Orphaned Cases - FluffyRoRo, Pianolote, leafgilly - ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken (2024)

FIELD NOTES 1A: LOWRIDER

Carlie cranked the steering wheel of her beloved 1985 Jeep Wagoneer, and the wheels crunched on stray chunks of cracked concrete as she backed parallel-style into the first free parking spot she’d found in an hour and a half. Well, it was technically the third. But the ever-so-notorious Manhattanites had stayed true to their reputation and bullied her with horns that beckoned the devil himself the second she wasted an iota of their time. And if her hunched shoulders, white knuckles, and close-lipped grimace weren’t enough to indicate the quality of her parking job, the dull creak of metal on metal certainly was.

In short, Carlie Simone was not having a good time of it.

It was another few minutes until she’d wedged her vehicle into a position that wouldn’t feed her side mirror to a speeding taxi. She celebrated this achievement by wrenching the parking brake into place and slumping over her steering wheel with a sigh of pyrrhic victory.

An instant later she snapped up, spine straight and brows furrowed behind her oversized, co*ke-bottle glasses. She was twenty minutes late to a consultation and God knew how many blocks away from the meeting spot, but she’d be damned if she let that deter her now.

This was her first job. Carlie was desperately strapped for cash—no more than 57 (or was it 67?) dollars to her name—and she was not going to let it slip through her fingers if her source was still breathing The Big Apple’s smog!

She snatched her purple and pink overcoat from the passenger seat, checked the pockets for her car keys, her spare car keys (no way she’d face a repeat of that tow truck chase in Raleigh), and her notebook and pencil before throwing open her car door.

It crunched into a streetlight Carlie could’ve sworn was three feet back. She closed it again to scream at her wheel, and then decided it was surface-level enough to ignore.

One click of the door locks later, Carlie was sprinting—gracefully, and with absolutely zero slips or slides—down an icy Manhattan side street in search of her meeting spot.

Crif Dogs was its name, and Carlie found it after only fifteen minutes of searching. She basked in the wave of heat that washed over her in the threshold and smoothed down the devil horn curls that had pulled free from her ponytail. The air smelled of smokey barbecue and fresh bread, and a line from the lunch rush tracked nearly out the doors.

But Carlie wasn’t here for hotdogs. She pulled a stick of gum from her breast pocket and unwrapped it with one hand while she produced paper from her jacket. She’d creased it into the shape of a turtle, but the mad dash to Crif Dogs had given it several chronic conditions. The crinkled shell read:

She worried at the wad of gum under her molars as she reread the note. If her boss hadn’t sent her an advance when Carlie signed on for the job, she’d have been convinced they were scamming her. All her friends from college had applied for jobs in person—interviewed in an actual office, not a phone booth. The only things she knew about her employer were their name, their devotion to anonymity, and that they were willing to pay big money for intel on cryptid sightings all across the U.S.

Well, Carlie wasn’t going to complain. Growing up in rural Indiana instilled in her a deep sense of longing for the outdoors as well as a desperate compulsion to be anywhere but Winona Lake’s outdoors. What better time than hot off the presses of her journalism degree to travel the country?

And all that aside: she really, really needed the money.

She shouldered and shimmied her way past the queue, following the neon red sign that read ‘Telephone’ in the far right corner. The phone booth was nearly swallowed in a mouth of brick teeth and mortar gums. A panel door slid open on squeaking hinges, and Carlie stepped inside.

The space was a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare, and Carlie was grateful that the only jitters she felt came from her impending appointment. She idly folded and unfolded her gum wrapper in her left hand as she picked up the telephone with her right. It was a bright apple red, and the ring tone was active before it even reached her ear.

Two rings and ten pumps of Carlie’s heart later, a woman’s voice spoke: “You’ve reached Crif Dogs. What can I help you with today?”

Carlie looked back through the glass panes, searching for the woman behind the counter. “Ah, hi! Um, please don’t tell?”

“Yes, ma’am. One moment,” said the voice.

Then there was a click and the sound of those brick teeth grinding together. Carlie turned around and watched dumbfounded as the phone booth’s back panel pulled away to reveal a velvet-draped staircase.

The operator said, “Welcome to the Please Don’t Tell, ma’am. Please hang up the phone and join us downstairs.”

Carlie did so without looking away from the stairs, still not certain they’d be there if she glanced away. Her gum wrapper was a mess of haphazard creases, nothing that’d fold cleanly. She pocketed it, pulled out another stick, and gnawed her anxiety away as she made her descent.

The belly of the beast rumbled from dozens of feet dancing along to the tune of a live jazz band. Alcohol flowed freely from the packed full bar, colorful co*cktails sparkling from the sharply tinted neon signs and overhead lights. Cigarette and cigar smoke wafted through the air, softening the hard edges of reality in a haze of grown-up pleasures.

Carlie, 21 and fresh out of small town college, stood on the precipice of it all with no idea what the f*ck she was doing.

It was a second, a minute, a millennium later when a man at the end of the bar turned around and faced her. He wore an all gray suit and had a thick winter overcoat and flat cap slung over the stool to his left. The man rose and approached her, hands in his pockets. “Marshall’s new girl?” he asked.

Right. That was it. She was working.

“Oh! Yes, that’s me. I’m Carlie Simone. I, uh, got a bit turned around on my way here.”

“Not from here?” her contact said, gesturing for her to follow him back to the bar. “You’re lucky Marshall knows people. You show up this late to any other meeting spot with any other New Yorker, and they’d have left ya the second the minute hand passed five.” He picked up his drink, downed the rest, and raised a finger to the bartender. “But I’ve slowed down in my old age. I’d gladly waste a day at the finest historic speakeasy in the borough. And it’s Ralph Lauren, by the way. New York Times columnist.”

