Case File 013: "Cross the Boarder"

Well now that was a funny thing to say...

Especially in a situation like this.

Everyone else must be busy doing their research by now, was there anyone else outside of this attic that could possibly put down whatever it is that they're doing to lend a hand in carrying something like this? The skinny girl- err... guy that he met earlier was certainly off of that list. Which leaves a few men, including himself, and a few girls who were running around.

Truth be told, he really didn't know who would help them...

But he'd do it anyway if only to get out of a room. He never forgot about the cats.

He NEVER will...

He looked between Eir who was pinned down on the floor and to Sasha who was trying to help her. He was torn between getting his hands dirty or getting slapped for being douche. He didn't like either options, but he knew that if he didn't choose he'd get slapped anyway.

Grigori wanted to get out of that room not because of the creepy shit that happened, but because he could still hear the sickly purr of the feral cats that stalked in the shadows...

"... I say we leave her to get help~. I don't know what we're dealing with here, do you? I doubt the playful little specter can lock us out again after what you did to the door, the worst that could happen would be those cats coming over here and 'playing' with her~."

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((OOC: Now excuse me as I go off to reminisce on an old game that was an important part of my childhood...))

A cough escaped her lip due to the dust before looking over at Grigori. "You go look for help. I'll stay here and see if we can manuever this someway so she can wiggle out." Sasha stopped and brushed a few strands of fly away hair out of her face.

Tonight was shaping up to be a very interesting night and one that she wanted to be over. The cats didn't scare her, it was the shadows that they hid within. The shadows was making her skin crawl, but she would push aside her fear to help Eir. Maybe one day Eir would help her out of a tight spot.

"Dont just hang around, we'll be alright. The more people helping the better. It'll make it easier to move this thing. " she nodded in the direction of the armoir.


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ooc: If I disappear for a while, dont worry. My mom and I had a fight this morning and she is telling everyone and their brother about it yet I am not allowed to tell anyone about what happens in the family. So needless to say, I may say a few final words, then move out cause I cant take this anymore. She says she feels like a maid and yet I dont ask her to do anything.

"Forget it Matsuda. There are somethings you can't explain, even to 911." Keats lifted himself off the floor before the black paint got to the knees of his slacks. Backing out of the closet, he grabbed the pieces of canvas that stuck to his jacket.

"And for your information Laurence, I was dying or was nearly about to be visually handicapped for the rest of my LIFE. Feel free to ask what I mean by that! No, wait. Let me save you the trouble. I nearly got my eyes pecked out by some freak bird made from-" He tore another piece of canvas from his jacket and held it in the air. "-This crap!" He was breathing heavily. Keats may have seen stranger things in his day, but nothing had ever gone for his eyes, and that terrified him. He stumbled over towards everyone else and sat down on the dusty cement floor, his gun still in hand. As his head began to clear a bit, he realized the hasty overreaction of his retelling of events may have been a bit cryptic.

"Listen," he started. "Either Harrington or someone was an appreciator or a creator of art. They had a painting in there that was really bizarre. It had some kind of raven/vulture hybrid pecking out the eyes of a dove, all around very distasteful and disturbing. The image it's self-" Keats chocked a bit because he suddenly realized how absurd it sounded. "The dark bird ripped it's self out of the canvas and began to attack my face. I had to shoot my gun at the lock to get out of the room."

Laurence didn't question Keats's explanation. He had seen more disturbing things that that in his dreams. Instead he simply walked into the closet to see the scene. The room smelled of something obscene and looked like a tornado had blown through it. Torn to pieces, the painting looked as though it had been shredded from below the floor. Kneeling down Laurence picked up a piece of the paint soaked cloth.

Carefully examining it he was unable to see what had been painted on it. The ooze seemed to be coming from the paper itself. The investigator dropped it and stood back up to look around the room for more clues. The room felt cold, as though a breeze was coming through. Laurence scanned the room. Whatever was causing it wasn't apparent from the first glance.

"Was there anything else?" He asked, turning back to Keats,"Anything at all?"

Again, Keats lifted himself off the ground. Reasonably unnerved, he walked toward the art closet. It was still dark inside, and Keats hated the thought of the bird coming at him again. He griped his gun as carefully as he could but his trigger finger had developed a mild itch. He'd have to control himself.

Looking down, he saw the filthy frame and shreds of canvas on the floor, paint and ink leaking from it. Looking to the right of the mess was a stained dusty sheet that had to be covering other canvases. Keats felt the dread grow in him. Usually he could handle himself, but this had unnerved him, and that was something he wasn't as familiar with.

For a moment, he considered asking Laurence to peal the sheet away, but if he did that, he would be surrendering what might be critical moment to act. No, Keats needed the control of the situation.

"Cover me." His shaking hand ripped the sheet off the canvases. Most stayed in place with the exception of one that fell over face down. Looking at Laurence for a moment, he then focused his attention towards the painting. Bending down, he reached out for it. The moment his hands touched the canvas, his hand felt like it had been stained and dirtied.

"I think these painting are tainted." he concluded. That didn't really mean anything other then dark processes were behind the creation, nothing more. That didn't explain why a bird suddenly animated itself into a eye-pecking fabric monster.

Keats flipped the canvas over. In the dark, he could make out the picture that was a odious as the first. This one was different though. No animal was painted. Instead, it was the crude picture of a red bearded man. His eyes were dark sockets, not suggesting the absence of eyes, but the absence of humanity. A sort of evil incarnate. Behind him was an equally crudely drawn woman, some of her cloths tossed aside. She was obviously a rape victim, the beaded man the victimizer. The background it's self was made out scissors. Lots of scissors, all painted into the background, hidden everywhere.

It was disgusting. The crude disturbing scene had been painted in the Keats, and he feared that he would not forget it that night when he hoped he'd lay in bed. "I think we need to seriously consider chatting with Harrington about his hobby."

"Derik, we may be hunting ghosts and goblins, but were still in the real world here. You don't just burn another man's property, no matter how much dark magic or in bad taste it is." He leaned the vulgar painting against what must be a dozen or so other canvases, undoubtedly with similar material. On second thought, he flipped the painting over so it faced away from them. He then pulled out his phone to call Harrington, but stopped before putting the receiver to his ear.

"This isn't possible," he muttered quietly. "Well, by now, what isn't?" He looked over at everyone else. "Guess what? My phone is dead as well."

Eir had settled down after her voice had started to lose it's strength and was asserting her position in the wardrobe she was encased in. Her battered and bruised hands rested against the back of the wardrobe. She let her eyes adjust a bit and used her phone for light. No service in this damned place. Her lips trembled as she kept breathing in the dank air. The voices were everywhere. And the whole house was anything but silent. She could tell a few floors down, something was up. Too bad everyone was too busy to get her out of this gods forsaken wardrobe.

Her tongue ring clucked against the back of her teeth, the acrylic material making a small clink sound. Her eyes pushed most of the clothes out of the way so that she wouldn't be suffocated out. It was unknown how long she'd be stuck under, but it seemed a bit safer than being surrounded by specters... or assholes.

Grigori merely shrugged at her suggestion as he turned to head for the door. No way in hell was he staying in that room any longer than he's already had, but before he even took one step away from the two women, he turned his body around and lifted his hat at Eir in a gesture made to mock her situation.

He smiled and chuckled, as if to say, 'it's fun to be able to move, no?'.

"I'll be back in a minute...."

He put his fedora back down on his head and slowly the sound of his shoes tapping against the rotting hardwood floor of the attic could be heard, fading as he came closer to the door.

"-or two~."

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((OOC: Forgive the shortness T3T. I woke up with a really bad headache...))