Embedded Files
Some stories don’t ask for permission. They pull you in, dress you up, and expect you to play your part. As Nellie and Jack step from one world into another, the rules keep changing. Faces shift, roles rewrite themselves, and the line between fiction and reality begins to blur. But when someone else is holding the pen, the most dangerous thing you can do is refuse to follow the script.
Word Count: 16.6k
TW: canon-typical violence. use of mild language.
- - - - - -
The motel sign flickers once as the Impala rolls into the parking lot. Half the letters are burned out, the rest glowing weakly against the dark. Nellie pulls into a space near the end of the row and cuts the engine. The quiet after a hunt settles around them, thick and tired. For a moment neither of them moves.
Jack shifts slightly in the passenger seat, careful with his right arm still secured in a sling. The fracture has made even simple movements awkward. “I never thought I’d be happy to see a motel.”
“This one looks like it barely passes inspection,” she replies, pushing the door open.
The clerk inside barely looks up from a crossword puzzle when they check in. Ten minutes later they’re inside room twelve: two twin beds, faded carpet, and a television bolted to the dresser like someone expected it to make a run for it. She drops her duffel beside one of the beds with a dull thud. He sets his bag down more carefully, using his left hand. The sling keeps his right arm pinned close to his side, the white bandage visible beneath the edge of his sleeve.
“You should shower first,” she tells him, already digging through her bag for clean clothes. “You’re the one who took the worst hit tonight.”
“Really now? You still think I can’t drink a cup of coffee one handed in the Impala and I’m not even the one driving.”
“Oh, and I forgot to add that you smell like swamp water.”
That earns the faintest hint of a smile.
They take turns in the small bathroom, ridding themselves of half-dried clothes and grime from their hunt in the swamp. Nellie is now leaning against the headboard now, hair damp from her own shower, flipping through channels on the television. It lands on an old black-and-white movie. Rain streaks across the screen while a man in a trench coat lights a cigarette under a streetlamp.
Jack tilts his head slightly. “What did you manage to find this time?”
“Film noir,” she replies. “Detective movie. Everyone’s dramatic and morally questionable.”
He studies the screen for a moment. “That seems inefficient.”
She snorts softly. “Yeah, well, it’s also kind of the point.”
The room settles into an easy quiet after that. The hum of the air conditioner fills the space while the movie continues playing in the background. Eventually the television becomes little more than flickering light against the walls as exhaustion wins. Rain pours across the black-and-white screen while the detective lights another cigarette and mutters something dramatic about trouble.
Across the street, the diner shuts off its neon sign. The parking lot goes dark. The town sleeps, but something else is awake. A young man stands on the roof of the motel across the street, hands tucked casually into the pockets of a worn jacket. He looks barely older than sixteen, posture relaxed like someone killing time on a warm summer night. Except his attention is fixed entirely on one thing. The black Impala parked near the edge of the lot. He tilts his head.
“Well now,” he murmurs.
His gaze drifts toward the motel door marked 12. Two hunters. He can feel it in the air around them – the residue of salt, iron, and things that don’t belong in the natural world. That’s interesting. His eyes brighten with sudden curiosity.
He steps closer to the edge of the roof, peering down toward the dark window. “One of them’s… weird. The other one used to be something big.” He pauses, squinting slightly like he’s trying to focus on something just out of view.
He rocks back on his heels, thinking. Then a slow grin spreads across his face. “Oh, this could work.” He starts pacing along the roofline, excitement creeping into his voice. “Hunters are perfect. They already know how to follow a story.” He gestures toward the motel room like he’s outlining an invisible stage. “Oh yeah. They’ll be great. And if I get it right this time, maybe he’ll finally think I’m ready.”
The young man glances back toward the sleeping motel room one last time. “Sleep well,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, we start the show.”
• • •
Morning comes slowly. Thin light filters through the motel curtains, turning the room pale gray. The television has switched to static sometime during the night. Jack wakes first. He sits up carefully, adjusting the sling around his fractured right arm before swinging his legs off the bed. The ache is dull today, manageable. Across the room Nellie groans and drags a pillow over her face.
He glances at the clock. “Morning.”
The pillow shifts slightly. “…That’s unfortunate.”
He chuckles quietly. “Breakfast?” he asks.
That gets her attention. The pillow slides down and she squints toward the window. “There was a diner across the street, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good,” she mutters, sitting up. “Coffee first, then home.”
They pack quickly. Bags zipped. Weapons checked. Salt rounds counted. Jack works one-handed where he can, stubborn about the sling but practical about what he can’t manage. Nellie notices and simply takes the heavier bag without saying anything. Five minutes later the room is empty. She opens the door and both step outside.
The world shifts. It happens instantly. The motel disappears. The cracked asphalt parking lot, the faded sign, the Impala, all gone. Instead, they’re standing on a narrow city street slick with rain. Tall brick buildings loom on both sides. Old streetlamps glow dimly through drifting mist. Somewhere nearby a trumpet plays slow, mournful jazz. Even the air feels wrong. Color drains from the world, replaced by muted gray tones and deep shadows, like someone turned reality into an old black-and-white film.
She stops mid-step. “…Okay.”
He nearly bumps into her before stopping too.
She glances down. Her jeans are gone. In their place is a fitted skirt and tailored jacket straight out of the 1940s. She stares at it. “…Why do I look like the girl who walks into a detective’s office with a mysterious problem?”
He looks down at himself. Dark slacks. Long trench coat. Loosened tie. He reaches up with his left hand and touches the brim of the fedora now sitting on his head. He turns slowly, taking in the street, the buildings, the rain. “I think,” he says thoughtfully, “we just stepped into something.”
She snorts softly. “No shit, Sherlock.”
He glances back toward where the motel should be. Instead, there’s just a narrow alley. “No door.”
She turns, sees it, and exhales slowly. “Alright. That’s not concerning at all.”
Jack shifts slightly, adjusting the sling under the trench coat. “Everything looks… staged. Like a set.”
She looks around again. The cars parked along the curb are old. The storefront signs too. The whole street looks like it belongs seventy years in the past. “Alright. Step one: figure out what the hell just happened.”
He nods, already thinking through possibilities. “Teleportation is unlikely,” he says. “There wasn’t any displacement sensation.”
She glances at him. “You saying that from experience?”
“A little,” he admits.
Her attention returns to the street.
“Magic?” he asks.
She closes her eyes briefly. For a second she lets her senses stretch outward the way they do during psychic-heavy hunts. The world hums faintly. Not the chaotic pressure of something demonic. Not the sharp brightness of angelic energy either. Something else. She opens her eyes again. “…Yeah,” she says slowly. “Magic.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Specific kind?”
“Wish I knew.” She gestures vaguely around them. “It’s everywhere. Like the whole place is soaked in it.”
“Localized environment manipulation,” he murmurs.
“That’s one way to say it.” She glances down at her heels again. “Wardrobe department’s definitely involved.”
He almost laughs. “So,” he says, shifting slightly beside her, “what’s the plan?”
she shrugs. “We do what we always do.”
“Investigate.”
“Exactly.”
They start walking down the street. It feels strangely natural, even with the rain and the monochrome world around them. Their footsteps echo softly against the pavement. The storefronts look like they belong in an old photograph. Neon signs flicker. A diner sign buzzes quietly at the corner.
They almost collide with a man stepping out of a narrow alley. He’s wearing a rumpled suit and a hat pulled low over his brow. Rain drips from the brim as he looks straight at Jack.
Relief floods his face instantly.
“Detective,” the man says urgently. “Thank God, I found you.”
Jack blinks. “…Me?”
He grabs his arm before he can protest. “You’ve gotta come take a look at this.”
He glances sideways at Nellie. Her expression says the same thing his does.
The man keeps talking, words spilling over each other. “It’s bad, detective. Real bad. I didn’t know who else to call.”
Jack hesitates for half a second, then looks back at her.
She gives a small shrug. “Could be a lead,” she says quietly.
He nods once, then turns back to the man. “…Alright, show us.”
The alley is narrow and dim, rainwater running along the cracked pavement in thin, glistening streams. A police car blocks the far end of the street, its red light turning slowly, casting muted flashes across the monochrome buildings. Two officers stand near a body lying halfway beneath a fire escape.
“Detective’s here,” the man calls.
One of the policemen looks up. “Took your time.”
Jack pauses beside Nellie, quietly taking in the scene. The body lies on its back, coat soaked through with rain. A dark stain spreads across the man’s shirt, though in the washed-out gray tones it’s hard to tell if it’s blood or just shadow. The officer approaches them, giving him a respectful nod before glancing toward her. His expression shifts.
“You might want the young lady to stay back, detective,” he says. “Crime scenes aren’t exactly a place for—”
He answers before he finishes. “She’s with me.”
The officer raises an eyebrow.
He gestures briefly toward his sling. “My secretary,” he says easily. “She’s taking notes.”
She turns slowly toward him. The look she gives him that tells him that she is going to tease him endlessly for this. Then she turns back to the officer like nothing happened. “My shorthand’s better than his anyway,” she says dryly.
The officer studies them for a second, then shrugs. “Fine. Just don’t touch anything.”
He nods politely. “Of course.”
They step closer to the body. Nellie kneels beside it, pulling a small notebook from her jacket pocket like she’s done this a hundred times, which, technically, she has. She glances down at the body, pretending to jot notes, but her focus shifts inward. She lets her senses stretch outward, feeling for the familiar hum of supernatural energy. The magic is still there. Everywhere. Like the whole street is soaked in it. But near the body the feeling shifts slightly, the current pulling tighter. She tilts her head.
Jack notices immediately. “What do you feel?” he asks quietly.
“Same stuff that dropped us here.”
“Anything else?”
She studies the body again. “…Hard to tell.”
He glances at her. “What do you mean?”
She exhales slowly. “This could be a real murder that got pulled into whatever this place is,” she says quietly. “Or it could just be part of the magic.”
He considers that. “So, either way we treat it like a real case.”
“Exactly.” She flips a page in the notebook, pretending to write. “If this thing wants a detective story, then it’s giving us a mystery.”
“And solving it might get us out.”
“Worth a shot.”
Behind them, an officer lights a cigarette beneath the awning. Smoke curls lazily through the rain. “Victim’s name is Raymond Collier,” he says. “Accountant. Quiet guy. Didn’t make enemies.”
Jack nods thoughtfully. “And cause of death?”
“Looks like a stabbing,” the officer replies. “But we won’t know for sure until the coroner—”
Nellie’s attention shifts. Something catches the edge of her senses. A faint pulse. Not strong enough to scream supernatural, but just enough to feel wrong. Her eyes narrow slightly. She leans forward carefully, pretending to examine the man’s coat pocket. Her fingers brush the wet pavement. Something small lies half-hidden beneath the body. She reaches carefully beneath the victim’s hand and pulls out a small object. A matchbook. Inside are three unused matches and a faded logo stamped across the cardboard. The logo shows a stylized neon sign. THE VELVET ROOM. Below it is an address.
She studies it. “Looks like a nightclub.”
Jack nods slightly. “Possible last location.”