He finally reached out a hand in greeting, and Carlie took it. Lauren had dry hands and a firm grip, the side of his middle finger sharp with a writing callus. His face looked weathered with age and experience, fine wrinkles framing his lips and eyes.

Something told Carlie that this was the kind of man who knew his city well.

The bartender answered the summons, and the two of them ordered drinks. An old fashioned for Lauren and a tap beer for Carlie, because as much as she wanted to get wasted on Long Islands in the same city that bore the name (close enough?), she had a goddamn job to do.

Time marched to the beating of drums and the swinging, warm resonance of brass. Carlie pulled out her notepad and scribbled down Lauren’s ramblings about New York, both the city and beyond. He spoke of it like an old friend, a hint of nostalgia on his tongue.

Carlie was dizzied on the swirl of her third beer when Lauren finally turned to the topic he’d been asked to discuss. “Cryptids, ghosts, monsters and the like… they’re topics that repel polite company and reputable publishers. You’d be hard pressed to find anyone who’ll die on the hill of the unexplainable, ‘specially when you live in a city this big. Op ed columnists like me get one supernatural story a decade before they’re getting pulled into the office and pink slipped. My suggestion? Head north. Upstate loves its bigfoot and mothman stories. That’s where you’re gonna get the people who’ve got nothin’ but a quiet forest to keep them company, and loneliness loves to talk.”

“So you don’t believe in it?” Carlie said, notepad balanced on her crossed knee.

Lauren raised an eyebrow and sipped his drink. “Never said that. Problem is that most of the stories are bullsh*t. It muddies the waters—makes it impossible to see the real from the imagined. It takes work to root out well-hidden truths, and even more to prove it without sounding like you should be in a mental ward. When you find that diamond in the rough, though? That story that you know in your bones is real, in all its impossible glory?” He whistled. “That’s what my work is all about. And yours, now..”

Carlie caught something in the glint of his eye and the reverence in his tone. Something that she was mostly sure wasn’t from the alcohol swimming behind her eyes. “Have you found any diamonds out there yourself?”

The old man paused and licked the last of the bourbon from his lips. “Ah, it’s that obvious, is it?” He reached down to a satchel resting at his feet and pulled out an old newspaper clipping. The ink was faded from sun exposure, and there were rips and crumples eating away at the edges. “Met this kid back in ‘81. Homeless—his mom died three years prior and he dropped outta school. There are hundreds just like him, except for one day when he starts asking people about a beautiful woman in a white gown who he keeps seeing around this one apartment complex. Now, no one knows what the hell he’s talkin’ about, and the apartment itself is abandoned. Most people write it off as another sad case of drug addiction. But I thought I’d give it a look.”

Lauren rapped on the bartop with his knuckles, right over an op-ed titled ‘The Woman in White.’ “Kid was 24 and had no history of drug addiction—had him tested and everything. Also tried to set him up on my couch, but he just wouldn’t stay! He kept leaving and going back to that same building looking for this mysterious woman. He’d talk about having visions—he’d tell fantastical stories about her and the places she went. Boy could describe what the trade floor of the Towers looks like down to the crown molding on the walls despite him being banned for life. Impossible stuff.”

“So… she’s real?” asked Carlie while staring down at a picture of a smiling young man wearing a thick, worn winter jacket and crooked glasses.

“Never proved it,” said Lauren with a shrug of his shoulders. He stood and slipped an arm into a jacket sleeve. “But the effects she had on that boy are real as real can be. Last I heard he’s still lookin’ for her.”

“What? After—” Carlie checked the article’s date. “Twenty years?”

“She’s a fickle mistress, that Woman in White,” Lauren said wryly as he put on his hat. “Hey, I’ve got to scram, but thanks for listenin’ to an old man’s ramblings. Wishing you luck with your work, newbie. I left my business card. Do call if you’re ever in town and you need anything.”

Lauren merged with the busy crowd, and Carlie watched him dissolve into it. She was alone with her drink and the visage of a troubled soul, twenty years young. He looked so young but so old with his eye bags and bedraggled hair. Maybe the spirit he sought had stolen his soul.

And maybe, even after all this time, he was still trying to steal it back.

“Closing out?” asked the bartender.

Carlie plucked at the bands decorating her fingers. “Actually, can I get a Long Island?”

The bartender nodded, and Carlie placed her notepad next to the newspaper. She was already too drunk to set out on the road today. If she was stranded, she may as well make the most of it. And what better way than booze and ghost hunting?

Her notepad was half filled with notes when the bartender slid her a highball glass and a straw. She took a generous sip and instantly felt the buzz sizzling in her senses, softening her to the absurdity of her plans for the night.

She idly twisted the straw wrapper in her fingers as she looked down at her notes. Marshall had asked her to report on cryptids. It didn’t matter where they were or how she found them. Sure, she might have more luck up north, but as Carlie upended the contents of her wallet onto the table—all 47 dollars—she knew that she’d need to find something in Manhattan before she’d be able to leave.

Carlie dropped half her stack with an origami star made of straw and bubble gum wrapper as a tip, then downed the rest of her drink in one long gulp. The world swam with pleasant swirls as she rose from her seat and set out in search of one Anthony Saxx.

It was time to meet the Woman in White.

- - - - -

FIELD NOTES 1B: VICTIM OF CIRc*msTANCE

For a man who the papers claimed to be homeless and desperate for a woman’s embrace, Anthony Saxx was doing a damn good job of hiding it.

