When you're Holden Cauthwell, you often find yourself gazing upon the world with nothing more than utter complacency. Being a young man who never knew his mother, Holden assumed that a strong relationship that he'd foster with his father would compensate for his missing maternal figure. That assumption was proven wrong when he turned ten. On that very day, Eric Cauthwell vanished without a trace.
"What a shame," Holden considered. He would shrug off the condolences of those around him. Nothing of the sort would return his father, so why bother with such platitudes? What others chalked up to an unfortunate event, Holden branded a moment of rebirth. An opportunity to come into his own as a man. Now, at the age of seventeen, he felt at peace with his self-sufficiency. Having dropped out of high school several years prior, his hands were rough and worn, having been molded as if they were clay, all as a product of his extensive labor. Mowing lawns, shoveling snow, walking dogs, managing crops. All work done so that he could live in a dingy apartment that comprised little more than basic furniture and electronic appliances. Though the documentation was signed under the name of someone else of legal age, Holden was the one who ultimately paid the rent and handled the chores.
If you were to ask anybody who "knew" him, they would say he was a strange kid. One who often kept to himself as opposed to making friends or engaging in social events. It's for that reason that the term "knew him" can only ever be applied loosely. Truth be told, Holden didn't mind things being that way. As a matter of fact, that's how he preferred it. He wasn't some sort of misanthrope or anti-social character. It's just how he was. Though he would admit some fault in the "creepy" reputation he cultivated. After all, it isn't typical for any person to spend their time in graveyards or abandoned buildings, much less finding solace in those activities.
Holden couldn't ever rationalize why he felt drawn to those kinds of locations. In his mind, a sense of belonging struck him whenever he was surrounded by eerie and macabre environments. So, it was of no surprise to him when he found himself standing in front of a large, derelict building that had been cloaked by roughly a mile of woods. Whispers and rumors of such a structure had made their way to Holden's ears, and after an hour or two of exploration, he found it. The wooden exterior was, of course, chipped and rotted. The paint that once likely served the house well had long since faded into a dull, murky blue color. As Holden observed the vines and cobwebs that adorned the windows and shutters of the home before him, he shrugged in a passive manner and stepped foot onto the front steps.
His fingers clung to the doorknob for a moment longer than usual. The metal sent a cold sensation through his body, chilling him to the bone. With a slight turn, the door popped open, drifting along its set course with what could only be described as an exaggerated creak. Holden grumbled in mild annoyance as he was immediately hit with an overbearing wave of darkness, one that he figured would be mitigated by the sunlight he expected to peek through the windows. It seemed, however, that filth and grime dirtied the glass, allowing only a scant few glimmers of precious golden rays to pierce through the disgusting barrier of dust. Granted, his flashlight would ensure that this wouldn't be an issue. Holden reached into the back pocket of his black jeans and retrieved that, as well as a hair tie, manipulating it carefully with his fingers to gain some sort of control over the long, wavy hair atop his head. It was a habit he'd grown accustomed to, having learned his lesson after a few instances of spiders becoming entangled in his hair. It was a standard occurrence in these types of places, after all.
Without hesitation, he walked along the settling floorboards, turning his neck in every which way to observe his surroundings. If there ever was a home that symbolized the word "antique", it was this one. From the sofas and coffee tables blanketed in a thin sheet of dust-fuzz, to the raggedy curtains that seemed like they would crumble should they be exposed to the slightest touch. Even the chandelier that hung above his head further evidenced this fact.
With his efficient pace, it was only a matter of time before Holden stumbled upon the bathroom. The sink had long since deteriorated, having lost its faucet already. In its damaged state, it more resembled a fragmented marble podium rather than anything else. The bathtub and toilet, while not in an equal state of ruin, were non-operational. Their surfaces, much like the house windows, were smeared with less than hygienic substances that Holden himself wasn't confident he could guess the composition of. Regardless, he pulled out his camera and snapped several photos of the scene before moving on to the next room.
Next up, the bedroom. If Holden hadn't known any better, he would say that the area was ransacked by wild hyenas just moments prior to his entry. Dirty clothes and towels were strewn about the floor as if it were a murder scene. Navigating the place felt akin to waddling through a pool of thick stew. Nonetheless, he carried onward to the bed. Stripped of its blankets and sheets, all that remained was a bed frame and a mattress. Mold dotted the surface like a bubonic plague might infect the skin of an unfortunate, ill man. With another snap of his camera, the moment in time was captured. Holden quickly proceeded back to the door, much to the mercy of his lungs.