One of the officers glances over. “You find something, detective?”
He holds up the matchbook casually. “Maybe.”
“Victim liked to drink. Wouldn’t surprise me.”
He thanks him politely and turns back to Nellie once the man looks away. “What do you think?” he asks quietly.
She turns the matchbook over in her hands. The cardboard hums faintly against her senses. “That’s the weird part,” she says.
“How so?”
“This thing has the same magic signature as the street.”
“So, it’s connected.”
“Yeah.” Her gaze drifts toward the end of the alley where the rain falls in silver lines.
She slips the matchbook into her jacket pocket and stands, Jack rising beside her. Across the alley, the officers continue their work, completely unaware that the investigation has just taken a supernatural turn.
“Before we go chasing down smoky jazz bars,” she says, “we should stop by this guy’s workplace.”
He nods slowly. “Not a bad idea. Don’t want to jump in right away.”
They walk for a few moments in silence before she sighs. “You know what would make this easier?”
“What?”
“A computer.”
Jack smiles faintly. “Or a phone.”
“Or literally any piece of technology invented after 1950.”
He glances at the surrounding buildings. “I suspect the environment may be limiting us to period-appropriate tools.”
She groans. “Fantastic. Love that for us.”
He gestures toward the street corner where a row of storefronts stretches beneath flickering signs. “If Raymond Collier was an accountant, his workplace might still exist here.”
She considers that. “Accounting firm. City records. Maybe a landlord.”
“Paper trails.”
She sighs dramatically. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“A little.”
She points a finger at him. “Don’t get used to it.”
They start down the street again, scanning the storefront signs as they walk. A few blocks later, they slow when they spot a brass plaque beside a narrow office door reads: HARPER & ASSOCIATES | ACCOUNTING SERVICES. The bell above the office door jingles softly as Jack pushes it open. Inside, the room smells faintly of ink, paper, and dust that’s settled into the wood over decades. Tall filing cabinets line the walls, their metal drawers labeled in neat rows. A secretary sits behind a narrow desk near the entrance, her typewriter clacking steadily. She doesn’t look up right away. When she does, her expression shifts immediately.
“Detective,” she says, like she was expecting him.
He leans slightly against the desk with easy politeness. “Morning.”
The secretary’s eyes flick briefly toward Nellie. “And you are…?”
“My secretary,” he answers smoothly.
Nellie turns her head just enough to look at him. The humorous expression she gives him is quiet but unmistakable.
He pretends not to notice. “She helps with the paperwork.”
She nods, accepting that explanation without question. “Well, you’re just in time. The police were here earlier asking about Mr. Collier.”
His attention sharpens. “So, he worked here?”
“Oh yes. Raymond’s been with the firm for years.”
Nellie casually flips open her notebook. “Long enough to make enemies?”
The woman blinks slightly. “This is accounting, miss. The most dangerous thing here is a misplaced decimal.”
He smiles faintly. “Sometimes money makes people interesting.”
The secretary considers that. Then gestures toward the hallway. “Mr. Harper’s in his office. He’s the senior partner. If anyone can help you, it’s him.”
“Appreciate it.”
They move down the hallway together. The office is quiet in the strange way workplaces get when something bad has happened. A few employees sit at desks pretending to work while clearly listening. They reach a door marked H. HARPER — PARTNER. Jack knocks.
A tired voice answers from inside. “Come in.”
The office is dim, the blinds half-closed against the rain outside. A heavyset man in a rumpled suit sits behind a wide desk, rubbing his temples like he hasn’t slept in days. He looks up as they enter. “You the detective?”
He nods once. “Yes.”
Harper gestures to the chairs in front of the desk. “Sit. Hell of a thing. Raymond wasn’t the kind of man who ended up in alleys.”
“What kind of man was he?”
“Quiet. Methodical. Good with numbers. Drank moderately like most in the office. Didn’t gamble. Barely had a social life.”
Nellie scribbles something in her notebook. “So why would he end up near a nightclub?”
Harper frowns. “What nightclub?”
She pulls the matchbook from his pocket and sets it on the desk. “The Velvet Room.”
His expression changes instantly, just for a second. But both hunters catch it.
“You recognize it,” Jack says.
The man hesitates. “…Everybody in this town recognizes it.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Look,” he says, lowering his voice slightly, “that place attracts trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” she asks.
“The kind respectable people stay away from.”
Jack studies him carefully. “Did Raymond go there?”
Harper hesitates again, then nods once. “Couple times recently.”
“What changed?”
The man rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Last few weeks he seemed… distracted.”
“Distracted how?”
“Like he was working on something he didn’t want anyone else seeing.”
“Financial records?”
The man shakes his head. “No. People.”
Her pen stops moving. “What kind of people?” she asks.
He looks toward the window, rain streaking the glass. “The kind who don’t like their books checked too closely.”
She closes her notebook and tucks it into her jacket as both hunters stand. “Thanks for the help.”
As they step back into the hallway, Jack murmurs quietly, “So, Raymond was investigating someone.”
She nods. “And whatever he found got him killed.”
He glances at the matchbook in his hand. “I guess that means we’re going to a nightclub.”
The Velvet Room isn’t hard to find. The neon sign glows at the end of the street, its red letters humming softly through the rain. A line of people waits beneath the awning while a doorman in a dark suit watches the street with bored patience. The hunters slow as they approach. The music is already audible through the walls, smooth jazz drifting out between bursts of laughter and conversation.
The world changes once again they step through the doors. Warm light replaces the gray rain outside. Smoke curls through the air in lazy spirals. A jazz band plays near the far wall, trumpet and piano weaving together beneath the low murmur of conversation. Tables crowd the floor, patrons leaning close over drinks while waitresses move easily between them. It is every noir nightclub cliché imaginable. And then Nellie stops walking.
Jack notices immediately. “What?”
She’s staring at him. “You changed.”
He blinks. “What?”
She gestures toward him.
He glances down. The trench coat and slacks are gone. In their place is a perfectly fitted tuxedo. His injured arm is still in the sling, the black fabric folded neatly beneath the jacket sleeve like it belongs there. He turns slightly, taking in the change. “…Huh.”
She snorts softly. “You look like a homeschooled James Bond.”
He looks mildly confused. “I’m not familiar enough with that reference to defend myself.”
Her eyes drift down toward her own outfit. The skirt suit is gone. Now she’s wearing a sleek black evening dress, fitted and elegant, the kind designed for dim lighting and smoky rooms. The heels slightly taller than the pair earlier. She lifts one hand slightly, examining the fabric. “…Okay.”
He tilts his head. “Different?”
“Very.” She turns slowly, taking in the room again. “I have never worn anything like this.”
He studies her for a moment. Then says simply, “I think you look beautiful.”
She looks back at him, surprised, then laughs quietly. “Careful. Flattery might go to my head.”
He shrugs. “I’m being honest.”
She smooths a hand over the dress, still clearly processing the change. “Well, this might spoil me a little.”
He smiles faintly. “That would complicate future hunts.”
“Yeah,” she replies, glancing down at the heels again. “Flannels and combat boots are suddenly feeling very underdressed.” She straightens slightly, returning to business. “Alright, let’s focus.”
He nods. “The bartender?”
“Always the bartender.”
They move toward the long counter near the back of the room. Behind it stands a tall bartender polishing a glass with slow, methodical movements. He doesn’t look up right away. When he finally does, his expression is flat and unimpressed.
“Evening.”
Jack rests his good arm lightly on the counter. “Evening.”
The bartender’s eyes flick briefly toward Nellie, then back to him. “What’ll it be?”
She leans casually against the bar. “Information.”
The man’s mouth tightens faintly. “That’s not on the menu.”
He reaches into his pocket and sets the matchbook on the counter.
The bartender glances down at it then back up again. “Looks like you already found us.”
Jack keeps his tone easy. “We’re looking for someone.”
“Lot of someones come through here.”
“Raymond Collier.”
For the first time, the bartender pauses. Just for a second. He sets the glass down slowly. “Never heard the name.”
Nellie tilts her head slightly. “Funny.”
The man’s gaze shifts toward her. “Why’s that?”
“Because we just came from the alley where he was killed.”
The room’s background noise seems to drop a notch.
The bartender exhales through his nose. “People get killed in alleys all the time.”
Jack nods. “True.” Then he adds calmly, “But most of them don’t carry matchbooks from your bar.”
She leans slightly closer. “Look,” she says, voice quieter now. “We’re not here to cause trouble. We’re just trying to understand why Raymond Collier ended up dead.”
He studies them both carefully. Then he glances toward a dark hallway near the back of the club. When he looks back, his voice is lower. “Raymond wasn’t a regular. But he came in a few times lately.”
“Meeting someone?”
The man nods once. “Yeah.”
Jack watches him closely. “Who?”
The bartender hesitates then mutters quietly, “Lady in red.”
The jazz band shifts into something slower, the trumpet fading as the piano takes over. A spotlight spills across the small stage near the far wall. And then she appears. A woman in a red dress steps out of the shadows. In the muted, nearly monochrome world of the club, the color of the dress is striking, deep crimson against the gray haze of smoke and dim lights. She moves with quiet confidence, every step deliberate.
Nellie exhales softly. “…Wow.”
Jack glances at her. “That would be the lady in red.”
“Subtle,” she mutters.
The woman takes the microphone and begins to sing. Her voice is low and smoky, drifting across the room as the band falls in behind her. The crowd goes quiet. Even the hunters pause to watch for a moment.
Then Nellie leans closer to Jack. “Well,” she murmurs, “if this place gets any more noir, someone’s going to start narrating their inner thoughts.”
He smiles faintly. “She’s watching us.”
She blinks. “What?”
He nods slightly toward the stage. Sure enough, the singer’s eyes drift toward them briefly between lines of the song. Just long enough to notice. Just long enough to acknowledge them. Then she looks away again.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “That’s not suspicious at all.”
The song ends a minute later to scattered applause. The woman sets the microphone down and steps off the stage. She walks straight toward them. Of course she does.
He murmurs quietly, “Predictable.”
“Painfully.”
The woman stops beside them at the bar. Up close she looks even more composed. Dark hair, sharp eyes, and the kind of calm confidence that suggests she’s used to being watched. Her gaze lands on Jack first. “Detective.”
He nods politely. “Miss.”
Her eyes flick briefly toward Nellie before leaning one elbow against the bar. “I hear you’ve been asking about Raymond Collier.”
He watches her carefully. “You knew him.”
“I knew of him,” she corrects.
“Meaning?”
She shrugs lightly. “He liked to sit at that corner table.” She gestures toward a shadowy booth along the wall. “Ordered whiskey. Asked too many questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
The woman studies them both before answering. “The kind people shouldn’t ask.”
He keeps his tone calm. “And what was he asking about?”
Before he can answer, Nellie’s attention shifts. Across the room, near the edge of the dance floor, a man sits alone at a small table. Broad shoulders. Dark suit. Hat pulled low. He hasn’t touched the drink in front of him. And he’s staring directly at them.
She nudges Jack slightly. “Don’t look right away,” she murmurs.