Carlie had spent the last hour stumbling down busy sidewalks and black iced streets (and she never once fell!). She’d finally found the apartment complex mentioned in the newspaper—looking much worse for wear—and there wasn’t a single soul in sight. Which was awfully strange, given that she’d been rubbing shoulders with passerby pretty much since she left the Please Don’t Tell.

She pulled out a new stick of gum as she looked around the desolate block. She and Marshall had talked at length about Carlie’s lack of experience; she’d been repeatedly assured over the phone that she’d learn on the job. Carlie leaned against the brick wall (were those vines growing out of the side?) and waited patiently for her nascent reporter’s instincts to beam directly into her brain from on high. That’s what the folks back at Winona Lake usually did, although they were normally kneeling at pews, not on haunted doormats.

Carlie unwrapped the gum and tossed it into her mouth. She bit down and immediately winced at the surge of chilly air that blew past; gooseflesh stood at attention, each hair raised like tall corn plants under the summer sun. Anthony might show up if Carlie waited long enough, but the wind whispered promises of frostbite in her ear. She decided then to change tacts and tried the door handle.

A solid push did nothing but rattle old wood bones. Pulling, however…

“Okay. Good start,” Carlie whispered to herself as she stepped into the building. It was old and drab, a musty scent wafting through the dusty air. The place looked like thieves ransacked anything that wasn’t nailed down years ago: flickering, dim lights illuminated sun stains where furniture used to be, and a wall of mailboxes sat half opened and rusting on the far wall.

The upstairs was no better. Carlie stepped up five floors of carpets left soggy from leaking roofs and broken windows until she felt something tug at the edge of her awareness. A sense she couldn’t describe. It was just that something in the air—how it looked, felt, smelled, sounded, tasted—felt different. A fish on a line, she was pulled down an invisible path, reeled her towards room 507.

Carlie stared down the door curiously. Something about it was different from all the others. She twirled her gum on her tongue as she let her eyes roam, cataloging every detail.

It was something about how well-used it looked. The door handle was worn, with finger marks polished shiny into it like on a statue’s funny bits. No dust or dirt in sight. And then there was the welcome mat. It was faint, but there were water marks on it—vaguely resembling a shoe tread as well. From melted snow, perhaps?

Had someone been there recently?

The only way to find out was unfortunately firm on its deadbolt. Carlie hummed and crossed her arms. Maybe the old tenant left a spare key somewhere before the place went to sh*t? He hooked her shoe underneath the welcome mat and looked underneath. No key.

“Rats,” she said, chewing on her nail just as much as her gum by that point. “Who locks the door to an abandoned, haunted apartment, anyway?”

The abandoned, haunted apartment answered: “Hello?”

Carlie lurched ten feet into the wall behind her, the scream on her lips swallowed by the gum it sucked back into her windpipe. She doubled over coughing, with tears forming in her eyes and a bruise spotting her elbow from where she’d slammed it into the plaster.

It took her a moment to recover, but when she did, she looked up to see a middle-aged man standing in the doorway to apartment 507. He looked confused, tired, and no small amount afraid.

“You! Anthony Saxx!” exclaimed Carlie.

Anthony said nothing, and his door’s hinges screamed for him as he pushed it closed again.

“Wait!” Carlie threw herself up against the door, managing to catch it before it could latch. “I-I’m a reporter. I just want to talk to you.”

“Pass.” The door pressed harder against her.

“Please, wait! I saw an old article about you—”

“And you want to make fun of me too, huh?” he said.

Carlie squeezed her eyes shut and put voice to the torch Ralph Lauren left with her. “And I believe you!”

Resistance vanished, and Carlie propelled herself straight into the tiled floor inside. “Oww,” she groaned, rubbing gingerly at her nose.

“You… you do?” Anthony asked from where he stood above her.

She blinked up at him and adjusted her glasses. Anthony was short for a man, and his frame was thick from a beer gut and three extra layers of well-used sweaters resting low over his cargo pants. His hair and beard were oily and overgrown, with strands flying in every direction. He blinked down at her with wide, hopeful eyes, and adjusted his crooked, thick glasses.

Carlie frantically found her feet and smoothed her ruffled jacket. She put a finger to the bridge of her glasses, hoping they sparkled in the overhead light. “My name is Carlie Simone, and yes! I believe your story about the Woman in White, and I think it deserves to be told!” She laughed, smile faltering somewhat when she noticed her hand shaking. “If you’re willing to talk to me about it, of course…”

Anthony looked at her with a sudden seriousness, all prior nerves gone. “Are you sure you want to know?” he asked. “She destroys people, things, everything she touches. Just look at this place,” he gestured to the air—the entire building. “Not even the foundation that she treads escapes her wrath.”

Carlie co*cked her head. “Well, you’re still here. And the building’s… still standing.”

“I’m not doing much better, to be honest.” Anthony stepped back into the apartment, reached for an open can of beer on the table, and downed the remainder. “But if you still want to know despite my warning… I’ll show you.”

“Show me what?”

Anthony said, “Decisive proof that she’s real.”

Carlie stepped over the threshold with confident, strong steps. “Please, show me.”

Anthony nodded, inclining his head to invite her to follow him. They walked in silence through a small, dingy kitchen, where he grabbed another beer from the fridge before continuing on. Carlie followed behind, eyeing the living space with some confusion. Did he live permanently in this condemned building?

Finally they left for the hallway and stopped in front of a closed door. Anthony swung it open with a flourish. “Here we are.”