The truth that many urban explorers refuse to admit is that abandoned buildings are often quite boring. While the liminal space of these structures often spark the imagination and intrigue of the human mind, that sensation isn't a strong enough crutch to carry the weight of realizing that empty places are also often empty of things to do. It was for this reason that Holden found himself in the kitchen in no time, where black and white checkered tiles decorated the floor. Aside from that, all that stood before him was a refrigerator, an oven, and many vacant cupboards. Though, oddly enough, a small analog television sat by itself on the kitchen counter, hosting a screen of perhaps fifteen inches in length and width.
When opening the refrigerator door, he flinched backward as the rotten stench invaded his nose. Much to his surprise, the box was filled to the brim, infested with bottle upon bottle of expired milk. The fact that the bottles contained milk, however, was only understood based on the label each glass was marked with. The liquid itself, on the other hand, resembled a chunky and yellow conglomeration of ick in texture and color respectively. Taking this photo far quicker than the others, Holden shut the door with haste, rubbing his nose in discomfort.
"What kind of damn mess...." he mumbled under his breath, trying to shake off the horrid, gag-inducing "aroma". He attempted to find comfort in leaning against the counter beside him, using it for support as he relaxed.
"Least I got some interesting photos out of this one..."
He scrolled through the various images he had obtained, a slight smile creeping upon his face. A vague notion of delight stirred in his gut as he focused on the photos. Something about them made him feel at peace. In his mind, retaining them as reminders of his explorations allowed him to revisit the feeling of bliss that radiated throughout his body. No matter where he ends up, so long as he had access to his camera, he would find these pictures, and with them, find a reason to be happy.
Without meaning to, he got lost in his own world of scrolling through his camera-roll. For what felt like hours he did so, up until he stumbled upon the image of a familiar face. The image of his father. Upon doing so, there was no rush of sorrowful emotion, nor were there feelings of disdain or betrayal. He gazed upon the visage of Eric Cauthwell. He was a man that, despite his absence, Holden kept a plethora of photographs of, if only to make sure he always remembered his face. Holden often took an interest in the physical similarities he shared with his father. The long, black hair. The exhausted-looking brown eyes. The faint freckles adorning both their cheeks, provided with just enough opacity to be noticeable. He was Eric's son, alright. Despite everything, it did feel nice to be reminded of that now and then. Holden nodded to himself ever so slightly, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.
"I'm not angry at you, y'know. Things are just... different now. Before you left, I saw you as my dad. My protector. My teacher. And now, I see you in an alternate light. You left me on my own, and I took care of myself on my own, like a man does. I work, I work hard. And sometimes I wonder... if the way I see the world is how you view it too. As a place where we have to count on ourselves, because we can't guarantee anyone else will."
Holden gently brushed his thumb across the camera, pausing in contemplation. That line of thinking is one he had repeated to himself hundreds, no, thousands of times. Whether it was an attempt to justify the lack of his father being in his life, or it was his genuine interpretation of events, Holden wasn't entirely sure.
"I wonder if you leaving me taught me how to understand you better than I ever could. If you stayed, would I have only ever seen you as a father? A title of respect and responsibility... but not as a man? Not as who you are, Eric. Not as you, the person. I wonder what went through your brain when you left. What the world subjected you to, that made you leave. I hope I'm right, that I'll fully understand you someday. You... and maybe even Mom."
Once more, Holden dipped back into a state of silence. A supreme quiet. One that could only be briefly maintained, before something strange interrupted it. The sound of dripping could be heard. The noise was soft, but present nonetheless. Suspecting the kitchen sink, he glanced over at it, only to realize that it was completely dry. Rather, the origin of the dripping was elsewhere. He turned his head, this time focusing his vision on the analog television that sat on the counter opposite of him. From the corners of the bottom of the screen, he saw... droplets of water, plummeting down to the floor below.
"What...," he whispered faintly.
The abrupt sound of static caused him to jump in shock as the television turned on. Holden backed away slightly as the pixels on the screen violently darted around unpredictably. Then, as suddenly as it arrived, it ceased, the static dissipating as the screen settled upon turning completely white. So too did the sound of static diminish, though it didn't transform into silence. It became something else. Waves... like that of the ocean. Holden froze in confusion and surprise, studying the scene in front of him with intrigue. Lifting his camera slowly, he aimed it at the screen, snapping a photo. As he looked upon the image, he witnessed something that made his skin run cold. Two hands, pale and withered, gripped the edge of the television.
