melanie screamed.
Leah turned.
The Patriarch tore through the cellar wall.
It emerged beneath the porch surrounded by fire and collapsing timber.
Graiver came through after it.
The creature had changed.
Chunks of pale tissue hung from its body.
One arm was broken.
It was dying.
Graiver struck it across the jaw.
The Patriarch clawed his chest.
He caught the arm.
Red light spread along Graiver's armor.
It tried to retreat.
Graiver didn't let it.
He drove one knee into its abdomen, threw it backward and ran.
Energy gathered around his right leg.
White at the center.
Red around the edges.
Graiver launched himself from the burning porch.
He twisted in the air.
The kick struck the Patriarch directly in the chest.
The impact silenced the storm.
For a fraction of a second, the creature remained upright.
Red cracks spread through its body.
Its chest collapsed inward.
The Patriarch flew backward through the farmhouse wall.
A deep explosion rolled through the cellar.
The center of the house folded into itself.
Flames surged upward.
Graiver landed in the mud.
He remained crouched for several seconds.
Silas crawled from the porch.
Somehow the old man was still alive.
He watched his house burn.
Silas Rooke: What have you done?
Graiver looked at him.
Silas Rooke: We needed him!
Sirens sounded faintly in the distance.
Graiver turned toward Leah.
She was still kneeling beside Evan.
He approached slowly.
Leah looked up at him.
Leah Carver: Were you following us?
Graiver stopped.
Leah Carver: How did you find this place?
He looked toward the burning farmhouse.
Graiver: I was told where to look.
She looked at Evan.
Leah Carver: You couldn't have gotten here ten minutes earlier?
The words were cruel.
She knew that.
Graiver didn't react defensively.
He looked at Evan too.
Graiver: I wish I had.
Leah wiped her face.
Graiver: Remember him.
Police lights appeared through the trees.
Leah looked toward them.
When she turned back, Graiver was walking toward the road.
Leah Carver: Hey. Who are you?
He stopped.
The cyan eyes regarded her.
Graiver: Graiver.
Graiver disappeared into the rain.
By sunrise, the last house on Barrow Road was gone.
Firefighters found stone foundations beneath the property far older than the farmhouse itself. Biological teams entered the collapsed cellar wearing sealed equipment. What remained of the Patriarch did not match any known human or animal tissue in the regional database.
Silas Rooke survived.
So did Amos.
Both were arrested.
Marge Rooke died inside the house.
Melanie Andrews was reunited with her family days later.
Leah left Northbridge alone.
Evan's body went home with her.
Official reports blamed the events on a long running rural kidnapping operation associated with an unidentified biological anomaly beneath the Rooke property. The story was buried in the news cycle, and quickly disappeared.
### CLASSIFIED INCIDENT FILE 002
**LOCATION:** Barrow Road, Northbridge County
**PRIMARY INCIDENT:** Rooke Farmhouse
**CONFIRMED DECEASED:** 3
**RECOVERED CAPTIVES:** 1
**ARMORED SUBJECT:** Confirmed
**DESIGNATION: GRAIVER
SECOND CONFIRMED APPEARANCE
**IDENTITY: UNKNOWN**
**AFFILIATION: UNKNOWN**
**ORIGIN: UNKNOWN**
**FILE STATUS: CLASSIFIED**
**END**
Last edited by Machismo (10/03/2026 2:37 am)
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Thread Starter- Machismo
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- Posts: 2,146
Re: Tokuverse - The Confidential Files of Graiver
The Man stood outside of the bar, with his back to the wall as he took a drag from his cigarette.
The Man: I’ve never understood why people tell horror stories in the woods. You’ve already got no lights, no help, and a long walk back to the car. Why give yourself something else to worry about? Of course, sometimes the story is true. There really is a man behind that mask, and he really does kill anyone he finds. The part about him being dead is true, too.
The bartender opened the front door and handed a note to the man, who quickly read it and disposed of it.
The Man: That’s going to make things difficult.
File #003 — The Man in the Pines
Nora Gale noticed the man while Ben was arguing with the padlock. He stood beyond the cabins, his dark coat disappearing against the trees. His face caught the last of the daylight. Nora thought he was wearing a dust mask, they had been warned about mold in the buildings.
Nora Gale: Is that the caretaker?
Ben Tully looked over his shoulder with the key still jammed in the lock.
Ben Tully: Roy? Probably. Ask him why he gave me the wrong key.
Nora raised a hand. The man did not wave back. The padlock opened, and Ben caught his knuckles against the gate. Maya Ortiz laughed, apologized, and laughed again when he examined the scrape. When Nora looked back, the man had gone.