Carlie took one look at the room and hid her hands behind her back so Anthony couldn’t see her fumbling. Countless stolen items decorated the room from floor to ceiling, all organized with a dragon’s hoarding delight. At least fifty pens and pencils sat on an open stretch of tabletop, all neatly labeled with little white slips listing dates and times. There was a clothing rack with womens’ dresses, all many sizes too small for Anthony to wear. And next to that, boxes upon boxes of women’s shoes and makeup. Half looked well-used.

She briefly, desperately wished that Anthony was just an enthusiastic crossdresser or a drag queen or whatever. But Carlie apparently couldn’t have nice things.

Because his obsession was so much more than that. Carlie saw road signs, a police cruiser’s car door, even an entire traffic light resting against the far wall. She hadn’t realized until just now how large those were. How did Anthony even carry these things back here?

“Um… Anthony,” Carlie tried, but the words died on her lips. Items just kept flashing before her eyes, each one a memory Carlie would never know but could imagine nonetheless. A bright pink feather boa. An old broken mirror. A pair of black fingerless gloves. A headband patterned with a zigzag.

And in one corner, a pinboard covered in red string and notes, documenting each and every item in the room.

“What do you think?” Anthony said, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.

Carlie snapped one of the bands on her pointer finger, hard enough to tear skin. “This is theft!” she exclaimed, whipping to face him. When she saw genuine dismay creep onto his face, she impressed herself with her next line of thought: “I can’t publish a story about a man stealing women’s clothes, no matter how real the ‘evidence’ seems to you!”

“It is real!” Anthony said, resolute. He stepped over to the pinboard and gestured to both it and the room. “The Woman in White loves to steal writing utensils. Any time she’s at a restaurant, she’ll take the pen she used to sign the bill. Puts it in the inner lining of her purse. Every one of those pens over there, she stole. Same for the dresses and shoes and makeup. She’s always changing her appearance to whatever suits her best for her task for the day. The white dress is just her favorite style. And she had the city government recalibrate that traffic light to electrocute anything that touched it. She wanted to get rid of this bird that liked to perch on it, or something. And—”

“Anthony!” Carlie yelled. “Can you prove the Woman in White ever used any of these things herself? Like, with pictures. Video? Fingerprints?”

“She wears gloves all the time.”

Carlie wanted to scream. “That doesn’t answer my question!”

Anthony’s expression pinched then, and he bit his lip. “I… I know she used all these things. I know it! But I can’t… prove it like that.”

“And why not?” Carlie said, hands on her hips and tapping her foot.

“Because…” A sigh. “Because I don’t see her doing things. I dream about it.”

Carlie paused for a moment, so stunned by this man’s devotion she almost couldn’t process it. Twenty years he’d been searching for a woman in his dreams—whom he’d never seen in real life—and retracing her steps? Stealing the things she’d touched? And all for what—a good lay? Because as unlucky as Carlie had been on that front, she knew it was easier than whatever the hell this guy was doing.

Finally she faced Anthony. She narrowed her eyes, brow furrowed and mouth open with her palms raised towards the sky.

Anthony’s head fell. “You don’t understand…” His voice lacked its previous vigor. It was said like an old monk’s mantra. Immutable in its truth but not said to convince anyone except himself.

“I don’t understand a lot of things,” Carlie said, pulling out another stick of gum just to feel the smooth foil wrapping between her fingers. “But let’s start with: if this woman is real, what’s she doing? And why are you following her?”

“Oh, that’s easy!” he said, excited like a child called on. “She’s searching for love. Never been able to find it, though. And I just… I don’t know. I know how she feels, I think. Every time she fails to find her love, she hurts.” He put a hand over his chest. “And I do too.”

Carlie looked down at the gum in her hands—at how she’d smashed it into a crumpled ball. She briefly lamented the state of things. She’d spent too much money at the Please Don’t Tell, confident that Lauren’s old lead would bring in more. But Anthony Saxx was obsessed with a ghost, and Marshall had made it clear that Carlie needed to bring in some modicum of evidence to get paid. A condemned apartment filled with stolen city property was more likely to get her arrested and hauled off to jail for aiding and abetting.

A worst case scenario—if she was ever in desperate need of a place to sleep.

She shook her head and put her hands in her pockets. “Well, Mr. Saxx, thank you very much for your time. But unfortunately I don’t believe I can make a scoop out of—”

“Wait!” Anthony said, jumping forward and grabbing her by the arm. “I’ve figured it out.”

Carlie violently tensed and dug her heels in, even as he dragged her towards a door a little further down the hall. “Let me go!”

“I know how you can see her! The same way I do! If you sleep in my bed, you’ll be able to—”

“Get the f*ck off of me, creep!” Carlie hissed. She went from resisting to throwing all her weight into him as he pulled. It sent him careening backwards into the bedroom door.

The old wooden door gave way, hinges coming apart at the seams and crumpling under the sudden force. Anthony collapsed through the doorway with a heavy crunch and didn’t get back up.

Carlie felt the wind gathering at her heels as she prepared to sprint, but the sight of the bedroom stopped her dead.

At the sight of the giant blue crystal hovering above the bed.

- - - - -

FIELD NOTES 1C: WHAT'S YOUR NUMBER

Carlie co*cked her head and blinked rapidly, waiting for the mirage to disappear. When that didn’t dispel the crystal, she tried removing her glasses and wiping them clean. Surely whatever she was seeing was just a smudge on her lenses or a trick of the light or—

Nope. Definitely still floating there.

