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[Sandman]; POTW I vs. Maggie McIntyre
Topic Started: May 17 2016, 12:52 AM (62 Views)
Indrid Calder
EWA World Heavyweight Champion


They walk side by side through the backstage corridor, wolves in the guise of men, hunched and HATEful, Willmott just a quivering collection of limbs left on the floor beyond the curtains. He was the first. He will not be the last.

Calder has a soot-gray hooded shroud drawn down low across his face, his expression grim. West sports a sickening grin behind his protective mask. NOTHING has that familiar sinister gleam in his eyes once again, a look that promises dark clouds on the horizon.

These three vessels cleave their way through the corridor, backstage attendants making themselves scarce, production crew personnel flattening themselves against the wall and trying desperately to look busy, and the eyes of cautious, wary Warriors of all shapes and sizes watching the progress of the HATEful ones.

It’s a veritable parting of the red sea…

Everyone is learning very quickly.

These are the halls of HATE now.

HATE does not forgive.

HATE is an equal opportunity razor-tipped war machine that will chew you the fuck up and shit you out without even breaking stride.

HATE is here…

And HATE springs eternal.

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Calder sits cross-legged in a circle surrounded by gray candles, darkened wax dripping down to creep in tendrils across the floor. He wears only tattered jeans, the rigid muscle of his upper body tensed and motionless. His eyes are closed, the knife-blue gleam thankfully concealed for the moment.

Allegiances have been made. Calder has aligned himself with battle-tested veterans, vessels of the most formidable kind. NOTHING, one of the most conniving, guileful creatures to ever set foot in the industry. William West, pure brutality, unrestrained aggression with fresh fire burning in the furnace of his soul. Just as Calder’s victims are chosen carefully, so too are his allies. These HATEful men are now his brethren. Their hearts beat black, his favorite color, and oh—such sweet massacres await them.

Calder’s eyes finally open, just soul-windows to windy, forgotten landscapes.

A black and white candid photograph of Maggie McIntyre lies in front of him, the candlelight painting her beautiful, pallid face in amber tones. There’s a ruffling of black silken feathers and we become aware of a rusted bird perch near Calder’s dimly lit circle. A raven sits atop the perch, staring down at Calder with eyes like little beads of oil.

Ravens are incredibly intelligent birds, often thought to be “familiars” in a bygone age, and it’s a little known fact that ravens are capable of mimicking human speech patterns in the same way that a parrot can remember and repeat certain phrases. The raven cocks its head a moment, and then it flies from the perch in a blast of dark wings and lands atop Calder’s shoulder.

The raven speaks in Calder’s ear, a croaked word, the bird’s attempt at replicating a human word.

“Her.”

“Her.”

“Her.”

The raven leans forwards, talons firmly placed across Calder’s shoulder, the beak of the bird like a small onyx-colored blade. Calder replies in a whisper.

“It’s always been her, Bram.”


Bram seems almost to listen to the words of The Stranger, and then the raven swoops down atop the photograph. It remains motionless for a moment, and then it begins to peck at Maggie’s face, violently knifing that beak down against her features over and over again. The sound of the beak hitting the photograph is like a small hammer thudding against the floor, leaving Maggie’s likeness a tattered ruin.

The raven finally stops, cocking that head, looking up at his master with those little oil-colored eyes. It croaks out another word, a shrill, eerily humanlike mimicry.

“Chosen.”


Indrid Calder’s only response is a smile, his cheeks taut, his teeth shining in the candlelight.

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I’ve waited for you.

I’ve orchestrated a chain of events to make this moment possible.

I’ve been patient, but you’re worth it.

Do you dream, Maggie?

Those silken sheets, that soft, delicious body clutching at the pillows, digging furrows into the cloth, the eyes fluttering as the deep REM sets in. That’s when this world slips away, Maggie. That’s when doorways open. Anything could come through those doorways.

Anything at all.

You’re so beautiful when you’re asleep. I like the way you sometimes nibble on the tip of your thumbnail, chewing at the black polish there. I like the way your sable hair falls against your cheek. I love how you curl your knees up close to your chest, almost protective, as though you want to ward off the little cruelties of the world.

I could watch you sleep for hours, Maggie.

Are you familiar with sleep paralysis? It’s a common phenomenon. People from all cultures and walks of life have experienced it. You awaken—or you think you do—but all is dark, all is strange, and you cannot move. Your limbs are rigid, the limbs of a mannequin, and they won’t serve you anymore. Your heart starts to beat so much faster. There’s something wrong, something so unexplainably wrong, but you cannot fathom what it is. You are immobile. You are helpless.

And then the shadows come, Maggie. They loom over you. They lord over you. They watch you and they know that you can do nothing, and they relish that you can do nothing. What are they, Maggie?

I’ll never tell. ;)

Can you weave, Maggie? You should take up the trade. You should weave until your fingers bleed, constructing dreamcatcher after dreamcatcher. The Native Americans believed that the webs of the dreamcatchers allow the good, sweet dreams to slip safely through…while the dark, naughty nightmares get tangled up in the web and never make it into your pretty black-haired head.

But some nightmares are persistent, Maggie.

Some nightmares are reoccurring.

Some nightmares are devoted…to slipping through the web.

Maybe the dreamcatchers would still make unique decorations. I think you would have enough room for them. Your apartment seems very spacious from the inside. And even the walls…smell like lilacs.

Michael doesn’t want you like I want you, Maggie.

Michael chases down old demons, and he’ll never detach him from Mister Haven and his machinations.

I want all parts of you, Maggie.

Every hair on your head.

Every tear in your eye.

Every bone beneath your skin.

Every touch, every taste, every scent…

I’m a romantic at heart, Maggie.

I’d like to hold you while we’re in a pine box together, dirt pouring down overtop the closed, intimate box. I’d hold you even while you scream in the dark. I’d hold you even while you starve beneath the soil. I’d go on holding you even when you're dead and dry and desiccated, your eyes just sunken globs falling back into the holes where that pretty face used to be.

I want you, Maggie.

I’ll have you.

Soon.


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The raven pays no mind to the man named Michael Draven or the woman named Maggie McIntyre. The raven pays no mind to the two of them exiting the Jeep and walking off, talking to each other.

The raven has eyes only for the purple lace that falls unnoticed from Maggie McIntyre’s duffel bag. Just a little lace used to tie back hair…but the raven stabs down a sharp black beak, retrieving it and taking it to the overcast skies that wait above.

Bram flies overtop Boston’s cityscape, the wind currents carrying him to an open window far across the city. The raven glides through the window and hops across stacks of books that reach the ceiling, scrabbling across hard covers and approaching The Stranger that stands in front of the mirror.

Calder is busy shaving his cheeks with a keen straight razor, casually flicking the shaving cream down into a swirling basin. Bram lands atop his shoulder, and Calder lifts up his hand and allows the raven to deposit the purple lace into his open palm.

The Stranger brings it to his nose, inhaling deeply, his nostrils flaring as his knife-blue eyes flutter closed. Bram croaks out another word, mimicked, eerie, a hollow echo from the raven’s silken chest.

“Soon.”


Calder closes his hand into a balled fist, the purple lace held ever so tightly.

He answers the raven with the exact same word.

“Soon.”

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