Camp Blackpine had been empty for eight years. Ben's aunt had bought it at auction, and he had offered his friends two hundred dollars each to clear the buildings before Monday's demolition. All four were in their twenties and short of money.
The lodge faced the lake. Six cabins and a shower block followed a gravel loop through the pines. A narrow trail led to a boathouse on the western shore. Nora had spent two childhood summers here. She remembered wet towels and compulsory singing before breakfast.
Maya Ortiz: You look happy to be back.
Nora Gale: I hated this place.
Maya Ortiz: Why did you come?
Nora Gale: Two hundred dollars.
Owen Pike waited for Maya to stop leaning against the crate he was lifting. She kissed his cheek before helping. The caretaker, Roy Fenner, had parked beside the lodge. A note on the office door said he was checking the north fence. Ben called his name, received no answer, and found the building keys beneath an overturned flowerpot.
They worked until the porch lights became brighter than the sky. Ben sorted tools while Nora counted mattresses and Maya photographed furniture for auction. Owen found a swimming medal and wore it through dinner.
After they ate, Nora carried the trash out to the dumpster. A sharp scraping sound came from beyond the shower block, followed by a knock against wood. She stopped with the dumpster lid open. Through the trees she could see a narrow band of light from one of the cabin windows, although they had left every cabin dark.
Nora Gale: Roy?
The scraping stopped and the light disappeared. A squirrel dropped onto the fence. Nora watched it go, annoyed at the relief she felt. Whatever Roy was doing, he could do it without her.
By half past eight, Ben had sorted the kitchen inventory into three piles. Maya held up a kettle with something dead inside it.
Maya Ortiz: Ew. Gross. Hey, does she want him as well?
Ben Tully: Put it in the trash.
Maya Ortiz: Which pile is that now?
He pointed with a screwdriver. Maya dropped the kettle, announced she was taking the first shower, and collected her bag. Owen went with her to check the hot water. Nora watched their flashlights move along the gravel loop. The shower block was less than forty yards away, close enough that she could hear Maya protesting when Owen tried to test the water on her. The office telephone had no dial tone. Nora found one bar of reception beside the flagpole and sent her sister a message. Inside, Ben was looking for somewhere to plug in his laptop. The lights went out while she was putting her phone away.
For a few seconds she could hear Ben moving around in the kitchen. His phone light appeared in the doorway, catching the dust they had stirred up. The shower block remained lit, fed by a separate cable running from the maintenance shed.
Ben Tully: Stay there. I'll check the breaker.
Nora stayed on the porch. A man's shape stood beside the shower block. She assumed it was Owen until she noticed the height. This man nearly reached the top of the doorway. Something pale covered his face. Nora lifted her phone, but its light could not reach him. He turned toward the entrance and passed out of sight. She called Owen's name. The shower continued running.
Ben had left his large flashlight on the kitchen counter. Nora took it and followed the gravel, keeping the lodge at her back. Halfway there, Owen emerged from the men's side carrying two damp towels.
Owen Pike: She says the pressure's better than our apartment. She wants to move in.
Nora Gale: Someone just went in there.
Owen looked at the door marked WOMEN. He called to Maya, waited, and called again. Water pattered steadily on tile.
Owen Pike: Maya, we're coming in.
The room smelled of bleach. Three sinks faced a spotted mirror. Maya's bag lay on a bench with her sweatshirt folded beside it. Water ran beneath the last shower door. Owen approached while Nora checked the changing area. She moved her light across the coat hooks and found a muddy handprint on the wall, higher than she could comfortably reach.
Owen Pike: Maya?
He opened the stall door. Maya sat beneath the running shower, still wearing her jeans and boots. Her head rested at an angle Nora could not make sense of until Owen knelt in the water and tried to lift it. Blood thinned around his knees.
Nora's ambulance training got her moving. She found no pulse and saw the wound beneath Maya's hair. Owen kept asking her to do something while she looked for somewhere to put her hands. A board creaked behind the changing partition. In the mirror above the sinks, a white mask appeared beside Nora's shoulder.
The man came around the partition with a heavy axe hanging from one hand. His mask was carved wood, long and narrow, with black slots for eyes and three grooves cut over the mouth. Iron staples held a crack in the left cheek. Beneath the collar of his canvas coat, his skin was gray and split. Owen stood between him and the stall.
Nora Gale: Owen, move!
The axe caught him beneath the ribs before he could turn. He struck the sinks with enough force to tear one from the wall. Nora slipped in the water as the man pulled his weapon free. She grabbed Maya's bag and threw it into his face. The strap caught around the blade, delaying him long enough for her to reach the outer door.