He keeps his gaze on the woman. “Why?”
“Because we’ve got company.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Describe.”
“Big guy. Looks like he stepped out of a gangster movie.”
He exhales quietly. “That seems appropriate.”
“Yeah. He’s been watching us since we started talking.”
He takes a slow sip of the drink the bartender placed in front of him earlier. “So the story just introduced a suspect.”
“Yep.”
He glances toward the man casually. The guy immediately looks away.
“Well,” he says quietly. “That’s not suspicious at all.”
She straightens slightly. “So, we going to talk to him?”
He nods. “That seems like the logical next step.”
The woman in red watches them both carefully. “Be careful who you talk to tonight.”
They give her a thankful nod and move through the tables toward the man sitting alone. The band starts another song behind them, trumpet rising above the low hum of the crowd. The air smells like smoke and whiskey.
Nellie adjusts the dress again as they walk. “I hate this outfit,” she mutters.
Jack glances at her. “I thought you said it might spoil you.”
“That was before I realized there is nowhere to hide a weapon.” She lifts one side of the dress slightly in frustration. “No knife. No holster. Not even a sheath.”
He nods sympathetically. “That is inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient?” she whispers. “Jack, if something jumps us right now, I have to fight it with a cocktail napkin.”
He almost laughs. “That would be a creative solution.”
She shoots him a look. “This is exactly why hunters wear flannel.”
They reach the table. The man in the hat notices them immediately. Up close he looks exactly like Nellie described: broad shoulders, square jaw, the kind of face that belongs to someone who solves problems with fists.
Jack speaks first. “Evening.”
The man slowly stands. His eyes flick between them. Then he turns and starts walking away.
She blinks. “Rude.”
“I believe he’s fleeing.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
The man pushes through a door at the back of the club, the hunters following close behind. The hallway beyond is narrow and dim, the music from the club muffled behind them. The man moves quickly toward another door at the end.
She groans as she tries to keep pace in heels. “These shoes are a crime.”
They push the door open. Cold night air rushes in. They spill into the back alley. Rain falls harder here, bouncing off trash cans and puddles that stretch across the pavement. The man stops halfway down the alley. Slowly, he turns.
Jack raises his hands slightly. “We just want to talk.”
The man reaches inside his coat.
Nellie mutters under her breath. “Of course he’s got a gun.”
He pulls it out and points it directly at them. “Detective,” he says coldly, “you should’ve stayed out of this. You’re asking questions about things that don’t concern you.”
Jack keeps his voice calm. “Raymond Collier concerned us.”
“He should’ve minded his own business.”
She takes half a step forward. “And you killed him for that?”
The man’s finger tightens on the trigger. “You two should’ve stayed inside the club.”
The rain grows louder in the alley. Jack’s mind races through options. Distance. Timing. The gun. Then a blinding flash of light explodes across the alley. For a split second the entire world disappears, vanishing into pure white.
He sits up in bed, thin motel sheets rustling. For a moment he just sits there, blinking slowly as the ceiling fan spins lazily above him. Something feels… off. Across the room Nellie groans and rolls onto her side, dragging the pillow over her face. He glances toward the television which was still on but now had gone to static. He frowns slightly. He could swear—
She suddenly sits up. “Okay,” she mutters.
He looks over. “You alright?”
She rubs her eyes. “…I had the weirdest dream.”
He tilts his head. “What happened?”
She gestures vaguely toward the TV. “That stupid movie from last night got in my head, I guess. In the dream, we stepped outside and suddenly we were in one of those detective films.”
He goes very still.
She keeps going. “You were the detective. I was like a secretary or something.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I had the same dream.”
She freezes. “…What?”
He sits up straighter. “The alley. The body. The nightclub.”
Her eyes narrow. “The guy with the gun.”
He nods once.
“Okay. That’s… not normal.”
“No,” he agrees.
She rubs her face. “Alright. Either we both had the exact same dream—”
“—or something supernatural happened.”
They sit there for another second. Then Nellie claps her hands once. “Well. We might as well go get some coffee before figuring out if we need to delay our trip home.”
They move through the same routine as before. Weapons checked, bags packed.
Nellie pauses halfway through pulling on her jacket. “Hey.”
Jack looks up. “Yeah?”
“If we step outside and it’s raining in black-and-white again, I’m going back to bed.”
He smiles faintly. “That seems reasonable.”
A few minutes later they’re ready.
She grabs the car keys. “Diner first,” she says. “Then bunker.”
He nods and opens the door.
They step outside and the world changes again. The motel disappears instantly. The parking lot vanishes beneath their feet. Now they stand in the middle of a dusty street beneath a blazing sun. Wooden buildings line both sides of the road. A horse is tied to a hitching post nearby. Somewhere down the street a saloon piano plays a cheerful, off-key tune. Wind blows dry dirt across the ground.
Jack looks down. His jacket is gone. Now he’s wearing a long duster, boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. “…Huh,” he says.
Nellie stares down at herself. A long skirt. Layered blouse. Heavy boots. And a tightly laced corset that immediately makes her scowl. “Fantastic. I look like the town schoolmarm.”
He tries to stay optimistic. “Well, you do like to read.”
She turns slowly toward him. “Jack. I’m wearing six pounds of fabric.” She lifts the edge of the skirt slightly. “This thing has layers.”
He studies it thoughtfully. “That does appear impractical.”
“Impractical? I can barely breathe.” She shifts her shoulders. “…Is this a corset?”
He nods slowly. “Yes.”
She stares into the distance. “Great.” She tries taking a few steps. The boots are stiff. The skirt restricts her stride. She sighs dramatically. “If we have to run from something, I’m dead.”
He glances around the dusty town. “Well, at least we know that this definitely isn’t a dream.”
She looks down the street. A pair of men in cowboy hats are staring at them from outside the saloon. A tumbleweed rolls slowly across the road. Then she pauses. “Oh.”
“What?”
She closes her eyes briefly, letting her senses stretch outward the way they do during hunts. The dry wind brushes past them. The buildings hum faintly beneath the surface. When she opens her eyes again, she exhales. “Magic.”
He nods. “The same as before?”
“Yeah. Feels just like it did in the alley.”
“So, whatever brought us here is still active.”
“Pretty sure the whole town is soaked in it.” She gestures down the street. “Like someone poured magic over the entire place.”
Jack studies the town again. “Well, last time we didn’t get very far before things escalated.” He shifts slightly, the long coat moving around his boots. Something catches his eye. He glances down at his hip. A revolver sits in a leather holster.
Nellie follows his gaze. “You’re armed.”
He lifts the revolver slightly, inspecting it. “I believe this means I’m part of local law enforcement.”
She studies his coat, the badge pinned near the lapel. “Deputy,” she says.
He nods slowly. “That seems likely.”
A gunshot cracks across the street. Both of them turn instantly; hunter instincts override everything else. Two men burst through the saloon doors. One of them stumbles into the dirt clutching his side. The other stands over him with a revolver raised.
He exhales slowly. “…Well.”
She folds her arms. “Your optimism lasted thirty seconds.”
The man with the gun suddenly notices Jack. His expression changes immediately. “Sheriff!” he shouts.
He glances at Nellie. “…Sheriff?”
She shrugs. “Congratulations on the promotion.”
The man lowers his gun slightly. “Sheriff, you gotta see this!”
Jack sighs softly and starts walking toward the confrontation. The man in the street lowers his revolver the moment he sees Jack approaching.
“Sheriff,” he says, relief flooding his voice. “Thank God you’re here.”
He slows slightly, clearing his throat. “…What seems to be the problem?”
The man gestures angrily toward the wounded figure on the ground. “He started it!”
The injured man groans from the dirt. “That’s a lie,” he mutters.
Jack stops between them. For a second he looks like he’s mentally flipping through a list of how sheriffs behave in western movies. Nellie watches from behind him. This is going to be good.
He rests his good hand lightly near the revolver at his hip, clearly trying to look authoritative despite the sling holding his other arm close to his chest. “Alright,” he says calmly. “Let’s slow down.”
She raises an eyebrow. I wish I could take a picture of this, she thinks. She shifts casually against the hitching post nearby, pretending to be uninterested while actually scanning the scene carefully. Several townsfolk have gathered near the saloon doors. Most of them armed. Her attention sharpens. Okay… opportunity.
Jack gestures toward the gunman. “Why don’t you lower the weapon first?”
The man hesitates. “But sheriff —”
His voice stays steady. “That would be a good start.”
He sighs and lowers the revolver.
Nellie smirks slightly.
Jack kneels carefully beside the injured man, keeping his injured arm steady. “What happened here?” he asks.
The man grimaces. “He cheated me,” he mutters.
The gunman protests immediately. “That’s nonsense!”
Nellie leans casually against the post while studying the bystanders. One of the men near the saloon has a revolver tucked loosely into his belt. Not secured. Not watching her. Perfect.
Jack continues trying to manage the situation. “We’re not solving this with gunfire,” he says firmly.
The gunman gestures toward the wounded man. “He owes me money!”
The injured man groans. “Not anymore I don’t.”
He exhales. “Gentlemen, we can resolve this without anyone else getting hurt.”
The gunman gestures wildly. “That’s easy for you to say, sheriff!”
Nellie moves smoothly behind the bystander. Her fingers slip toward the revolver at his belt. One quick motion and the weapon slides free. She steps back again like nothing happened, casually examining the gun. “…There we go,” she mutters quietly.
Jack glances over again, noticing the gun in her hand and raises an eyebrow. She gives him a small smile. He shakes his head slightly but returns to the scene.
“Alright, you’re both coming with me.”
The gunman frowns. “To where?”
He pauses. Because that’s a very good question.
Nellie calls from behind him. “The jail?”
He nods immediately. “Yes. The jail.”
The gunman gestures angrily at the wounded man in the dirt. “He’s the only one who should be goin’! He cheated me!”
The injured man groans. “That’s a lie.”
Jack sighs softly. “Let’s try this again. You’re both coming with me to the—”
A distant rumble interrupts him. At first it’s faint, then it grows louder. Hoofbeats. Soon, a group of riders appears at the far end of the street, emerging through a cloud of dust. Six of them. All armed. All wearing the kind of long coats and hats that scream outlaw gang.
Nellie sighs. “…Of course.”
The townspeople notice too. Conversations stop. Doors begin closing.
One of the riders pulls his horse to a stop in the middle of the street. “Well now,” the man calls out lazily. “Looks like we arrived right in time.”
Jack straightens instinctively. Even with the sling, he still manages to look like someone who belongs in charge. “What do you want?” he asks.
The rider grins. “Same thing we always want.”
Behind him, one of the gang members cocks a rifle. “Town’s under new management.”
Nellie smirks. Now this was the fun part.
Jack glances sideways at her.
She lifts the revolver she stole slightly. “Way ahead of you.”
He steps forward a few paces into the street. “Gentlemen, I’m going to ask you to leave.”
The outlaws laugh. The leader tips his hat slightly. “And I’m going to politely decline.”
The tension in the street snaps tight.
