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Role-Playing Place » The Neighborhood » Stories » Curiosity Killed the Cat (Look if you dare... :3)
Curiosity Killed the Cat
NarutardDate: Tu, 27.December.11, 8:09 PM | Message # 1
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The curtain rose slowly upon an empty stage…

The news of Reagan Atkins’ death spread like wildfire throughout the town of Burke. Not one person’s mind could wrap around the fact that the young girl was gone. It wasn’t just the suddenness of her demise, but how unique the casualty was that shocked the citizens of Burke. Many a different story would be told if asked of how it happened, but if asked how she was found, every account was the same.

The back corner of the stage burst to life. A woman sat, wringing her hands with fright as she recounted her tale to the man sitting across from her. He held a reporter’s notebook in his hands.

“Mrs. Atkins, I apologize but I cannot understand you, can you repeat that?” The reporter, whose name was unknown, asked softly, his eyes kind but pen poised at the ready. Mrs. Atkins took a deep breath and began again.

“She was just lying on her bed; her music was still playing…” Mrs. Atkins paused to clear her throat. “It was getting late, so I went upstairs to tell her to turn it off, but when I walked in, she…she…” Mrs. Atkins dissolved into tears again and didn’t continue. The reported slowly closed his notebook and thanked her softly. He left, defeated.

The light died but reappeared in the opposite corner. A group of young men sat at a makeshift bar, holding empty glasses in their hands. The reporter walked back onto stage and sat down next to them.

“Excuse me,” He said, though he was interrupting no conversation. “I was wondering if you knew anything on Reagan Atkins’ death.” The men turned to look at him. A moment of silence pervaded; no man answered. Another light came on behind the reporter.

“It’s a shame what happened to her,” The reporter turned to look at the new character. The man sat up, pushing his aged cowboy hat back. “Poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” The reporter asked curiously as he scribbled the word into his notebook. The cowboy nodded.

“Poisoned, by tattoo. When her momma found her dead in the bed, her shirt had been ripped open and that disgusting word was tattooed across her shoulder…” He took a long drink from the unnamed liquid in his glass. The reporter noted every word before looking up.

“What word?” He asked, but the cowboy was gone. The stage went dark again.


Tis now the very witching time of night when hell itself breathes contagion
 
NarutardDate: Tu, 27.December.11, 8:09 PM | Message # 2
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Quiet shuffles sounded before the entire stage filled with light, set as a dusty apartment or hotel room, either would work. The reporter walked in with a sigh and tossed his notebook to a distant corner, sinking into his couch. He ran a tired hand over his face.

“I need a shave,” He mumbled as he flipped on the television. This middle-of-nowhere town had nothing good but reruns of old shows that were probably brand new to them. Finding the television useless, he shut if off again and stood, yawning. He walked to his bed and sat down slowly. Nothing, nothing at all was helping. “What was that damn words tattooed across her shoulder?” He asked aloud. Nothing replied but the soft creak of a plank, as if someone had stepped there. The reporter’s head shot up.

“Who’s there?” He asked, reaching behind himself for something. Nobody replied. His eyes scanned the stage right and left but nothing had moved, the dusty set still in disarray. The lights fizzled and flashed, losing focus. A dark figure moved at the edge of the stage and the reporter drew a gun, firing several times. Movement was absent. The reporter stood, the in his hand shaking as he took a step forward. Silence was broken by his ragged breathing.

“Show yourself.”

With no response, he spun around, his gun sweeping the vicinity of the stage. Behind him stepped forth an older man whose face was hidden in shadow. Somewhere, someone screamed and the lights fell to black. Shadows moved upon the dark stage and someone fell with a muffled thump. The stage slowly faded to light and the reporter lay upon the floor, a dark red pool around him, the word MEDDLESOME across his chest.


Tis now the very witching time of night when hell itself breathes contagion
 
NarutardDate: Tu, 27.December.11, 8:10 PM | Message # 3
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The reporter’s death shocked the town into silence. The chief of police could get nothing out of their mouths. Everyone was scared stiff, realizing now that Reagan Atkins’ death was no mere coincidence but pure murder. Under mutual understanding, no one dared to talk for they knew if they did they were next on the List; the List of Death.