Owen was still moving. Nora saw his hand lift from the tiles, and the need to go back nearly stopped her. The masked man stepped over him and reached for her instead. She slammed the door against his arm, pushed with her whole body, and felt it move backward despite her weight.
Nora Gale: Ben!
His flashlight swung across the gravel. Nora ran toward it as the shower door struck the outside wall behind her.
Ben caught her by the shoulders, heard Maya's name, and saw the man coming out of the shower block.
Ben Tully: Get in the van.
They ran to the van. Both front tires were flat, their sidewalls cut. Behind them, the white mask moved steadily between the trees. Ben tried Roy's pickup. The driver's door opened a few inches before stopping against something. Nora shone her light through the window. Roy lay across the seats with his feet jammed beneath the steering wheel. His throat had been cut. Blood had dried down the front of his work shirt. Ben shut the door. His hand stayed on the handle for a moment.
Nora Gale: Inside. Ben, come on!
They pushed a refrigerator across the kitchen entrance and a table against the front doors. Ben took a fire extinguisher from the wall. Her phone showed no service. She remembered the flagpole, went to the nearest window, and held the phone against the glass. One bar appeared. Her first call failed. The second connected to an emergency operator.
Nora gave the camp's name and road number, repeated the road number when asked, and described the man. The operator asked whether the attacker was still there.
Nora Gale: I can't see him.
A deputy was already on the lake road. The operator told them to stay inside and remain on the line. Nora put the phone on the sill. Ben kept looking toward the shower block.
Ben Tully: We should have got Owen!
Nora Gale: We couldn't!
Ben Tully: You don't know that!
She could still see Owen's hand moving. Sitting beneath the window, she described the mask to the operator. Something scraped along the lodge wall. Nora switched off her flashlight. The scraping passed the window, metal ticking against nails in the siding. A floorboard creaked on the porch. The operator spoke again. Nora snatched up the phone and lowered the volume.
A pale shape rose at the bottom of the window. Nora crawled backward without standing. The man had crouched to look through the glass. He stayed there, studying the place she had been sitting, while she backed into the legs of a table. Ben saw her expression and started toward her. She held up her hand. The mask turned toward the tiny sound of the operator speaking. The axe drove through the window.
Nora covered her head as glass struck the floor around her. A gloved hand reached inside, found the sash lock, and tore it away with a piece of the frame. Ben discharged the extinguisher directly into the opening. White powder filled the kitchen. The hand withdrew. Glass crunched beneath a boot. Nora covered her streaming eyes. She hoped the powder had blinded him, but she had not heard a cough. A car engine rose beyond the camp gate. Blue lights passed across the walls. A patrol car entered the clearing, its spotlight settling on the man beside Roy's pickup. Deputy Helen Price got out behind her open door with her pistol raised.
Deputy Helen Price: Put the weapon on the ground!
The man walked toward her. Price repeated the order. Nora shouted through the window that he had killed people, and the deputy fired as he reached the edge of the headlights. The first shot turned his shoulder. The next two struck his chest. He staggered, stepped forward, and fell onto the gravel. Ben let out a breath that broke halfway through. Price stayed behind the car door. She called for more units and an ambulance, keeping her gun on the fallen man.
Deputy Helen Price: Both of you, come to me. Keep clear of him.
They moved the table and crossed the clearing, watching the body. Its hand remained closed around the axe. Price opened her rear passenger door.
Nora Gale: There are three people. The shower block and the truck. Please, Owen might—
Deputy Helen Price: I'll get help to them. Sit down for me.
Ben slid across the rear seat. Nora followed, and Price shut the door. Through the partition, Nora could hear the deputy reporting the mask to dispatch. The voice that answered asked her to repeat herself. Price glanced at the body.
As dispatch mentioned an old case, the man's hand opened. Nora hit the window with her palm. Price saw the movement and raised her weapon again. The body rolled onto its side. Beneath a tear in the coat, Nora could see a dark wound where his chest should have moved with breathing. Gravel had stuck to the exposed flesh. He pushed himself upright without making a sound. Price fired twice more. A piece broke from the mask, exposing a sunken eye and a strip of bare cheekbone. He kept coming.
The deputy backed around the front of the patrol car, trying to keep it between them. He struck the hood with the axe and dragged its curved tip through the metal. Price fired at his leg. His knee bent the wrong way, straightened, and bore his weight again. The rear doors would not open from inside.
Ben kicked at the window beside him. Nora reached through the gap in the partition for the front door handle, but her fingers fell short. Outside, Price shouted at them to stay down. The killer caught her arm over the hood. Her pistol struck the windshield and slid into the gutter beneath it.