“What. The f*ck. Anthony.” Carlie slapped her temple and dug her fingers into her hair. “What the hell is that?”

Anthony, still sprawled out on his broken door, inclined his head in the direction of her gaze. “Um, what’s what?”

“The crystal, Anthony,” Carlie deadpanned. “The glowing, sparkling, impossible thing hovering above your bed? Ring any bells?” She gestured manically to the bed.

Anthony giggled, manic right back. “Missy, are you still thinking I’m the crazy one? Because there’s no—ack!”

Carlie had already stopped listening, stepping on and over Anthony to get a better look at the unthinkable. The crystal was ethereally framed by the frost-covered window behind it. It hovered innocuously in the air, rotated gently, and sparkled in the light while bobbing to the pull of an invisible tide.

It reminded her, distantly, of Aunt Gertrude. She always loved her superstitions—tarot readings, crystal healing, natural remedies, and the like. Even if Mom decried it—called it witchcraft—Auntie would always laugh it off and insist that it was just good fun.

Carlie was forbidden as a child from ‘practicing those satanic rituals’ with her, but Aunt Gertrude always found a way to sneak little lessons into their outings. And for a little girl who loved doing things with her hands, dealing tarot cards and touching all the weirdly-shaped crystals in Aunt Gertrude’s collection was a secret, devilish clandestinity that Carlie loved.

All those lessons were coming back to help her now, of all times. The crystal was a six-sided prism, double terminated. Aunt Gertrude would say this particular cut created a ‘connecting bridge between two energy points.’ They were conduits for psychic energy. And if you slept with one, it would improve your ability to recall dreams.

Carlie hated that all the absurd things she’d seen and heard were starting to seem real.

She swiped her hands to cut an invisible thread or knock over a hidden pedestal. The jewel didn’t react to her inspection; it just hovered there. Winking at her. “You really can’t see this thing?” Carlie said, turning around.

Anthony had risen on shaky knees. “I h-have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well,” Carlie said with a slow grin. “That explains why you didn’t lead with this. Would’ve made this a whole lot quicker.”

Then she whipped back around and, curiosity mounting, reached for the crystal with her palm. She felt the slightest buzz of energy where her skin met smooth, cold facet, and then—

The night is alive. A light dusting of snow and fog blankets the busy streets, busybodies crowding the walking paths and roads alike. Neon signs and overhead lights dull and diffuse through the air like smoke in a crowded bar. The world smells like alcohol and smoke and the sweat of a thousand bodies far too close together. The moon peeks through the cloud cover, just barely, behind the Times Square Ball as it rides on its inevitable path towards the new year. Confetti rains down, and the night shakes with excitement.

You hate every second of it.

Your hand appears in your field of vision, gloved and elegant. A glittering crystal gemstone catches the light, and then light is all you see.

You are somewhere new.

A dimly lit, dingy office space. The hanging staleness whispers of black mold and rotting wood. Your palms are clammy, even as a gust of wind from a broken window makes your skin crawl with chills. There is nothing here. Nothing. You’ve combed through the haphazardly stacked boxes and empty furniture more times than you can count. But you do it again until your head is pounding and your apathy overtakes your dismay.

She isn’t here anymore. Or never was.

You must know which is the truth.

A flash.

Another office, but light streams into this one from all directions. The world calls out from below, green and small underneath a vast, cloudless blue. Your heels click on the stone floors and then your gun’s hammer clicks at a man’s head.

A flash. And a shot.

You stare up at an overhead light streaked with a viscous film of fresh blood. It drips from the ceiling, down the walls, and stinks up the room with failure. The wet carpet squelches beneath you as you step over to the last of ten fresh corpses. You heft up it over your shoulder, further staining the delicate satin of your dress, and march it over to the steel door. The red hue of the alarm siren above is barely visible in the haze of death.

Cornea meets scanner. The door slides open, the metal shrieks at your advance but yields all the same. You drop the body in a heap, taking no pleasure in the way the head cracks against the wall anymore.

The records room is stale and impersonal, in a way that leaves you nostalgic and at home. A gemstone glitters on your hand, falling away and awaiting your swift return. You start at the first filing cabinet, and pages flash before your eyes almost as often as the gem’s facets flash with the twitch of your finger.

She isn’t here. No name. No Stand. No soul.

But what if there is a piece of her, at least?

More flashes. So many, they linger like cataracts in your eyes. But you’ve been made and unmade so many times now that you can hardly care less.

You hold a short stack of papers in your hands. The room was ripped to shreds so many times, but it looks pristine now that you are finally done. You hold the documents abreast, and with a spark of your power, you are gone for the last time.

The stack dwindles with every spark of light, every flick of your wrist. New places, new faces, but the same earth underneath your feet. It makes you sick how different it all is, every time and all over again. You throw away another shred of your sanity with each crumpled paper discarded to oblivion. Your throat is dry and scratched—the howling voice that reaches your ears sounds nothing like your own.

And then you’re in a place you remember. The bar top. The lighting. The jazz band by the dance floor. You’re in the Please Don’t Tell. Except this time you’re heading for one of the private booths in the back, margarita glass in hand.

You sit down. And come face to face with

a smiling old man,

a girl no older than twelve with a lollipop in her mouth,

a weary-looking police detective,

a man in a white suit and cowboy hat,

a boy with cybernetics built into his skin,

Anthony Saxx—wait!

an exhausted-looking man in a butler’s outfit,

a taxi driver,

a drunk,

a sex worker,

a salaryman,

a Speedwagon Foundation operative,

a lover,

a serial killer,

a journalist,

Yourself.