Nellie quietly moves closer to Jack’s side. He keeps his voice steady. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Oh I do,” the outlaw replies cheerfully. He raises his gun.
He reacts immediately. “Down!”
The first shot cracks through the street. Chaos erupts. Nellie ducks behind a water trough as bullets splinter the wooden post beside her. She pops back up and fires once. One of the riders yelps as his hat flies off. Jack pulls his revolver with his good hand and returns fire, moving quickly despite the sling. A horse rears as a bullet hits the dirt nearby. Townsfolk scatter for cover.
She leans out again, firing carefully. The corset makes twisting awkward. “Jack,” she calls.
“Yes?”
“Next time we fight in the Old West, I’m bringing pants.”
He ducks behind a barrel as a bullet whistles past. “That seems reasonable.”
Another outlaw tries to flank them from the side alley.
She notices immediately. “Oh no you don’t.” She fires again.
The man scrambles back behind his horse.
The gang leader scowls. “Sheriff,” he shouts, “you’re making this harder than it needs to be!”
Jack sighs. “That seems to be a recurring theme today.”
The gunfight rages across the street, dust kicking up with every shot. Nellie ducks behind cover again and reloads the revolver quickly. Then something pulls at her attention. A faint ripple in the magic surrounding the town.
She frowns slightly. “…Jack.”
“What?” He glances over.
She’s not looking at the gunfight anymore. Her gaze is fixed down the far end of the street. Someone stands there. A young man leaning casually against the side of a building. Not hiding. Not participating. Just watching. Dust swirls around him as riders thunder past, but he doesn’t move. And somehow, he doesn’t look like he belongs in the western town at all. She narrows her eyes. Something about him hits her senses wrong. Not like the rest of the magic. Different. Focused.
“You see him too?” she finally asks him.
“Yeah.”
The young man tilts his head slightly, then he notices her staring at him. Their eyes meet. For a split second, he looks surprised. Then amused.
She stands. “I think that’s our guy.” She steps out from behind the trough.
“Nell—”
“I’ll be quick.”
Bullets still crack through the street as she moves toward the edge of the fight, weaving between wagons and scattered townsfolk. The young man watches her approach, still smiling faintly.
“Hey!” she calls. “Yeah, you. Care to explain what’s going on here?”
The moment she gets close enough to really see his face, his smile widens. “…Oops.”
The world erupts into blinding white light. She sits up with at a start, breathing out through her nose as the motel room comes into focus. Jack stirs across the room a second later and sits up slowly, adjusting the sling on his arm. They look at each other. Neither of them speaks for a moment.
She sighs. “…Well.”
He nods slightly. “Not a dream.”
“Nope.” She swings her legs off the bed and rubs her face. “Definitely not a dream. I think saw the guy behind all of this. Just standing there watching everything.”
He tilts his head. “He didn’t participate in the fight.”
“Nope.”
“He wasn’t part of the story.”
“Exactly.” She rubs her hands together. “And the magic around him felt different.”
“Were you able to identify what he was?”
She shakes her head. “Not fast enough. The second he realized I saw him, the reset happened.”
He nods slowly. “So, he’s likely responsible.”
“Pretty safe bet.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “He looked way too amused for someone watching a gunfight.”
“That suggests intentional manipulation.”
“Yeah.” She gestures toward the door again. “Which means whatever he is, he’s orchestrating this whole thing.”
“Possibly to observe our reactions.”
“Fantastic,” she mutters. “We’re entertainment.”
He shrugs slightly, glancing over at the door. “Well, we might as well see what happens next.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re weirdly calm about this.”
He smiles faintly. “I’m curious.”
She stands, grabbing her jacket. “Curiosity killed the cat, sheriff.”
He chuckles softly. “Fortunately, I’m not a cat.”
Nellie heads toward the door, Jack standing and joining her. He reaches for the handle. They exchange one last glance.
“Ready?” he asks.
She sighs. “As I’ll ever be.”
Jack opens the door. They step onto a wooden porch surrounded by dense forest. Tall pine trees stretch in every direction, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. The motel is gone. Behind them stands a rustic wooden cabin. A faded sign hangs above the door: DOGWOOD CABIN. The forest is quiet. Too quiet. No traffic. No town sounds. Just wind moving through the trees.
He glances back at the cabin. “That used to be the motel.”
“Yep.” She folds her arms. “Either someone has a really weird sense of humor, or we’re about to get murdered by a guy in a hockey mask.”
“That seems oddly specific.”
“I’ve seen movies.”
He looks down. “We changed again.”
She follows his gaze. Her flannel and jeans are gone. Now she’s wearing a bright camp counselor t-shirt tucked into denim shorts, tall socks, and hiking boots. Her eyebrows rise slowly. “…Oh no.”
He examines his own outfit. A similar camp shirt, cargo shorts and a whistle hanging from a cord around his neck. He lifts it slightly. “Interesting.”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
“What do you think it is?”
She gestures broadly at the woods. “Cabin in the woods. Summer camp. Matching outfits.”
“I believe these are counselor uniforms. That suggests this location functions as a camp environment.”
She glances toward the trees. “And camp environments in movies tend to end badly.”
“Why?”
“Because teenagers make terrible survival decisions.”
He considers that. “That seems statistically plausible.”
She steps off the porch and walks a few feet into the clearing. The forest feels thick. Watching. Waiting. She closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them again, her expression shifts. “It’s the same magic.”
“Consistent with the previous environments?”
“Yeah.”
But then she smirks slightly. “…But this one feels different. Less like a story setting. And more like a hunt.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That would be a positive development.”
She cracks her knuckles lightly. “Alright. Let’s figure out what—”
A voice suddenly calls from the trail behind the cabin. “Hey! There you guys are!”
Both of them turn. A group of college-aged camp counselors jogs toward them through the trees. Six of them. They look like they stepped straight out of an 80s summer camp movie.
The first guy reaches them and bends slightly to catch his breath. “Good, you made it,” he says. “We thought you two overslept.”
Nellie glances at Jack. He glances back.
“Staff meeting,” the guy continues, pointing down the path. “Mess hall. Carol’s already waiting.”
Another counselor steps forward, a tall athletic guy with a headband and a varsity jacket tied around his waist. “Yeah, and if Carol’s waiting, that means we’re already late.”
A blonde woman with perfect hair and immaculate makeup rolls her eyes dramatically. “Relax,” she says. “Carol loves yelling. It’s her cardio.”
Behind her, another guy lazily tosses a baseball in the air. Then another counselor steps forward, clipboard tucked tightly under her arm. Serious expression. “Everyone,” she says impatiently, “we’re already behind schedule.”
Nellie leans slightly toward Jack. “Let me guess,” she murmurs. “The jock.” She nods toward the headband guy.
“The beauty queen.” The blonde flips her hair.
“The jokester.” The baseball guy grins.
“And the responsible one.”
Clipboard girl glares. “That is not my title.”
Jack nods thoughtfully. “That seems like an accurate assessment.”
Another counselor steps closer. This one is leaning casually against a tree, clearly enjoying himself. He flashes Nellie an easy grin. “Well, hello,” he says. He looks her up and down. “You must be new.”
She stares at him. “Yep.”
He steps a little closer. “Name’s Tyler.” He gestures vaguely toward the lake. “Welcome to the best summer of your life.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Bold claim.”
He grins wider. “Wait until the campfire parties.”
She smiles sweetly. “If you keep standing that close,” she says calmly, “you’re gonna have to explain to the campers that your bruise came from a girl.”
Tyler blinks.
The baseball guy bursts out laughing.
Jack coughs slightly to hide his own amusement.
The flit slowly steps back. “Noted.”
The clipboard girl sighs. “Can we please go to the meeting now?” She gestures toward the path.
Everyone starts walking. The hunters fall into step behind them. The trail opens into the main part of the camp. Cabins sit scattered among the trees, a bonfire pit rests near the center clearing, a wooden dock stretches out across the lake. It looks exactly like every horror movie summer camp ever filmed.
Nellie leans closer to Jack. “This is definitely a slasher setup.”
He glances around thoughtfully. “What makes you certain?”
She gestures toward the counselors. “Because those people are about to make the worst survival decisions imaginable.”
He nods slowly. “That does seem likely.”
“Also, remind me to add Friday the 13th to the movie list when we get home.”
Ahead of them, the jokester pulls open the mess hall door with a dramatic flourish. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces. “Welcome to Camp Willow Creek.”
She mutters under her breath as she walks inside. “This is going to end badly.”
The mess hall smells faintly of burnt coffee and old wood. Long tables stretch across the room, benches pushed unevenly underneath them. A chalkboard hangs near the front wall with a faded map of the camp tacked beside it. The two hunters take seats near the end of one table. Neither of them looks particularly invested in the meeting.
Carol stands at the front of the room with a clipboard and the expression of someone who has run this meeting too many times already. “Alright,” she says, tapping the chalkboard once. “Campers arrive tomorrow. That means today we finish prep.”
The counselors around the room settle into various degrees of attention. The jock leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head. The beauty queen adjusts her hair in the reflection of a metal thermos. The skeptic flips through a small notebook. The jokester spins a pencil between his fingers.
Carol continues. “Cabins need final cleaning. The docks need inspection. The kitchen inventory needs to be counted and logged.”
At the front of the room, the jokester raises his hand. “Quick question.”
She sighs. “Yes.”
“Should we warn the new counselors about the—”
“No.”
He blinks. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
She folds her arms. “I absolutely do.”
He grins. “Camp legend?”
A few counselors laugh.
Carol’s patience thins visibly. “We are not discussing ghost stories during staff orientation.”
The jokester shrugs. “Just saying. People should know what supposedly happened in these woods.”
She points at the board. “Assignments.”
The moment passes. But Nellie leans slightly closer to Jack. “There it is,” she murmurs. “The legend.”
He nods thoughtfully. “So, the killer appears later.”
“Exactly.”
Carol begins writing assignments across the chalkboard. “Dock repairs. Cabin cleaning. Equipment checks. Supply inventory.” She glances toward the back of the room, pointing to the two hunters. “You two are on storage inventory. Shed near the north trail.”
Her mouth twitches slightly.
He notices. “That seems convenient,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “It does.”
The meeting wraps up a few minutes later. Chairs scrape as counselors stand and begin filtering toward the exits.
“Supply shed near the woods,” Jack says.
“That’s where I’d hide the magical source too,” Nellie replies.
They start toward the door. Unfortunately, Tyler is waiting just outside. He straightens when he sees her. “Hey.”
She sighs quietly under her breath. “Hi.”
He gestures toward the camp path. “So, I was thinking maybe later we could—”
“Inventory,” she interrupts.
He pauses. “What?”
“Jack and I have inventory duty.”
Jack gives him a polite nod.
“Carol’s orders.”
Tyler glances between them. “Inventory? That sounds… exciting.”
Nellie tilts her head slightly. “It will be.”
He smiles. “Well, if you need help—”
“We don’t.” She says it pleasantly. But the message is clear.
He chuckles. “You’re tough.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Jack nods towards the path leading to the sheds. “Ready?”
“Yep.”
They head down the dirt path toward the tree line.