The deputy's scream stopped before Nora reached the handle. Price fell beside the car, close enough that Nora could see her face through the glass. The masked man bent, took the keys from her belt, and looked at the rear seat. Ben's third kick broke his window. He cleared glass with his overshirt and climbed through as the lock on Nora's side clicked open.
Nora crawled after him. A hand closed around her ankle and pulled her flat across the seat. Ben caught her wrists from outside. For a moment she hung between them, her jacket twisting around her throat. The axe struck the window frame above Ben's head. He dragged her out, fell backward beneath her weight, and screamed when the blade caught his leg. Nora pulled him behind the car before the killer could raise it again.
The western trail lay beyond the lodge. She could see the old white marker nailed to a pine. The county road was half a mile away through those woods, but the man stood between them and the gate. Nora got Ben's arm across her shoulders and led him toward the marker. Behind them, the patrol radio asked Deputy Price to respond.
Ben could put some weight on his injured leg, though every few steps his knee gave. Nora could feel his blood soaking through her jeans. They left the gravel and entered the pines, where their flashlight showed roots only when they were already stepping over them. The footsteps behind them did not hurry. Each time they seemed to gain ground, a branch broke closer behind them. He was cutting through the trees while they followed the trail.
At the first junction she pulled Ben away from the road marker and down a slope toward the lake. A rotting bench stood beside the path. She helped him beneath it, knelt in front of him, and switched off the light. Ben caught her wrist.
Ben Tully: Don't leave me.
Nora Gale: I'm not going anywhere.
She pressed Ben's folded overshirt against his leg. Through the trees, the patrol lights kept turning the woods blue. She could hear its engine. A twig snapped above the slope. Nora lowered herself beside Ben. Through the gap beneath the bench she saw boots pass along the upper trail. One sole had peeled loose at the toe. The axe hung low enough to brush the ferns. The boots stopped.
Ben's breath caught against her shoulder. Nora put her hand over his mouth, and he gripped it to show he understood. A small animal scratched somewhere in the leaves. The man turned toward it, waited, and continued down the trail. The boathouse stood below them. Across the lake's narrow western arm, holiday cottages lined a public road. On the water, the man could not follow so easily.
Nora Gale: We're going to borrow a boat.
He nodded. She helped him up, and they followed the shore where the trees screened them from the trail. Inside the boathouse, a wooden boat hung in a lifting sling above a repair cradle. Nora dragged another from its rack and found its bottom split from bow to stern.
Ben Tully: The one up there.
The suspended hull looked intact. Nora pressed the winch control. The sling moved a few inches and stopped.
Nora Gale: Come on.
Ben Tully: There's a catch. On the frame.
He pointed to a safety latch above the cradle. Nora climbed onto the workbench, reached across, and released it. The boat descended slowly when she pressed the control again. Its weight creaked through the rafters. Beyond the open doorway, someone stepped onto the wooden landing. Nora released the button. Beneath the hull, she saw boots in the doorway. Ben sat beside the slipway, trapped beyond the boat. Nora could not reach him without crossing the doorway. She raised her flashlight and struck the side of the suspended hull.
Nora Gale: Here!
The mask appeared around the bow. Nora backed along the workbench. He followed, pushing the boat aside with one hand. The sling swung, and a rusted pulley shrieked overhead. Nora waited until he stepped beneath the lifting frame. She pressed the button to lower the boat, but he caught her wrist before it could descend far enough. Her flashlight fell into the bilge. The axe rose beside his shoulder. Ben pulled the emergency release.
The sling dropped. The wooden boat struck the killer across the back and drove him onto the repair cradle. One of its supports punched through his coat and pinned him to the floor. Nora fell against the workbench as the winch cable whipped across the rafters. Ben still held the release lever. Nora looked at the body trapped beneath the hull. The mask faced the ceiling. Its remaining eye was open, filmed white, without the smallest movement.
Ben Tully: Is he dead?
Nora almost said yes. The gloved fingers tightened around the axe. She stumbled backward. The boat shifted as the man pushed against it. Wood split where the support had entered his body. He did not try to pull himself free; he rose through it, bringing a piece of the broken cradle with him. Nora grabbed a boat hook and drove its point into the gap beneath his mask. The hook struck bone. He caught the shaft, pulled it from her hands, and threw it into the lake. Ben tried to stand. His injured leg folded, leaving him against the wall beside the water. Nora moved in front of him with nothing left to hold.
The killer caught her jacket and forced her against a support post. Her boots scraped for purchase on the wet boards. She struck his arm, reached for the mask, and felt cold skin beneath its edge. He lifted the axe. Nora turned her face away from the blade. Metal struck metal above her head.