Wait.

Carlie Simone.

No. Yes? Wait…

But Carlie stays, and your lips move. ‘You’ as in the eyes you’re seeing through. Not the ones staring back. “Where is she?”

Carlie says, “Who?” and you say it too.

Your eyes go wide and then sharpen with suspicion. A single tap of a finger and you feel that familiar chill from the bedroom window. Your crystal’s glow endures, sparks of light twinkling off the frost-covered glass and dancing as the source spins. You reach out and take the crystal in your grip, and—

“She’s here!” Anthony all but screams behind you, shocking you out of your trance and throwing you back onto the ground. Your hand is wracked with tremors, the skin on your fingers and palm burning like frostbite.

You—no. Carlie. Carlie Simone. That’s who you are. Who you always were.

“What was that?” Carlie choked out, gripping her shaking hand and trying to calm her racing heart.

“It’s the Woman in White!” said Anthony, so excited he was running in circles with hands outstretched and gripping empty air. “I don’t know what you did, but you brought her here! You have to tell me how!”

A minute ago (or longer—it felt like an age) Carlie would’ve thought Anthony was completely insane. But after everything she’d seen, she knew to trust him.

After all, she felt that ghost of a chill in the air too.

- - - - -

Field Notes 1D: Eye to Eye

It had been so long since the Woman in White had come to visit and Anthony was beginning to fear that she had given up on him entirely. That her search for love really had come up empty in this cold, uncaring city. It wouldn’t have surprised him, but the disappointment—the guilt—weighed heavy on his heart.

Oh, what he would do to feel this woman’s love. Whoever she was searching for was such a lucky woman.

When his next attempt to touch the Woman in White failed, he couldn’t help but feel like the critical moment was passing him by. He turned back to the reporter lady, who was wasting precious seconds looking dazed and confused. “Miss, please!”

When she just blinked dumbly at him, Anthony reached down and gripped her shoulders, firm, and tried to pull her to her feet.

“Get your hands off of me!” Carlie choked out, staggering back on a fawn’s legs. Her voice sounded different, somehow, but Anthony couldn’t quite place why. “I don’t know what just happened, but… that crystal, it—” She turned back to the bed, and her mouth dropped open. “It’s dying!” Anthony followed her eyes, watched her hold her hands out in front of her as if gently cupping a child’s face. “There’s something wrong with it! She must’ve… I think she turned it off.”

Anthony recognized the change to her voice, then. Or rather, what she had seemed to lose for a moment: the long ‘o’s and flat ‘a’s of the Midwest. But he let that realization drop by the wayside when he processed what she said. “‘She’? You believe me?”

Carlie rounded on him, her eyes glinting with a cold intensity that wasn’t wholly hers. “Yes, I f*cking believe you! She just hopped me up on psychedelics and told me her life story!”

“Through the… crystal?”

“Yes! It’s probably what causes your dreams too.” She poked at the open air. Her fingernail tinked against nothing. “Well, caused your dreams. The link’s severed, I think.”

Cold snaked down Anthony’s back, and it wasn’t from her presence that time, but from a fading echo of it. “But that would mean—if that was how she was connecting to me…”

She’d be gone.

Anthony reached out a grasping hand, and glassy stone reached back. “I can’t lose her. I can’t! I can still feel her. If I could just reach out to her somehow, maybe she might…”

Carlie shook her head and fiddled in her pocket. “She’s the one who deactivated it, dude. I don’t think she’s coming back.”

“She was just here!” Anthony’s voice boomed through a room that felt so much more empty than it had a moment ago. “You can see the parts of her that I can’t. You have to know a way to get me closer to her! Here, what if I—” He threw himself onto the bed, scrambling under the covers.

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” asked Carlie, flummoxed.

“I’m sleeping. I might dream of her!” He threw the blankets over his head. The thin fabric was filled with moth-eaten holes and hardly hid him from the light of the afternoon sky.

“You really want to chase after that woman? She ruined your life!”

“No! She saved me!” cried Anthony, his voice cracking. “After my mother died, after I lost my scholarship and dropped out of school, after all those cold nights on the street, she was all I had. She was the only one who was there!”

“She wasn’t even—augh!” He could feel Carlie’s judgmental gaze cutting through the silence. Eventually, she sighed. “I have one idea that might work.”

Anthony threw the covers off and shot up stock straight, staring at her wide-eyed. “You do?”

Carlie grimaced and reached out with something in her hand. A stick of gum. She unwrapped it carefully with gentle fingers, then passed the gum to him. He took it after a moment’s hesitation, and she began to fold the wrapper idly as she spoke. “I don’t know how to explain this, but… whenever I’m chewing gum, I feel like my senses get an uptick. Helped keep me focused during late nights back in college. Helps me now when I need to focus during interviews. Maybe it’ll help you.”

Anthony looked down and eyed the gum curiously. It didn’t look like anything out of the ordinary: light pink gum, with a thin powdery dust coating that rubbed off onto his finger and thumb. It smelled like the stuff he used to get in rolls from candy stores as a kid. He popped it into his mouth without a second thought.

The world sharpened.

Strawberry pink exploded on his tongue. Carlie’s face—which was fuzzing around the edges from his old, bad prescription—shot into focus; the frown lines creasing her forehead drew themselves before his eyes. The cotton of the bed sheets felt rough and grating against his palms. The room smelled like dirt and melting snow and a faint, floral perfume.

Anthony sucked in a breath. Could that be—?

The air tasted of mildew, with a few mold spores passing through his nose as he took in quick breaths. He heard Carlie shift her weight to her other foot and a heel click on the creaking wood floors.