The lights faded to life and the chief of police stood alone, looking down at the reporter’s body. He face was grim but her fingers were shaking. “Second death in a week,” She said, “by the same method of poison entering the blood through tattoo.”

The chief of police sighed and looked around for a moment. The room was barren of anything useful but the reporter’s gun and a few empty candy wrappers. She turned away, looking sick. As she turned, something caught her eye and she walked to the corner of the stage. A light followed her, following her every movement like a puppy.

“Now what is this?” She said, kneeling to pick up a dusty notebook. Across the front was a faded name. “Marcus…Gibson…” She read, sitting back. “Hmmm…” This was the reporter’s notebook. She cast a nervous glance around the stage but nothing of concern jumped out at her. Her eyes fell to Gibson’s body, the word MEDDLESOME screaming at her.

The stage dimmed and the chief of police looked back down. With fingers shaking, she slowly opened the cover. His previous stories filled the majority of the notebook, his chicken scratch handwriting hard to decipher. He definitely had a thing for odd cases. A sketch of a two headed chicken filled a page and the chief quickly flipped to a different one. With each turn of the page, the lights grew darker and she began to flip more frantically, searching. Where were his notes on Reagan?!

(So? Whatcha think? I'll post more once two people comment :3)


Tis now the very witching time of night when hell itself breathes contagion
 
ToxicDate: Tu, 27.December.11, 9:26 PM | Message # 4
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( =o Can I count as two people? Please? )

I am only one, but I am one.
 
NarutardDate: Tu, 27.December.11, 9:42 PM | Message # 5
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(Finee.....)
The book fell to the floor, the sound echoing as the chief of police let it slip between her fingers. It lay open to the last page, several pages having been torn out. Across the paper was the word MEDDLESOME. The chief of police backed up slowly, wide eyes trained upon the word. She stood and ran out, frightened. The stage darkened and minutes passed. Only the quiet sounds of a set change were heard.

Weeks had passed since the reporter and Reagan Atkins had been found dead, poisoned by tattoos. To everyone in the town it had faded away but still lurked around every corner and in every shadow. Everyday life in Burke resumed, the sun rose and fell as always, but questions still floated here and there. To the chief of police, these questions were all that mattered.

Two spotlights followed the chief of police and Mrs. Atkins on stage, set as a scene in a park. A distant gravestone stood in stark contrast against a cloudy backdrop. A plastic tree trembled over a lone park bench, as if a cold wind tickled it. The chief of police followed Mrs. Atkins with a set determination. “Please, just let me ask a few more questions,” She begged of Mrs. Atkins, who shook her head. She pulled her purse onto her shoulder.

“I’ve answered all I can on all I know. Please, you just need to stop before you end up like that poor reporter…” She smiled kindly at the chief of police.

“Please, can you at least tell me what the word was across her shoulder?” She pressed. Mrs. Atkins answered with a glare.

“No. I do not say that damned word anymore. The pain it has brought me, my family, and this town…no, I will not repeat it. Goodbye,” She turned and placed the bouquet in her arms in front of the grave before leaving, the curtain moving slightly as she walked past. The chief sighed and sat down on a bench, head in her hands.

“Why does this murderer refuse to let us know the story behind Reagan’s death? And why did they go out of their way to kill a harmless reporter?” She looked up, eyes scanning the auditorium before her. A person coughed, another adjusted in his seat. Not one held the answers. She stood and walked slowly to the grave. The chief pressed her fingers to the name gently. “What’s your story?” She whispered. A rivulet of water ran down the stone and then the sky began to pour.

The chief looked up as fake thunder boomed and the lights flickered and flashed. A bright, white light filled the stage and then everything went black. A woman screamed and a child began to cry. The shrieks only stopped by a hiccup now and then. Thunder boomed again and the lights flashed. On and off again. On. Off. On…Off. Each time visibility was gained for a moment the image upon the stage burned clearer into the retinas.