He looked up, eyes widening as his vision fell upon the sight of a woman forcing her way out of the screen.
The snapping and bending of bone could be heard as her body adjusted to the miniature screen she was emerging from. What were once droplets of water leaking from the television became a consistent pouring of fluid gushing forth, flooding the kitchen entirely. The woman finally flung herself out of the screen, collapsing into a messy pile on the surface underneath. Her cluttered strands of hair littered her head and the floor, cloaking the blue, bloated skin underneath. As she stood, the white dress she wore was presented to be in an obvious state of disrepair. Her eyes were cloudy and muddied like a swamp, and her face itself appeared tortured and strained, making way for the muscles and veins underneath to protrude through her flesh.
"Oh hell no," Holden blurted out, not even certain of what exactly he was looking at. Without time to think, he turned and instinctively began bolting down the hallway, dashing towards the house exit. Behind him, he could hear the sound of heaving and belching, as if the woman were vomiting something from deep within her throat. Whatever it was, he didn't care. His sole focus was on escape. He was only ten feet away from the front door when he felt something slick and slimy wrap around his ankle. He collapsed to the ground, urgently scraping and clawing at the rug beneath. Despite all his strength, he was helpless to resist the pulling effect of the thing that bound his foot. He looked behind him, recognizing the sight of seaweed strands tied around him. The strand itself was long, extending all the way back to the woman's mouth.
Holden once more jammed his fingers into his pockets and felt around for the hilt of the knife he carried. Without hesitation, he began feverishly sawing at the seaweed that captured him. To his disbelief, the blade didn't even make a dent into the strand. He hacked and cleaved, desperately trying to weaken the restraints that brought him closer and closer to his demise with force equivalent to that of a tractor-trailer. He was pulled through the living room, pulled through the door, and eventually found himself back at the kitchen entrance.
"Like shit I'm gonna let this happen!" Holden exclaimed. Realizing the futility of attacking the seaweed, he opted to stand up and rush forward to the creature himself. Much to her surprise, he jammed the knife straight into her neck, causing an eruption of water to leak from the wound. Holden proceeded to thrust downward, creating a sizable gash in her throat. Water continued to flow out of her, now with even more intensity. Even with his confusion, one thought persisted in his mind. "I won't dare go out to some crazy shit like this," he thought. "Not while I haven't had the chance... The chance to understand my mother and father. Why am I even alive if they never intended to stay with me? Why even bother… What was the point? I'm not going out, not until I have the closure of realizing why they gave me a chance at life in the first place, regardless of all that's happened since then!"
Small fish creatures occupied the water that originated from her injury, flopping around on the ground. Holden ignored this, though, as he was stunned by the fact that the woman appeared unphased by his attack. She reached up with her arm, where it was then made clear that her fingernails resembled the shape of talons. She struck at him, horizontally slashing across his chest. Stumbling backward, Holden gripped onto the cuts with one hand while using the other to grab ahold of her hair and slam her face into the counter. He began applying a relentless barrage of punches into her skull, not stopping even while the mushy sound of her brain's destruction was all that rang in his ears. As he continued, he felt himself losing focus. The once dead lights began to flicker as his blind fury prolonged, all the while Holden clenched his teeth and beat her again and again. The being once more desperately attempted to swipe at him in protest. Her arm moved quickly, far faster than he had predicted.
The light flickered off, entrenching the area in darkness. As soon as it flickered on once more, the woman's claws had already completed their slashing motion, outpacing even the sharp woosh sound that followed up the attack. Yet, without time to process what happened, Holden managed to evade the strike with a side step he didn't even remember taking. He winded his arm back, the lights fiercely strobing beyond what was thought possible. Then, in one swift motion, he drove his fist straight into her skull, shattering both it and the counter under her head. He backed up a foot or two, studying his hands in disbelief. As he calmed down and his breathing evened out, the lights finally ceased their outburst and returned to their original, powered-off form.
Holden looked behind him, stunned to see the product of the slash he had managed to avoid. Several consecutive walls had been utterly decimated, and the effects of the attack had been profoundly engraved into the ceiling and floor, all extending dozens of feet behind him. All that remained of the barriers that once stood between the kitchen and the front door were splintered fragments and dust.