Once they’re out of earshot, she exhales. “Thank you for that.”
He smiles slightly. “You seemed capable of handling him.”
“I was about thirty seconds away from threatening bodily harm again.”
“That would have been consistent.”
A small wooden shed sits near the edge of the clearing ahead of them. The door creaks when Jack pulls it open. Inside are rows of shelves stacked with camping equipment: lanterns, rope, life vests, boxes of supplies that probably haven’t been touched in years.
Nellie steps inside and glances around. “Looks normal.”
He examines a crate of tools. “No obvious magical artifacts.”
“Yeah, I didn’t expect the villain to label the cursed object.”
He smiles faintly.
They step back outside. Beyond the shed the forest thickens, the trees growing closer together. They move past the shed and continue along the faint trail.
After about thirty yards, she suddenly slows. “Hold on.”
Jack stops beside her. “What is it?”
She takes another step forward and stops again. “…That’s weird.”
He watches as she reaches a hand out cautiously. Her fingers press forward and meet resistance. The air shimmers faintly where her hand touches it. Like invisible glass. She taps it once. Thump.
He raises an eyebrow. “A barrier.”
“Yeah.”
She presses both hands against it now, testing the edge. The invisible wall stretches between the trees in both directions. She walks a few feet to the left. Same thing. Then to the right. Still there. “Well. That’s new.”
He studies the shimmer carefully. “That confirms the environment is contained.”
She leans back against the invisible barrier. “Which means this whole camp is basically a set.”
“Consistent with the previous loops.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, focusing. The magic hum is still there. Strong. Everywhere. But it refuses to settle into a single direction.
He watches her. “Anything?”
She shakes her head slowly. “That’s the weird part.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not coming from one place.” She gestures vaguely around the forest. “It’s like the magic isn’t structured.”
He considers that. “So, it’s being maintained rather than anchored.”
“Exactly.” She opens her eyes again. “And whoever’s doing it is somewhere inside the set.”
“That matches what you saw before the last reset.”
“The guy watching us.”
They start walking back toward the camp, reaching the clearing near the shed again.
The camp looks peaceful. Counselors move between buildings. Someone is setting up a volleyball net near the lake. Everything feels normal. For now.
She crosses her arms. “Well.”
He looks at her. “We wait?”
She nods. “Yep.” Then she smirks slightly. “Because the second someone says ‘years ago something terrible happened here’…”
He finishes the thought. “…people start dying.”
By the time they make their way back toward the mess hall, the light has shifted.
The sun hangs lower over the trees, turning the lake gold.
Nellie glances toward the sky. “…Okay.”
Jack looks over. “What?”
“We left here like thirty minutes ago.” She gestures toward the long shadows stretching across the camp. “That looks like late afternoon.”
“Time progression appears accelerated.”
“Yep. Story pacing.”
“That would be consistent with the other loops.”
They step inside the mess hall. The room is louder now. Dinner is already underway. Counselors sit around the long tables with plates of food, talking over each other while someone in the kitchen shouts for more plates. The smell of grilled burgers and burnt toast hangs in the air.
Tyler spots Nellie immediately. “Hey!”
She stops mid-step. Jack hides a smile.
He waves her over. “Saved you a seat!”
She sighs quietly. “Of course you did.”
They take seats at the opposite end of the table. This doesn’t deter him at all. He simply just gets up and sidles over to them, sliding a tray toward her. “Burger?”
She glances at it. “…Thanks.”
The jokester leans across the table. “So where’d you guys disappear to earlier?”
Jack answers easily. “Inventory.”
“Man, Carol always sticks the new people with inventory.”
The beauty queen tosses her hair. “I told you that job was cursed.”
Nellie mutters under her breath, “Let’s hope not.”
Jack leans slightly closer to her. “The barrier confirms we’re contained and the magic is everywhere, which suggests environmental control.”
“Exactly.”
He glances around the room. “You mentioned hallucinations earlier.”
She nods. “That’s still my best guess.”
“How so?” She gestures subtly around the mess hall.
“This could all be some kind of visual manipulation.”
“Meaning we’re still physically in the same place.”
“Maybe.”
Tyler leans back into their space again.
“So,” he says, smiling at Nellie, “what were you guys actually doing out there?”
She blinks. “Inventory.”
He grins. “For three hours?”
Jack clears his throat. “Thorough inventory.”
The jokester laughs loudly. “Sure, man. Thorough inventory, my ass.”
Nellie just rolls her eyes and leans toward Jack again. “If I have to explain magic theory while surrounded by camp counselors…”
He smiles faintly. “That does complicate the investigation.”
She lowers her voice. “It could be hallucination magic.”
“Or illusion casting.”
“Exactly.”
He nods. “Do you think a witch could do this?”
She pauses. “Really?”
He shrugs slightly. “We do have experience with witches.”
She shakes her head. “Jack.”
“Yes?”
“If this is a witch, she has way too much free time.”
The jokester suddenly leans across the table again. “Okay but real question, anyone here heard the story about this place?”
Across the room, Carol’s voice cuts through immediately. “No.”
He sighs dramatically. “You never let anyone have fun.”
She points at him with a fork. “You tell that story and the new counselors will refuse to leave their cabins.”
Nellie leans towards Jack again. “See?”
He nods. “The legend.”
She gestures with her fork. “The killings start after that. Enjoy dinner while it lasts.”
Night settles over Camp Willow Creek faster than either of them expects. By the time dinner ends, the sky has already darkened to deep blue. Lanterns flicker along the paths between cabins, and a fire crackles in the large pit near the lake. The counselors gather around it in a loose circle. Someone has brought a cooler. Beers are already being passed around. Jack sits on one of the benches near the edge of the firelight. Nellie drops down beside him, stretching her legs out toward the warmth.
“This part,” she murmurs quietly, “is where people start making bad decisions.”
He watches as Tyler grabs two beers and hands one to the beauty queen. “That seems to have already started.”
She smirks.
Across the fire, the jokester tosses another log onto the flames. The sparks rise into the dark trees overhead.
Tyler slides onto the bench beside her. “So,” he says casually, leaning closer, “you’ve been avoiding me all day.”
She doesn’t look at him. “I’ve been working.”
He grins. “Hard to get, huh?”
Jack glances sideways.
She slowly turns her head. “Tyler.”
“Yeah?”
“They’re going to have to start a whole new legend about this place and you’re going to be remembered the first victim after I strangle you.”
Jack coughs softly into his hand.
Tyler laughs. “See? That’s what I mean. Mysterious.” He leans back, unfazed.
Across the fire, the jokester suddenly stands. He holds up a beer bottle. “Alright, campers!”
Several of the others cheer.
Carol groans from her seat. “Don’t start.”
Too late. He spreads his arms dramatically. “You all know what time it is.”
“Story time,” the jock says.
He paces slowly around the fire, milking the moment. “Years ago,” he begins in a low voice, “this camp wasn’t called Willow Creek.”
Several counselors lean closer.
Tyler nudges Nellie. “You like scary stories?”
She stares into the fire. “Eat me, asshat.”
The jokester continues. “They say something terrible happened here.” He gestures toward the lake. “Some guy snapped. Lost his mind out in the woods.”
The beauty queen rolls her eyes. “Here we go.”
“They found the bodies the next morning,” he says, lowering his voice further. “Right out there by the cabins. They say he still walks these woods.”
Silence hangs over the clearing. A breeze stirs the trees. Then, a branch snaps somewhere beyond the firelight. Everyone turns. A tall figure steps slowly from the darkness. Broad shoulders. Mask. Large blade hanging in one hand. Several counselors scream.
The beauty queen grabs Tyler’s arm. “WHAT IS THAT?”
Nellie is already standing.
Jack rises beside her. “Large,” he murmurs.
“Masked,” she adds.
“Weaponized.”
“Yep.”
She cracks her knuckles. “Let’s do this.”
They close the distance. The figure suddenly lunges and then stops. The mask comes off.
The jock bursts out laughing. “Got you!”
The entire circle erupts in laughter. Several counselors throw sticks at him.
“Dude!”
“You jerk!”
Nellie freezes. “Yeah, should have seen that coming.”
The jock bows dramatically. “Relax, people! Just getting into the spirit!”
The jokester laughs. “That was perfect!”
The laughter around the fire dies slowly. At first it’s just a few uneasy chuckles. Then someone near the back of the group frowns.
“Wait,” the skeptic says. “Where’s Matt?”
Several heads turn.
The jokester looks around the circle. “Matt went to grab another cooler.”
The jock shrugs. “Probably still at the mess hall.”
The beauty queen calls out toward the dark path. “Matt?”
No answer. The forest stays quiet.
Nellie’s eyes shift toward the tree line again.
Jack notices. “You see something?”
“Yeah.”
A moment later, a scream rips through the woods. High. Sudden. Cut short. The campfire circle freezes.
Tyler stands up immediately. “What the hell was that?”
Another scream echoes from deeper in the trees. This one unmistakable. Panic spreads through the group.
“Oh my God—”
“Was that Matt?”
“Someone go check!”
“We should all go together—”
“No way I’m going out there—”
“Someone needs to see what happened!”
The jock grabs the fake mask from earlier. “Relax, it’s probably just Matt messing around.”
Nellie looks at him. “That would be impressive.”
He blinks. “What?”
Jack gestures toward the woods. “That scream did not sound staged.”
Another rustling noise comes from the tree line. Someone gasps.
The beauty queen grabs Tyler’s arm. “Okay, I’m not staying here.”
The group fractures immediately. A few counselors run toward the cabins. Others head toward the mess hall. Two more disappear down the path toward the lake.
Nellie watches them scatter. “Called it.”
Another branch snaps somewhere in the darkness.
She scans the clearing. “We need weapons.”
He glances toward the camp buildings. “There was a tool shed near the storage area.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
They leave the firelight behind and head toward the darker side of camp. The path winds between cabins before opening into a small clearing. A wooden tool shed sits near the edge of the trees. Jack reaches the door first and pulls it open. Inside are shelves of tools. Axes. Shovels. A rusted machete hanging from a peg.
Nellie grabs the machete immediately. “Well,” she says, testing the weight. “That’s convenient.”
He picks up a long-handled axe, adjusting his grip carefully with his good arm. “This should suffice.”
They step back outside. The clearing around the shed is quiet. Then a heavy shape drops from the trees behind them. She barely has time to turn. The killer crashes into the clearing with terrifying force. Tall. Masked. Blade already swinging. They jump apart instinctively. The machete clangs against the weapon. Jack swings the axe one-handed, forcing the figure back. The killer doesn’t react. Doesn’t speak. Just advances. Slow. Relentless.
She moves to his side. “Okay,” she mutters, breath steady. “Now we’re doing this.”
The killer lunges again. Jack blocks with the axe handle and the impact knocks him sideways into a stack of crates. They collapse loudly. She slashes forward to create space. The killer turns toward her instead. For a moment the three of them circle each other in the clearing. Then the forest itself seems to shift. Branches whip suddenly in the wind. The lantern beside the shed flickers violently.