The chief of police lay face down on the stage, her hair in thrown and tangled across her face. Her shirt had been torn open and across her back in long, loopy letters was the saying Curiosity Killed the Cat. The fake rain rolling off her back was stained red as the tattoo bled from being recently cut. Burke’s chief of police was dead…and the lights died with her.


Tis now the very witching time of night when hell itself breathes contagion
 
Dillon0909Date: Tu, 27.December.11, 9:59 PM | Message # 6
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Impressive

I love Spooky Crap :D
 
NarutardDate: Tu, 27.December.11, 10:03 PM | Message # 7
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When the death of the chief of police reached her son’s ears, things began to change. Donovan Kent was known for his boisterous attitude and determination so most assumed that he would be the next to come around with questions. People stopped coming to school, doors remained forever locked, and the mail started to pile up in mail boxes. No one dared to go outside, for fear of being next. The town of Burke became a ghost town the day the chief of police died. Deputy Sheriff Ricky Johnson was the only one brave enough to check up on the now orphaned boy.

The deputy stood along on the stage, blinking in the sudden light. He looked around confused. Where was Donny?

Soon thereafter, Donny burst onto the stage, his shirt ripped open. “Run!” He screamed frantically at the crown. “Run before he has reason to kill you too!” He stopped in the middle of the stage, breathing heavy. In bold across his chest was his own tattoo, rising and falling with every strangled breath were the words Father of Her Child. Everyone remained, frozen in shock.

Donny groaned and grabbed his chest in pain, falling to his knees. “Run,” He whispered, pitching forward. The lights quickly died.

The curtain fell on a dead stage.

A young girl sat in her hospital bed, listening to the gentle beep of her heart monitor. Her hands rested on her bulging stomach as she watched the mounted television.

“News of the Theatre Massacre has intrigued those all across the state of Vermont.” The news reporter said. “None have yet pieced together why this terrible crime fell upon the small town of Burke, but it has captured the attention of every detective in the state. Viewer discretion is advised as we show this video of the burning theatre where the townspeople were trapped.”

The video came on and the girl turned away, still able to visualize quite well. The news woman returned.

“Lone survivor Reagan Atkins was admitted to the hospital yesterday. Injuries stand as so: mild tattoo poisoning in her shoulder and she is three months pregnant. Stay tuned for—” The television screen went black as Reagan glared up at it. Her hand trembled as she set down the remote. The nurse walked in with her breakfast, trying her hardest not to stare at her shoulder.

“Are you ready to talk yet?” She asked cautiously. Reagan shook her head. She was sure her shoulder said enough, the word Slut screaming the story to the world.

(FIN)


Tis now the very witching time of night when hell itself breathes contagion
 
Ilovedogs2Date: Tu, 27.December.11, 11:10 PM | Message # 8
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....

It's time.
 
NarutardDate: Tu, 27.December.11, 11:21 PM | Message # 9
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Soooo ILD? You acted all excited, I wanna know your opinion!

Tis now the very witching time of night when hell itself breathes contagion
 
Ilovedogs2Date: We, 28.December.11, 3:02 AM | Message # 10
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Totally unexpected ending. I think I know who. Plus a pretty good twists here and there

It's time.
 
NarutardDate: We, 28.December.11, 3:07 AM | Message # 11
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biggrin Is it good to send in with my application for govie school then?

Tis now the very witching time of night when hell itself breathes contagion
 
Ilovedogs2Date: We, 28.December.11, 4:08 AM | Message # 12
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...maybe not for school application

It's time.
 
NarutardDate: We, 28.December.11, 4:16 AM | Message # 13
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They like suspense and pushing the envelope though...dammit I don't have time to right another!!!

Tis now the very witching time of night when hell itself breathes contagion
 
Role-Playing Place » The Neighborhood » Stories » Curiosity Killed the Cat (Look if you dare... :3)
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