"What… Did I just do," he questioned, thousands of thoughts racing through his mind. To him, the last few moments were like a dream he could only recall in bits and pieces, the events nothing more than a blur in his brain. There was little time to think of that, however, as he realized he was bleeding from the monster's first attack.
"Ain't this some shit…"
With a grimace etched into his face, he removed his shirt and tied it around his torso as a makeshift gauze. He gazed upon the creature that lay motionless, trying to make sense of what he just experienced. Though he had many questions, he calmed his nerves by convincing himself that he had survived, and that was all that mattered. However, a shadow of doubt was cast in his mind when he noticed the woman's body twitching. Preparing to stride over and stomp her head in again with nothing short of total conviction, reason finally entered his mind when he realized he should use this opportunity to escape instead.
Once again rushing to the front door, he only stopped when it opened for him and someone stepped inside.
"YO! WHERE THE HELL IS-"
The person cut themself off when they saw Holden. Stepping forward, a tall woman in baggy, black sweatpants and a white short-sleeved t-shirt presented herself. The clothes, while not form-fitting, didn't fully conceal her lean, muscular build. She looked to be somewhere in her mid-twenties, standing at about six feet, two inches tall. She wore a pair of black glasses that loosely clung to the bridge of her nose, and her medium-length brown hair settled down around her shoulders. Several silver earrings and piercings gave personality to her nose and ears, and her pleasant features were well accentuated by her soft, blue eyes.
"Huuuuuuh? Who the hell are you? You don't look like some crazy TV-inhabiting bitch." The strange woman questioned Holden, staring right into his eyes.
Holden could only stare at the woman in disbelief, not having expected anyone else to be here of all places.
"I don't got all day, kid. If you've seen some weird lookin ghost lady walkin around here throwing up water all over the place, spill. Got it? Hehe, spill. See what I did there?"
Holden nodded and pointed back towards the kitchen. Who was this woman? How could she be so nonchalant about this? She looked in the direction Holden had highlighted, raising an eyebrow in response as she observed the carnage.
"My my, I figured this place was in need of renovations, but I definitely didn't expect this piece of shit."
She paused and covered her mouth with her hand, as if she were embarrassed.
"Sorry, are you the owner? I didn't mean to barge in here and diss on your piece of shi… I mean, your house. Who am I to judge, right? Your place, your rules, yeah? Though… you really should try to get some air freshener up in here. And maybe give it a new paint job. Annnnd that couch is crooked, just so you know. Maybe even patch up those uh… those gaping holes in the wall? Just sayin, y'know? And honestly, a vase of flowers on that coffee table would add some flavor in my humble opinion."
She continued rambling about interior design suggestions, all the while Holden could only stare at her with the most ludicrous "are you for real?" face imaginable. Her attitude was almost so jarring that it temporarily made him forget about why he was trying to leave in the first place. He did, however, remember that fact eventually, and coughed into his fist to get the woman's attention. Finally, she put her rant on hold and giggled in a way that almost sounded far too giddy to belong to someone sane.
"Right, right, the crazy gal that took one too many baths, I'm on it. You said she was back there, right?"
It was not a moment later that wet footsteps approached, and the creature stood in the living room with them, her badly fractured head not seeming to hinder her movements. In response, the strange, beautiful woman smiled with sheer confidence.
"Haha, finally! Guess that's my cue. Step aside, kid. Looks like I've got some work to do."
The two women approached each other, and although every instinct in Holden's body told him to run, he couldn't bring himself to. Not when there was some strange, innocent woman putting herself in harm's way. Even if he thought she was incredibly stupid for getting herself in danger, he would feel ultimately guilty if he ran off and left her to die. He thought about asking her to run with him, but that didn't seem like an option. The toughness the strange woman exuded, as well as her clear intention to be here, made it almost certain that she wouldn't flee as soon as she arrived.
"Let me help you, this thing isn't norma-"
Holden was interrupted as the woman spoke, her smirk very telling of how she felt about the situation. Not an ounce of sweat occupied the surface of her face. Her voice, soothing and calm, carried an undertone of eagerness that Holden couldn't help but pick up on. With it came a strange feeling of comfort that put him at ease. It was a feeling that was only amplified by her next words.
"Thanks, kid, but don't even sweat it," she stated, cracking her knuckles and then her neck.
"Yeah, I've got this."