Never in his life had he ever felt so aware of the world around him. And as he fell back into bed and looked up at the ceiling, he knew he would’ve been able to pick out every popcorn kernel molded into it.

What he saw instead was a blue-gray crystal, its luster crumbling off and dusting the air before dissolving into nothing.

Tears pricked at his eyes at the sight. It was her. Her love, her presence– it was all that remained. And it was dying.

Anthony reached out without a second thought. He caressed the surface gently with the pads of his fingers, and the world exploded with white behind his eyes.

What he saw then was not the world but worlds. Countless realities winked by—each focus and unfocus of his eyes slipping his awareness through the thin veneer of reality and on to the next facet. Sometimes he was himself. Sometimes he was himself but altogether new. And sometimes you were her. You are her, and it feels like resting by a hearth on a cold night. You feel her love, unrelenting, unyielding, all-encompassing. An eternal flame trapped inside a precious stone, contained but reflecting on each face all the same.

You blink and she slips away, and Anthony flickered back into himself. He saw himself as a doctor, as a resident, as a lab technician, as a beggar on the streets, as a stay at home father, as a bartender, as a corpse, as a detective, as a beggar, as a beggar, as a beggar, as a beggar…

He saw himself as her, staring back at him. A smile creeps across your face as you hold out a gloved hand. He takes it and kisses your knuckles gently, softly, a prayer in his upturned eyes. You are happy to answer it. You grab him by the hair and twist before crashing your lips together. You force your tongue into his mouth and the boy melts. He is weak and pliable like so many before him, like so many after him will be with a ghost of this experience whispering to them.

When he is shaking, you release him from the kiss. You press your forehead to his as he gasps for air. You look into his eyes, red-rimmed with tears, and you say what you must to get him in your bed. To seal his affection for you for as long as you need it. And then—

A beggar, a musician, a nurse, a doctor, a personal assistant, a social worker, a beggar, a beggar, a criminal, an attorney, a broker, a field medic, a beggar, a skeleton, a beggar, a professor, a doctor, a beggar, a beggar, a beggar, a beggar…

A husband. Her name was Crystal Channing, and she was your beloved. Twenty five years together and twenty with a ring, Anthony couldn’t imagine a better life for himself.

It was your anniversary, and Crystal insisted you both spend it at the Please Don’t Tell. It’s where you first met, after all, and you heartily agreed. You rented out a private booth and ordered Crystal’s favorite red wine. She wore the same white satin dress as she did on the day you first met, and even as smile lines graced her face over the years, you still found her to be just as beautiful. Her white-blonde hair, so perfectly tied up in a crown above her head. Her svelte frame and soft elegance. Her light blue eyes and ruby red lips, always smiling. She was an angel.

Out of the corner of Anthony’s eye, a young woman with wild curly hair and a layered, colorful trench coat rushed to the table next to theirs. She nearly knocked the partition over in her haste and apologized to both them and her tablemate with gasping wheezes. Anthony just raised a hand and shook his head, no harm done. Across from him, Crystal smiled.

Then you pull a gun out of your purse and shoot Carlie Simone dead.

You shoot her four times in the skull. The second bullet guarantees her death. The third and fourth are for the time she made you endure.

Twenty five years on this bitch of an earth. Twenty five grueling, uninterrupted years of mundanity—enough to make you go nearly insane. It’s been ages since you’ve spent so long in one chronology, and while it has its novelty, you enjoy it on your own terms: to explore a continent, to attain a doctorate or two, to see how the American government responds to another unsolved presidential assassination.

Not because some backwater Midwestern c*nt found one of your core waypoints.

But time spent is knowledge gained. You reach into Carlie’s atrocious overcoat and pull out the contents: 57 dollars and change, two sets of car keys, a pencil and notepad, an empty package of gum labeled ‘Insane in the Membrane’.

And finally, a note folded into the shape of a penguin.

You shift your focus to Ralph Lauren and let your lips part on a small smile. He flinches harder when he registers your expression than when he stares down your gun’s barrel. “You will tell Adrian Marshall nothing.”

The girl was bleeding out. Crystal shot her. How could she do that? Why? She’d always been such a gentle, kind soul, she—

He nods so quickly his hat topples off his head. The motion is humorous enough that you save the bullet reserved for him. You pivot and step back to your table. Blood splatter licks at your white heels and the hem of your dress. People are screaming, panicking, funneling towards the exit like mice trapped in a maze.

She was dead, she was dead, she was dead, she was dead, she was dead.

Carlie was dead!

Anthony said, “Why?” and you say it too.

There was a twinkling light on her left hand, and the smile slid off Crystal’s face into a mask Anthony had never seen her wear before. Or was that the mask? Her eyes darkened, red-purple neon smudges of light reflected from the pooling blood on the floor. There was a sudden ashenness to her complexion, and it made her look almost transparent.

Anthony reached out a hand to his wife, but she was already gone.

All that remained was a glimmering blue crystal hovering above the tabletop.

You trade one pool of still-warm blood for another, and you are standing over Carlie’s body once more. The first Carlie you killed—in Anthony’s apartment, just after you discovered your shared connection.

In losing the old waypoint, many more paths have opened: a gateway to infinite worlds where the little gem hunter is dead on arrival, and this one.

The one where Adrian Marshall doesn’t know you’re coming.

You tiptoe around the bloodstains this time, avoiding both Carlie and Anthony’s corpses as you step out into the hallway to find your new pet project—and pay a visit.