Her eyes narrow. “Jack, that’s not normal—”
The killer charges again. She ducks the swing and rolls away. When she comes up again, Jack is gone. Not fallen. Not hiding. Just gone. The space where he landed on the crates empty.
“Jack?” No answer.
The masked man turns slowly toward her and takes a step forward. That snaps her out of it. She turns and runs. Branches whip past her shoulders as she cuts through the trees, boots pounding against the dirt path. The camp opens ahead of her in flashes of lantern light and confusion. Someone screams near the lake. Another counselor bolts across the clearing toward the cabins. Doors slam. People shout. The whole camp has tipped into chaos.
She scans every movement as she runs. “Jack!” she calls.
No answer.
Nellie cuts between two buildings, rounding the corner and stops short. Dogwood Cabin. The same one she and Jack had stepped out of when the loop began. The porch lantern flickers softly.
For a moment she hesitates. “If this is the entry point…” she mutters. She grabs the door handle and pushes inside.
The cabin is quiet. Two bunks. A small dresser. A narrow window looking out into the trees. Exactly what you’d expect from a summer camp cabin. Nothing magical. Nothing unusual.
She exhales through her nose. “Worth a shot.”
She turns and heads back toward the door. The moment she steps outside, someone grabs her arm. She spins instantly, machete halfway up.
“Whoa! Hey!” Tyler stumbles backward, hands raised. “Relax.”
She lowers the blade slightly but keeps it ready. “Tyler.”
He runs a hand through his hair, breathing a little hard. “Yeah. It’s me.” He glances nervously toward the trees. “I saw something out there.”
“No shit.”
He gestures toward the cabin behind them. “I figured hiding out here might be smarter than running around the woods.”
She looks past him toward the tree line. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Your boyfriend?”
She gives him a flat look. “Jack.”
Tyler leans casually against the porch railing like the last ten minutes never happened. “Well,” he says, smiling again, “while we’re stuck hiding out here…”
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Tyler.”
“What?”
“There’s a killer in the woods.”
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Which is exactly why we should stay in here. Nice and quiet.” He grins a little, backing her into the wall. “Could even make it fun.”
She stares at him. “Are you serious right now?”
“What? Stressful situations bring people together.” He places his hands on either side of her head, boxing her in and leaning in close.
She gives him a hard look, ducking under and out from his arms. “Not interested, especially with a freaking killer on the loose.”
“Don’t worry, sweet thing, I’ll protect you…” He goes to grab her arm, but she delivers a hard punch to his face. “What the hell?!”
“You couldn’t protect yourself even if the killer glowed in the dark and moved like molasses,” she retorts.
Behind him, something moves. The killer steps out of the darkness behind him, the blade rising once. She shoves Tyler aside, but the strike still lands. He collapses against the porch railing. The killer doesn’t pause.
She backs away immediately. “Never thought I’d be thankful for a masked killer,” she mutters under her breath. Then she turns and runs.
• • •
Jack lands hard against the stacked crates. Wood splinters under the impact. By the time he pushes himself back to his feet, the clearing is empty.
“Nellie?”
Only the wind answers.
He exhales slowly. “…Right.” He grips the axe more firmly in his good hand and steps away from the shed.
The camp is already falling apart. A scream echoes somewhere near the lake. Another voice shouts near the cabins. Lantern light flickers between buildings as counselors run in different directions. He moves quickly through the clearing, scanning every movement.
“Nellie!”
No response.
He doesn’t panic, but the concern settles in anyway. Normally this wouldn’t worry him. She can handle herself in a hunt, better than most people he’s worked with. But this isn’t a normal hunt. This is a story someone else is controlling and that means the rules aren’t theirs.
He slows slightly as he approaches the path leading back toward the main camp. Something catches his attention. A figure stands near the edge of the trees. Young. Late teens, maybe. Wearing the same camp counselor shirt as everyone else. But he isn’t running. He isn’t helping anyone. He’s just watching. His expression is relaxed. Amused. Like he’s enjoying the show.
He steps off the path. “Hey.”
The boy turns toward him. For a brief moment their eyes meet. Recognition flickers across his face. Then he smiles and runs.
Jack immediately gives chase. “Stop!”
The boy darts between two cabins, moving fast.
He follows, boots pounding across the dirt path. “Hold on!”
The boy cuts across the volleyball court and vaults over the low fence surrounding it. He follows a second later, never losing sight of him. For someone who looks like a teenager, the boy moves surprisingly well. He glances back once. Still smiling. He darts down a narrow path toward the dock.
Jack pushes harder, closing the distance slightly. “Running won’t help,” he calls.
The boy just laughs. Then he turns sharply and disappears between two buildings. The hunter reaches the corner seconds later and the path beyond is empty. He slows. Listening. Nothing. No footsteps. No movement. Just the quiet creak of the dock swaying against the water.
He exhales slowly. “Interesting.”
Somewhere in the woods behind him, another scream echoes through the camp.
He turns toward the sound immediately. “Nellie,” he murmurs. And heads back toward the trees.
• • •
Nellie runs until the sounds of the camp fade behind her. The screams. The crashing doors. The chaos. Her boots slow against the dirt path. Then she stops. The forest breathes around her. For a moment she just listens. The wind through the trees. The distant lake water against the dock. And beneath it is that same low hum of magic.
She exhales slowly. “Alright,” she mutters. Her grip tightens on the machete.
The realization settles in. Every story so far had ended the same way. Noir. Western. Both of them solved the problem. Which means— She glances back toward the darkness behind her.
“This one ends when the killer dies.” She cracks her neck slightly. “Works for me.”
Branches crunch under her boots as she moves deeper between the trees. She keeps her breathing steady. A shadow shifts between the trunks ahead. The killer steps out slowly. He tilts his head slightly. Like he’s surprised he ran into her again so soon.
She smiles faintly. “Your turn.”
The killer lunges. Nellie sidesteps cleanly. The blade whistles past her shoulder. She brings the machete down hard across his arm. Metal scrapes against the killer’s weapon as he recovers instantly. He swings again. She ducks, rolling across the forest floor. When she comes up, her eyes flash with focus. A sharp pulse of psychic force slams into the killer’s chest. The impact knocks him back a step.
“Yeah,” she mutters. “That still works.”
The killer steadies himself and charges again. This time her meets him head-on.
The machete collides with the larger blade. Sparks jump from the impact. He’s stronger, but slower. She slips past him and drives a kick into the back of his knee. He stumbles. She doesn’t waste the opening. Another psychic shove sends him crashing into a tree. The trunk shudders under the impact. He pushes himself upright again. Still silent. Still relentless.
She breathes out slowly. She shifts her stance. “Round two.”
He charges again, but this time she is ready. She moves inside the swing, twisting the machete across his wrist. The blade falls from his grip. Before he can recover, she drives a psychic pulse straight into his chest. The force slams him backward onto the forest floor. The ground shakes slightly. For the first time, the killer doesn’t get up immediately.
She steps closer, her voice calm. “You’re just a prop.”
The killer starts to rise again. She doesn’t give him the chance. The machete flashes once. Then again. The final strike lands clean. The forest goes quiet. The body collapses. The magic humming through the woods falters.
She stands there for a moment, breathing hard. She glances toward the trees. “Story solved.”
Somewhere beyond the trees, someone laughs quietly. She looks toward the tree line. And then she sees him. The same young man, standing just beyond the reach of the lantern light filtering through the camp. Hands in his pockets. Watching. Amused. She starts toward him. The machete stays loose but ready in her hand. He doesn’t move. Just tilts his head slightly as she approaches.
When she’s close enough to see his face clearly, she stops. “You’re the one doing this.”
The boy smiles faintly. “You’re ruining the story.”
She studies him carefully. “Good.”
He shrugs. “You were supposed to be the final girl, but there are still a couple counselors alive.”
She narrows her eyes. “I don’t like following other people’s rules.” Her psychic senses reach outward, brushing against the strange magic surrounding him. She tries to read what he is. But the magic around him twists strangely, like it’s deliberately hiding its shape.
The boy notices the moment she tries. His smile widens. “Oh… Don’t do that.”
The air around them suddenly brightens, white light erupting across the forest. Nellie bolts upright in bed. The motel room. Again. Across the room, Jack sits up at the exact same moment, wincing slightly as he adjusts his casted arm. They look at each other. Relief hits both of them immediately.
“You’re okay,” she says.
He nods once. “You’re okay.”
She exhales and runs a hand through her hair. “Good.”
“How did the story end?”
She leans back against the headboard. “I killed the killer.”
He nods thoughtfully. “That would be consistent with the previous loops.”
“Yeah.” She gestures vaguely. “I saw him again.”
“That matches what I saw.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You saw him?”
“Briefly.” He shifts slightly on the bed. “I chased him through the camp.”
“And?”
“I lost him.”
“That’s probably when he popped over to where I was.”
“What happened when you approached him?”
“He said I was ruining the story by killing too early.”
He considers that. “That implies intentional narrative control.”
She swings her legs off the bed and stands. “He’s orchestrating the loops. The way he’s running this — different genres, pushing the plot forward — it all lines up.”
He watches her. “You believe he’s a trickster.”
She stops pacing. “Pretty sure.”
“That would explain the reality manipulation.”
“And the sense of humor,” she adds.
He glances toward the motel door. “If he is a trickster, then killing the monster inside the story won’t end the loop.”
She folds her arms. “We have to take him out instead.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You sound confident.”
She shrugs. “Either we kill the trickster or we spend the rest of eternity solving genre problems.”
“That does sound unpleasant.” He stands carefully, adjusting the sling. “So, we confront him.”
She nods. “Next loop.”
He moves toward the door. “Any predictions?”
She thinks for a second. Then sighs. “With this guy? Something stupid.”
He opens the door and they step outside together, immediately stopping. They walk straight back into the same motel room. Same carpet. Same two beds. Same television.
Jack slowly turns back toward the door behind them. “…That’s unusual.”
Nellie stares at the room. “Did we just…”
He closes the door behind them and opens it again. Still the same room. He tilts his head slightly. “We appear to be inside a contained space.”
“No kidding.” She crosses the room and checks the bathroom door. She opens it. Bathroom. Normal. She closes it again. “This is officially weird.”
He studies the room again. “The trickster may be changing the parameters.”
“Yeah,” she says dryly. “Because the genre roulette wasn’t confusing enough.”
A loud cheesy laugh track erupts out of nowhere.
Nellie freezes. Jack blinks. They both look toward the ceiling.
“…You heard that,” she says.
“Yes.”
She slowly turns in a circle, looking around the room. “Oh no.”
He looks at her. “What?”
She points upward. “We’re in a sitcom.”
Another laugh track bursts out.
He processes that. “Interesting.”
She gestures toward the door. “We just walked out of the room and came right back in.” *laugh track*
She groans. “Fantastic.”
He nods thoughtfully. “That would explain the spatial repetition.”
She glares at the air. “You think this is funny?”
*bigger laugh track*
Nellie throws her hands up. “Oh good, there’s an audience now.”
Jack looks at the television. The static is gone. Instead, the screen now shows a brightly lit living room set. A cheerful theme song begins playing faintly through the speakers.