A black gauntlet had closed around the axe shaft. The man holding it stood between the killer and the door, cyan eyes bright beneath the long fins of his helmet. Red lines ran through black armor and sharp silver-gray plates. Graiver pulled the killer's hand from Nora's jacket and drove his fist through the center of the mask.
The impact threw the man across the boathouse. He struck the far wall and broke through a rack of oars. Graiver turned toward Nora.
Graiver: Take him outside.
Nora nodded and got beneath Ben's arm. Behind her, the oars shifted. The killer came out of the wreckage with half his mask hanging from its straps. What remained beneath it was unmistakably dead. His jaw had burned down to exposed teeth, the skin around his eyes lay tight against the skull. The holes in his chest had begun closing with something dark and stringy.
Graiver met him before he reached the door. The axe struck his shoulder, throwing sparks against the wall. He trapped the blade beneath his arm and drove an elbow into the killer's neck. Bone cracked. The head sagged sideways, but the hands kept fighting. Nora lowered Ben onto the landing. Graiver kept forcing the killer away from the doorway, giving them room to leave. The killer seized Graiver by the throat and drove him into a support beam. The roof shuddered. Graiver's boots left the boards, and Nora felt the hope she had barely allowed herself begin to fail. A blade extended from Graiver's forearm. He severed the killer's left wrist, dropped, and kicked the damaged knee sideways. Two punches drove the man into the workbench.
The hand on the floor crawled toward its owner. Nora pulled Ben back from it. Graiver looked down, planted his boot over the fingers, and ground them into the boards. Red light brightened along his arm.
As the killer stood and swung his axe, Graiver stepped inside its reach and drove a hand into his wounded chest. Black strands stretched between broken ribs and Graiver's wrist, pulling tight as he drew his arm back. The thing made its first sound. It came from deep in the damaged chest, a low, furious noise that shook dust from the rafters. Graiver tore the darkness free and closed his fist around it. Red light flashed through his fingers. The black strands burned away. The killer staggered toward him, still reaching, but the wounds no longer closed. Graiver drove him out through the rear wall.
Nora covered Ben as boards struck the landing. Through the opening she saw the killer crash onto the stony shore, rise onto one knee, and lift the axe again. Graiver stepped onto the broken wall frame. Light ran down his right leg, white at its center and red along the edges. He launched himself across the gap.
The kick struck the killer through the chest. Fire spread through the ruined coat and along both arms, consuming the moving fingers before they could close. The axe dropped into the shallows. By the time Graiver landed, the body had broken into burning fragments across the stones. Nora waited for them to move. Graiver stood over the remains until the last red light went out. He picked up a piece of the white mask, turned it in his hand, and crushed it.
Nora Gale: Can he come back?
Graiver looked at the fragments in his palm.
Graiver: Not from that.
Ben began shaking. Nora knelt beside him and kept pressure on his leg while Graiver looked toward the approaching lights on the far shore. Somebody had finally heard the shooting.
She held his hand until the first rescuers reached the landing. When she looked for Graiver again, he was gone. They found Roy, Maya, Owen, and Deputy Price before dawn.
Ben would keep his leg. Nora brought coffee to his hospital room, and they sat without speaking. At the café, she had nearly ordered four.
###CLASSIFIED INCIDENT FILE 003
**LOCATION: Camp Blackpine, Northbridge County
**PRIMARY INCIDENT:** Reanimated Serial Killer
**CONFIRMED DECEASED:** 4
**RECOVERED SURVIVORS:** 2
**ARMORED SUBJECT:** Confirmed
**DESIGNATION: GRAIVER
THIRD CONFIRMED APPEARANCE
**IDENTITY: UNKNOWN**
**AFFILIATION: UNKNOWN
**ORIGIN: UNKNOWN**
**FILE STATUS: CLASSIFIED**
**END**
-
Café Noir had emptied by the time the young man arrived. He wore a charcoal coat over a burgundy waistcoat. His dark hair was neatly parted, his shoes clean despite the wet street. He appeared barely old enough to order anything stronger than coffee.
Bartender: Kitchen's closed.
Young Man: That's all right. I'm looking for the man who sits there.
He indicated the stool beside the window. An ashtray and an untouched drink remained on the counter.
Bartender: He's out.
Young Man: I know. This is for his next job.
The bartender left the envelope where the young man placed it.
Bartender: So you're the one handing out the notes. You got a name? I'm not the only one who is curious.
Young Man: I'm just passing a message.
Bartender: Is that what you want me to tell him?
Young Man: Fine...call me Grimoire.
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Thread Starter