- - - - -

Anthony jolted awake and nearly choked on his tongue as he gulped down air. His hands shook where they’d grasped the bedsheets, and he belatedly identified the wetness streaking his face.

He looked up then, expecting to see that gemstone—Crystal’s gemstone—hovering above him.

The air was empty, and Anthony couldn’t tell if that was because it was gone, or because he just couldn’t see it anymore.

“Anthony?” The voice startled him so badly he fell out of bed. Carlie rushed over to his side, kneeling, and reached out a tentative hand. “Is everything alright? Did you find her?”

Anthony looked up at Carlie’s face. The light in her eyes, the red in her cheeks—she was still alive. He’d seen her murdered twice in the blink of an eye, but she was okay.

And without the waypoint, Crystal was gone. Anthony knew, from whatever fading whispers of her still remained in his psyche, that she could never come back and harm them again.

They were free. Free to live their lives. Free to move on.

Anthony lunged into Carlie’s arms, pulled her close, and wept.

- - - - -

FIELD NOTES 1E: MAKE BELIEVE

Carlie winced awake mid-snore when the rising sun glinted off of her rear view mirror. She fitted her hands behind the headrest so she could stretch and pop her back and ignored how her stomach groaned and yawned at her. She adjusted her seat back up, shivering as her jacket and old quilt slipped down her front. New York was a frigid mistress; she’d need to stock up on extra throws for the season.

That was, if she could afford them.

Truth be told, it had been nearly two days since Carlie ate a proper meal. Those forty seven dollars were all she’d had to her name, and she’d forgotten that she spent the emergency glovebox stash two emergencies ago. She’d met up with Anthony once more after writing up her report, during which he’d bought her a one dollar slice of pizza (how great, she was desperate enough to be taking charity from an actual beggar), but that was the extent of her luck. All that she could do was sit and wait for the U.S. Postal Service to trade her report for pay.

That thought made Carlie consider eating her shoe right then. God, that report. Carlie had spent five hours huddled in the back of her car with the typewriter Marshall lent her just writing the first draft, and by the end of the first she would rather quit than write the second.

In the end, she’d sent in the first draft, mistakes and all (who the hell requires future tense in an official document?). Carlie still wasn’t sure if it made any modicum of sense, or if it looked like the ravings of some rambling, sleep-deprived lunatic.

Well, that meant it was as good as the reports she’d written for school, and Cs get degrees and all…

(She was so f*cked.)

Eventually it was hunger that forced her to brush her teeth, chew a stick of gum, and head out to check the P.O. box where she’d find Marshall’s response letter. She wasn’t sure exactly how long it would take to arrive, but she was going to check that damn thing three times a day just to be safe.

The morning was a bust, so she took a walk through Central Park despite the chill and away from the tantalizing smells of food cart halal and fresh bagels. There was still snow and ice abound, and she distracted herself watching a few acres worth of playing kids.

When she re-entered the city streets, she passed a man holding marker-signed cardboard and thought of Anthony. Carlie couldn’t describe how different he looked when she’d seen him again other than that he’d seen peace. His life was still utter sh*t, and he was living in that hell hole of a place with no job and half a life’s worth of prison time in the guest room. But he had said he wanted to look for a job, find a new place, and finally close the book on the Woman in White. It warmed Carlie’s heart to consider her part of it, even if she still wasn’t sure what exactly she did.

Understanding that could wait for Marshall’s next call.

Around noon, Carlie wandered back to the P.O. box and barely reigned in her excitement at the sealed envelope inside. She stuffed it in her pocket and sprinted back to her car before her bad luck delivered her a pickpocket as well.

She slammed the door, locked it, ripped the tab open without another thought. As long as there was enough for food and gas for the next day, she’d be able to make it to upstate and get to work on another assignment—

Green exploded out of the envelope and slipped down her knees onto the floor. Carlie blinked in surprise when she saw a legion of Andrew Jacksons staring back at her. She could count at least twenty that had burst out of the envelope, and a thick stack still wedged against a cassette tape. Carlie ripped out the tape, scattering a few more twenty dollar bills, and pushed it into her car’s stereo system. Marshall’s voice spoke through the speakers:

Carlie preened herself on Marshall’s praise and listened to the tape a second and third time as she gathered all her earnings and meticulously counted them. There was $5131.92 in the envelope! If that was the kind of payout to expect from this job, then she’d never go hungry again no matter how many Long Islands she drank! She put the $131.92 into the emergency stash (underneath the registration, where she’d forget it existed), stuffed $1000 into her pockets, and left the remaining $4000 in the envelope. That larger sum went into one of the secret compartments under her steering wheel that she’d only discovered after kneeing it too hard one night.

And lastly, she threw up her arms and belted out a cheer of victory that turned heads three blocks down.

When all that was done, she checked the pockets for her car keys, her spare car keys (no way she’d face a repeat of Raleigh), and her notebook and pencil before throwing open her car door.

It didn’t even crunch into the streetlight this time—repeated abuse had molded the door into the perfect shape.

Carlie locked the door and threw a sliver of gum into her mouth as she headed down the street, humming to herself. Originally she was going to rush north to her next paycheck, but she could stand to wait a day or so now. Maybe she’d do some sightseeing along the way too. Lauren knew of all the well-known cryptid sightings, but maybe there were less well-known ones hiding out on the way. For the first time in her life, Carlie could afford to enjoy the journey as well as the destination.

She started folding her gum wrapper into a little flower as she set out towards Anthony’s apartment. She figured, after everything he’d been through, he could use a drink. Carlie sure could.

And she owed him for the pizza the other day too.