She stares at it. “…Oh you have got to be kidding me.” She sighs and drops onto the edge of the bed.
*laugh track*
She squints upward. “Was that because I sat down?”
He considers it. “That may have been a visual gag.”
She points at him. “If you start doing slapstick I’m leaving you here.”
*laugh track*
He pauses. “I did not intend to.”
She leans back on the bed. “Whoever’s writing this episode is really committed to the bit.”
He nods once. “That would be the trickster.”
She closes her eyes briefly. “Fan-freaking-tastic.”
*laugh track*
She opens one eye and looks upward again. “I’m going to kill him.”
Jack opens the motel door again. This time, they don’t walk back into the room.
Instead, they step onto the motel walkway. The parking lot stretches out in front of them, the same cracked asphalt they had pulled into earlier that morning. The same row of old trucks sits along the curb. The neon motel sign flickers faintly in the morning light. For a moment, everything looks completely normal. Except for—
“WHERE IS MY CAR?!” Nellie stares at where the vehicle had been sitting just the night before.
He glances around before leaning down and picking up a small toy model that looks suspiciously like a 1967 Chevy Impala. He holds it out to her. “Here you go.”
*laugh track*
She snatches it from his hands, her face growing red. “My dad is going to die all over again when he sees this.”
*bigger laugh track*
Delicately, she puts it into her jacket pocket and uses both hands to flip off the sky at whatever was watching. Only then did she really take in their surroundings. The town looks exactly the way it had when they arrived. The small diner across the road. A gas station down the street. A few quiet storefronts. No sepia tone. No cowboys. No camp counselors. Just a small town.
Nellie exhales. “Despite certain circumstances… This might actually be the most normal setup we’ve had all day.”
Jack nods slightly. “It appears structurally similar to reality.”
She folds her arms, scanning the street “So maybe we just do a hunt with the world’s dumbest laugh track following us around.”
*laugh track*
He glances upward again. “The audience seems responsive.”
“Don’t encourage them.”
They start walking toward the street.
The town remains calm around them. A car drives slowly past. Someone exits the diner carrying a takeout bag. Completely normal.
He studies the buildings thoughtfully. “This environment lacks a specific narrative structure. So that means, that the story may not be directing us.”
“That means we can actually look for him,” she replies with a huff. “Sitcoms don’t have a fixed plot.”
“Where should we begin?”
She gestures toward the diner. “Food.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re serious.”
“If I’m going to hunt a trickster inside a sitcom, I’m at least getting pancakes first.”
*laugh track*
He follows her inside. The bell above the diner door jingles as she pushes it open. Warm light spills across the floor, along with the smell of coffee and fried food. The place looks exactly like what they expected: red vinyl booths, checkered floor, an old jukebox humming softly in the corner. Normal. Suspiciously normal.
She slides into a booth without hesitation. “If this resets again before I get food, I’m going to take it personally.”
*laugh track*
She points at the ceiling. “I swear—”
He sits across from her. The cast on his arm knocks lightly against the table as he adjusts. “Technically,” he says calmly, “we have not eaten since the first loop.”
“It is a travesty.”
A waitress approaches with a coffee pot. “Morning,” she says cheerfully. “What can I get you two?”
“Pancakes,” Nellie says immediately.
The waitress nods and looks at Jack. “Coffee,” he says. “And eggs.”
She scribbles it down and heads toward the kitchen.
He turns back to her. “Do you remember how to kill a trickster?”
She nods. “Wooden stake to the heart, dipped in the blood of a victim.”
“That may be problematic.”
“Yeah.”
She drums her fingers lightly on the table. “Because from what we’ve seen, he hasn’t actually killed any real people.”
“The people inside the stories appear to be constructs.”
“So, unless the waitress is secretly part of the supernatural community, we don’t exactly have a victim.”
*laugh track*
He glances around the diner. “It’s possible the trickster is avoiding direct harm.”
“Or he’s just messing with us.”
“Both explanations are consistent.”
The waitress returns with coffee and sets the mugs in front of both of them. “Your pancakes will be up in a minute.”
When she walks away, Nellie leans forward slightly. “There might be another option. If we find him, I might be able to disrupt the magic.”
“You mean sever the illusion,” Jack replies.
“Something like that.” She gestures vaguely. “If I can push against the source of whatever he’s using to hold this together, it might collapse the loop.”
“That would bypass the traditional method of killing him.”
“So now the problem becomes locating him.” She scans the room carefully.
The few people inside eat quietly. Someone flips through a newspaper. A couple talks softly in the corner booth. Nothing stands out. Nothing unusual.
She narrows her eyes slightly. “He’s here.”
He looks back at her. “You’re certain?”
She nods once. “Sitcom rules.”
He tilts his head. “How so?”
She gestures around the diner. “Limited set. Contained cast. And a live audience that thinks this is hilarious.”
*laugh track*
He nurses his coffee, watching the room with the same calm focus he uses on a hunt. The laugh track hasn’t fired in almost a minute. Which somehow makes it worse.
She lowers her fork and scans the diner again. “Okay,” she mutters. “If I were a trickster, I would be somewhere in here enjoying this way too much.”
*laugh track*
He tilts his head slightly. “I don’t know if I should be offended that they find you funnier that me.”
She rolls her eyes, then lets her gaze drift around the room. The counter. The booths. The kitchen window. Everyone looks normal.
Jack suddenly stills. “I see him.”
“Where?”
He lifts his coffee mug and speaks quietly. “Counter. Third stool from the end.”
Nellie casually shifts her posture and glances in the reflection of the napkin dispenser. A young guy sits at the counter, pretending to read a newspaper. Same age. Same relaxed posture. Same amused expression half-hidden behind the paper. She smirks slightly. “Yeah.”
“He appears to be observing us.”
“Not very subtle.” Then her eyes flick toward the kitchen window. She pauses. “Jack.”
“Yes?”
“There’s another one.”
He frowns slightly. “Another?”
She gestures subtly with her fork toward the kitchen. The same young man stands behind the counter now, wiping it down with a towel while chatting with the waitress.
He glances again toward the newspaper. Still there. “He has duplicated himself.”
“Or he’s switching places really fast.”
*laugh track*
She sighs. “I hate this place.”
They slide out of the booth. The newspaper version notices them first. The paper lowers slowly. The young man looks between them and exhales dramatically. “You two are really ruining the vibe.”
She folds her arms. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
He glances toward the kitchen, where his other self is already disappearing through the back door. Then he bolts straight toward the kitchen.
“Oh no you don’t,” she mutters. She pushes through the swinging doors a second later. The diner kitchen erupts into chaos. Line cooks turn around in confusion as the boy darts around a prep table.
The head cook raises a spatula. “HEY!”
He ducks under a rack of hanging pans. The hunters weave after him.
“No running in the kitchen!”
*laugh track*
He grabs a metal tray and flings it behind him. It skids across the tile floor. Jack steps over it smoothly. Nellie kicks it aside without breaking stride.
“Seriously?” she shouts after him.
The trickster cuts around another counter and nearly collides with a waitress carrying a stack of plates.
“WATCH IT!”
The plates wobble. One falls. CRASH.
*laugh track*
He darts toward the back of the kitchen and grabs the rear door. Just before pushing it open, he glances back at them. “You’re supposed to be confused right now!” Then he shoves the door open and disappears outside.
She hits the door seconds later. The alley behind the diner smells faintly like fryer grease and old trash. He is already halfway down it. He vaults over a stack of crates and sprints toward the street. They chase after him. He reaches the sidewalk first and bolts across the road toward the motel. The lobby door swings open as he rushes inside, the hunters following moments later.
The desk clerk looks up from behind the counter. “Can I help you?”
The boy runs straight past her.
Jack runs past.
“Can I help you?”
Nellie runs past.
“Can I help you?”
Jack glances back briefly. “…No.”
*laugh track*
The trickster darts through the far exit of the lobby and back onto the street. He cuts sharply toward the gas station next door. The convenience store door bangs open as he rushes inside. Nellie bursts in right behind him and immediately skids to a stop as someone drops a perfectly stacked pyramid of canned soup in the aisle. The cans cascade across the floor.
CLANG.
CLANG.
CLANG.
*huge laugh track*
She stares at the mess for half a second. “I’m going to burn this whole town down.”
Jack steps carefully over the rolling cans. “That may be excessive.”
The boy slips through the end of the aisle and out the other door. They burst back onto the sidewalk seconds later. He’s already halfway down the street, weaving through pedestrians and cutting between parked cars. Another laugh track ripples through the air as someone walking out of the gas station drops their drink in surprise.
He glances back over his shoulder, still smiling, still enjoying himself. “Come on!” he calls over his shoulder. “You two are supposed to be getting tired by now!” He ducks down a side street and disappears past the corner of a hardware store.
Nellie skids to a stop at the intersection, Jack stopping beside her. They both look down the street. Empty. The trickster is gone again.
She exhales sharply. “Oh, come on.” She’s already about to keep running when she notices he hasn’t moved. “Jack?”
He’s staring thoughtfully down the road. “This is supposed to be a sitcom.”
She folds her arms. “Yeah.”
*laugh track*
“In the previous loops, the story forced certain behavior. If this follows sitcom logic, then the chase itself may be the structure.”
Her expression shifts as the realization clicks. “So, if we stop chasing him…”
“We stop playing our roles.”
She exhales, dusting off her jacket and turning around. “Let’s test that theory.”
They start walking back toward the diner. Not running. Not searching. Just walking. Behind them, the trickster slowly peeks around the corner of the building. He watches them go. Waiting for them to notice. Waiting for them to chase him again. They don’t.
Nellie stretches her shoulders slightly as they walk. “You know,” she says casually, “when we get back to the bunker, I’m finishing my book.”
Jack glances over. “Which one?”
“Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I am halfway through the Byron poems you lent me.”
“Yeah?”
“They’re… intense.”
She smirks. “That’s one way to describe Byron.”
They continue down the sidewalk like none of this matters. A car drives past. Someone exits the diner with a bag of food. The laugh track tries to fire again, but it comes out weaker this time.
He continues conversationally. “I also found the Dickinson collection interesting.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you read at three in the morning?”
“I was awake.”
“You were brooding.”
“I was reflecting.”
*laugh track*
She snorts. “Sure you were.”
The diner sign glows ahead of them, humming softly in the evening light. Her posture stays relaxed. Hands in her jacket pockets. Easy pace. But her eyes flick briefly to the reflection in the diner windows as they pass. Behind them, the trickster is following. Not very well. He’s trying to act casual, leaning against a parking meter, pretending to examine a storefront window. But every few seconds he checks to see if they’ve noticed him. She sees all of it. She doesn’t react. Instead, she continues the conversation.
“So,” she says lightly, “if you liked Byron, you’d probably enjoy Shelley.”
He nods. “I’ve heard of him.”
“You’ve heard of him?” She gives him a sideways look. “Jack.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve been reading poetry for six months.”
“I am expanding my knowledge.”
*laugh track*
She almost smiles. Her gaze flicks to the diner window again. Still there. Still following. Perfect.
He notices the slight shift in her focus. “What about Shelley?” he asks.
“More dramatic,” she says. “But good dramatic.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I will read him.”
She opens the diner door. “After you.”
The bell jingles overhead. They walk a few steps into the diner. Not even a minute later, the trickster pushes the diner door open behind them. He tries to look casual as he walks inside. But his eyes stay locked on them. Nellie moves. In one smooth motion she spins, closes the distance, and grabs him by the front of his shirt. Jack steps in from the other side, blocking the exit before the boy can react.
He blinks in complete shock. “…Oh.”
She tightens her grip. “Got you.”
Before he can teleport or vanish or do anything clever, her energy slams into the magic surrounding him. The air ripples. The entire illusion flickers. The air in the diner ripples like heat off pavement. Then everything stops. The waitress freezes mid-step beside the counter. A man at the far booth sits with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. The bell above the door hangs perfectly still. Even the faint hum of the refrigerator behind the counter cuts out. The laugh track dies abruptly. Silence settles over the room.
He looks around at the frozen diner. The halted customers. The way the edges of the room flicker slightly where her psychic hold is disrupting the illusion. His confidence falters. “Well,” he says slowly, “that’s… not ideal.”
Nellie doesn’t loosen her grip. “Name.”
He hesitates. “Kellan.”
“You’re a trickster.”
He lifts his hands slightly in surrender. “Apprentice.”
Jack watches him with quiet scrutiny. “You orchestrated the narrative loops.”
Kellan nods sheepishly. “Well, yeah.” He gestures vaguely toward the frozen diner. “I mean, you’re hunters.”
Her eyes narrow. “And?”
“And hunters are good at surviving stuff,” he says quickly. “So, you were my test.”
She tightens her grip slightly. “You kidnapped us.”
“I didn’t kidnap you,” Kellan protests. “I just… redirected your day.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You trapped us in multiple fabricated realities.”
He grimaces. “Okay, that one’s fair.”
Nellie presses harder with her hold. The illusion around them flickers. A chair across the room briefly glitches out of place before snapping back.
Kellan winces. “Careful with that.”
“Why us?” she asks.
He exhales. “Because hunters are perfect for something like this.”
Jack folds his arms. “For what purpose?”
He shrugs. “Because I’m training.”
“Training under whom?”
“My mentor, duh.”
She tilts her head slightly. “And you thought trapping two hunters in a genre experiment would impress them.”
He spreads his hands helplessly. “I mean… yeah.” He pauses, then sighs. “Look, it was supposed to go differently. So… what happens now?”
She loosens her grip on his shirt just enough to free one hand. Her focus shifts inward. Her eyes narrow slightly as she concentrates. The magic surrounding Kellan hums faintly, thin threads of illusion stretching outward, holding the sitcom world together. She reaches for it, her senses latching onto the structure of the illusion. It’s a bit messy, held together by someone still learning how to weave reality. She pushes. At first, nothing happens. Then the air ripples. A light fixture above them flickers. Across the diner, the frozen waitress glitches slightly out of position.
Kellan’s eyes widen. “Hey!”
Her energy surges outward. The laugh track suddenly sputters back to life— LA—LA—LAUGH—and cuts out again. The illusion fractures. The diner walls ripple like water and suddenly the entire world flickers. For half a second they’re standing in the middle of a rain-soaked street under dim detective-lamp lighting. The noir world. Rain splashes against the pavement. Then, the diner snaps back around them. Then it shifts again. Wooden storefronts rise around them. Dust swirls across the road. The western town. Then, trees explode upward from the ground. Lantern light glows between cabins. The summer camp. The environments flicker wildly, one after another, collapsing over each other like broken film frames. Noir street. Diner. Western road. Campfire woods. The entire illusion shakes violently.
He stumbles. “You’re not supposed to be able to do that!”
She clenches her fist. “Too bad.”
The magic finally snaps. The world shatters. For a moment there’s nothing but blinding white light, then the motel room slams back into place around them. The old ceiling fan spins slowly above. The television static hums quietly in the corner. The bedspread is exactly where it had been before the loops started. Everything is normal again. No laugh track. No illusion. Just the room.
Kellan stares around the room in disbelief. He looks back at Nellie. “Wow… I knew you were psychic.” He gestures vaguely at the now-normal room. “But I didn’t realize you were that psychic.”
She releases her psychic grip but doesn’t let go of his shirt. A small trickle of blood runs out of her nose and light slivery sheen crosses her eyes, but she just merely wipes it on her sleeve. Jack adjusts the sling on his arm and steps back slightly, though he keeps his position between the trickster and the door.
“Here’s the deal,” she says calmly. “Next time, you decide to involve hunters in one of your little training exercises—”
Jack finishes evenly, “Choose someone else.”
Kellan blinks. “That’s it?”
She tilts her head. “You didn’t kill anyone.”
He glances around the room again. “…No.”
“The people in those loops weren’t real,” she continues. “So, this ends with a warning.”
He stares at them both. “You’re just… letting me go?”
Jack nods once. “Yes.”
He lets out a slow breath. “That’s not what I expected.”
She raises an eyebrow. “What were you expecting?”
He shrugs awkwardly. “My mentor says hunters are brutal. I figured since you two looked like rookies, you wouldn’t even get close to catching me.” He gestures vaguely around the room. “I thought I’d run a few story loops, show my mentor I could manage the magic, and then drop you back here. End of training exercise. But you solved every story.”
Jack steps closer. “You mentioned a mentor. Who is it?”
Kellan’s expression shifts immediately. “Ah. I cannot say.” He gives a small apologetic shrug. “Internal trickster rules.”
Nellie narrows her eyes. “Convenient.”
He nods. “Very.”
Jack considers that for a moment. “Does your mentor know you are conducting training exercises with hunters?”
He grimaces slightly. “Probably not.”
She snorts. “Thought so.”
Kellan glances between them again. Still curious. Still studying them like he’s trying to understand something new. He suddenly drops down onto the chair by the small table like he’s settling in for a conversation. The charm returns to his expression almost immediately. “Well,” he says, leaning back comfortably, “since I’m apparently not being executed, I have questions.”
Nellie blinks. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.” He gestures between them. “I mean, hunters who can break narrative loops that easily? That’s not exactly common.”
Jack studies him. “What would you like to know?”
He grins. “Everything.”
She sighs and sits back on the edge of the bed. “You’re very relaxed for someone who just got caught.”
He shrugs. “You’re letting me go. That tends to improve the mood.”
Jack tilts his head slightly. “What are you curious about specifically?”
The trickster leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Start with the basics. What kinds of things do you actually fight?”
“Vampires. Werewolves. Ghosts.”
His eyebrows go up. “Actual vampires?”
“Yes.”
“Not the sparkly kind?”
Nellie nearly barks out a laugh. “No.”
“Good,” he says quickly. “Those were embarrassing.”
Jack continues calmly. “Demons. Witches.”
Kellan glances toward her. “Ah. The witch joke earlier.”
She rolls her eyes. “Long story.”
He nods eagerly. “I like long stories.”
Jack adds, “Cosmic beings. Occasionally.”
He blinks. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
He leans back again. “Okay. That’s significantly cooler than I expected.” He looks back at Nellie. “And the psychic thing?”
She narrows her eyes slightly. “What about it?”
“How does it work?”
He gestures vaguely. “The sensing stuff. The magic disruption. Is it like telekinesis? Or energy manipulation? Or—”
She cuts him off. “I’m psychic. That’s the short version.”
He waits. “And the long version?”
She shakes her head. “You get the short version.”
He studies her for a moment. Then nods. “Fair. So you can sense supernatural stuff.”
“Yes.”
“And push back on it.”
“When necessary.”
“That explains how you broke the illusion.” He glances at the walls of the motel room. “That was honestly impressive.”
She shrugs slightly. “You left the structure open.”
“So… You’ve run into tricksters before, right?”
“No.”
Jack holds up a hand. “Technically, I met a trickster who was actually an archangel in disguise."
Both Kellan and Nellie look at him with surprise.
“No way,” the trickster breathes.
“Well, you’re my first,” she mutters, giving her partner a ‘we’ll talk about this later’ look.
Jack raises an eyebrow. “That surprises you.”
“Yeah.” Kellan gestures vaguely. “Tricksters love messing with hunters. Usually from a distance.”
She folds her arms. “Lucky us.”
He grins. “Honestly? I didn’t think you’d get through the slasher loop.”
She smirks. “Seriously? That’s where hunters dominate the field. That was something your mentor should have covered in Hunters 101.”
Kellan nods thoughtfully. “You flipped the whole thing.”
Jack glances at Nellie. “She also enjoys horror films.”
“That explains a lot.” He looks between them again, clearly fascinated now. “You two are not what I expected hunters to be like.”
“What were you expecting?”
He thinks for a moment. “Less poetry discussions.”
Nellie laughs quietly. “Fair.”
Kellan leans back in the chair, arms folded loosely behind his head like he’s settling into the idea of the conversation. For a moment he just studies them. Then he nods once, satisfied. “Well, you two have definitely piqued my interest.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Probably,” he admits easily. He pushes himself up from the chair. “But in a good way. You’re smarter about the traps. You don’t panic. You don’t just brute-force everything.”
She smirks faintly. “We try.”
He nods. “I hope we run into each other again.”
She points at him immediately. “If we run into you again, it’s not going to be because you trapped us in some genre nightmare.”
He raises both hands. “Noted.”
“And one more thing,” she adds. “If you try being buddy-buddy with other hunters the way you tried with us, they’re not going to take kindly to it. We aren’t typical hunters.”
Kellan considers that for a moment. Then nods slowly. “Yeah… That tracks.” He takes a step toward the door. “Well, this was educational.”
Jack folds his arms. “For you or for us?”
He grins. “Both.” He pauses at the door and glances back once more. “Good luck with the hunting.” Then he vanishes in a quick shimmer of displaced air.
Nellie exhales and drops back onto the edge of the bed.
“That was unusual,” Jack says, shoulders slumping in relief.
“Understatement.” She rubs her face briefly. “And we open that door and Baby isn’t sitting out there, I’m going to take back my word and I’m gonna hunt the little asshole down.”
He moves to the door and opens it. The motel parking lot stretches out in front of them in the now afternoon light. Normal. No laugh track. No flickering worlds. Just the quiet hum of the town. And parked exactly where they left it is the Impala.
She stands and steps outside immediately. Her shoulders visibly relax when she sees the car untouched. “Oh, thank God. My dad would have dragged me down to Hell if something happened to her.”
He glances at her. “You mentioned pancakes earlier.”
“At this point? I just want to get out of this town.”
“That seems reasonable.”
They quickly pack up their duffels and throw them in the trunk. Nellie slides into the driver’s seat, the engine turning over with its familiar rumble. Jack hops into the passenger seat, lean his head back against the seat. She pulls the car out of the lot. For the first time all day, the world behaves normally. No magical barriers. No muted colors. No laugh tracks. Just some Metallica over filling the cab of the Impala as the town shrinks in the rear window.
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse