Nothing about Mawbrooke changes. Mr. Kelly has been murdered, one cannot call it anything else, and apparently no one is bothered. A person has ceased to exist, not even a hint of a memory carries the essence of that existence. No one knows him, no one can even recall if they had ever seen him before.

Sloane feels defeated, alone. Her only lead is gone, as selfish as that thought may be. She cannot truly confide in anyone, not without sounding insane anyways. Dejected, she wanders around the streets, her trusty Polaroid loosely held in both her hands. At least nothing is trying to actively haunt her right now, so that's something she got going for herself.

Overhead circles a murder of crows. They caw joyously, then dive down. Nevermind, the strangeness of Mawbrooke still follows her... nice. The crows ascend, then dive down once more, tiny shadows whizzing past her far too close for comfort. A loud thump, a crack. One has hit a window, leaving spidery cracks in its wake. Running out the building comes none other than Cody. Flour clings to the dark curls of his hair, the brown of his skin, even his pant legs.

"Another one?!" The words leave him in a near desperate yell. The crow squawks as if to answer, gets up, looks at Sloane and then leaves like nothing has happened. 

She hates how that may mean something, considering everything else here does.

"This happen often to you, Cody?", she asks, trying and failing to sound casual.

He looks up, startled, confused and perhaps a little lost too. "Who-"

The birds shriek on overhead, a cacophony of discordant notes. A torn symphony of buzzing joins in. It skitters through her skull until there is a painful pop in her ears. After, there is just Cody, staring at her like he knows.

"Sloane, what the-"

"You remember! You know!", Sloane screams it in her relief.

Cody staggers back, only a little. "I... didn't, but I do. What's happening? Why can't I..." His question patters off, swallowed by silence.

"We'll figure it out."

"Yeah. Wait. We?", he asks, looking lost once again. Her eagerness might be a tad too much for him.

"We're a team now, the only ones who remember. Don't you want to solve this mystery together?" She tones down her eagerness, though she cannot quite cease the jitter that has taken hold of her limbs.

He thinks for a few moments, though they may as well be an eternity. Then he nods slowly. "Alright."

Sloane wants to hug him, nearly does before she realizes how uncomfortable he already looks with everything.

"Thanks." 

She settles for that instead. It is softer and Cody gives her a tentative smile for it. It feels like companionship, perhaps even the start of a friendship.

"We can start with the museum. Meet me there tomorrow. I'll...uh...I still gotta prepare something."

Cody nods and that is the end of it for now.

Back in her room at the manor she realizes that she does not really know what to prepare. How does one prepare to fight a malevolent spirit in the first place? Are they tangible enough to be hurt? What if it is a person instead? Should she bring a weapon? Wouldn't that be way more dangerous? Or is the spirit more dangerous?

Suddenly Sloane is not so sure anymore if she should have involved Cody in all of this. What if something happens to him while they investigate? Can she still call things off? Maybe she shouldn't go and hope he will leave and not work with her. Though that would leave him open for the influence of the well. She cannot let the well get him. Sloane simply has to go, if only to make sure to give Cody another out of this most likely foolish endeavor.

That next day she heaves a sigh of relief when she spots Cody waiting for her by the museum. Nothing has happened to him...yet. Sloane does not know if this makes her feel more or less guilty.

"Last chance to ditch me, dude.", she says once she is close enough for him to hear. She is only half joking.

"Not a chance. Things haven't felt right for a long time now and I have to know why."

That is... understandable. Sloane nods, then pushes through the doors of the museum. The air smells old. musty. A thick layer of dust has settled over everything. A leak from the ceiling has created puddles all over the floor. This could not have happened in a day. Impossible.

"So why exactly the museum? It hasn't been used for a while now, you know?", Cody asks.

"It hasn't?"

"Yep. Ever since the old owner, Sam Wheeler, retired it's been empty. That's at least two or four years now."

Well, that certainly is not a long time frame in which things should not have gone as they did within the few days. Questioning why so many tourists entering and leaving the museum might have gone unnoticed would be the same as to ask why Mawbrooke is so fucking broken all of the time.

"To be honest, the museum felt off to me ever since I saw it. I just wanted to confirm something."

Cody nods and their conversation ends there for now. They both agree that splitting up will cover more ground, although Sloane is vehement in having him search the entrance areas of the museum while she looks through everything further back. She does not know how the well might affect him and she certainly does not want to find out.

The deeper she goes into the museum, the less she hears. There is only the sounds of her footsteps, her breathing. None of the odd whispers follow her and she is not quite sure if she should take solace in their absence. It adds a different kind of anxious energy to her movements.

The office, with it's name card peeled off, is rundown like the rest of this place. Some parts of it have even been severely damaged by the leaks. Sloane fears the water damagee might have destroyed anything of substance. It irks her, how much this island is refusing to give her any sort of answer to anything. One might believe rocks and trees and roads could not lie, yet here she is.

As if on cue, Sloane rams her foot against a loose cupboard. The thing slides loose, scattering folders everywhere while she simultaneously questions and curses her entire existence. Her eyes dart downwards, towards the pristinely conserved folders. This... this feels like a well placed mockery, but she will take it nonetheless.

"Huh, finally ready to talk I see.", she murmurs into the gaping silence. Nothing answers and Sloane is grateful for it. 

Though, going through the folders quickly turns into something she deeply regrets. The papers contained within are case files, or rather autopsy reports with pictures of the person neatly tacked to it.

There are at least ten of them in this folder alone. The one that catches her eye has a woman staring at something beyond the picture. Lisa Sterling, the woman from the cliff. The dead woman from the cliff has a name, an actual face, proof that she truly existed.

The file itself reads.

"What the fuck..." It has become her favorite sentiment regarding all things Mawbrook recently.

With each file she read her stomach twists more and more. All of them have been marked for harvest in one way or the other. She distinctly feels like the worst case here is not illegal organ trade.

She feels severely out of her depth with everything. 

She is hastily stuffing the files into her pockets. This, this is proof enough that things happened here. Maybe, maybe if she finds a way off the island this will be enough to have the authorities actually open an entire case about this. Sloane closes her eyes, breathes deeply. Things may not be alright, but they are not downright terrible and that is a good thing.  She can do this.

Something soft brushes her cheek. A flutter of of powdered wings against skin.

Nevermind, she cannot do this.

Sloane opens her eyes, muscles locked in absolute terror. Moths of various sizes have settled all across her body. She can feel their thin legs skitter across the exposed skin of her hands, her neck, her face.

She cannot scream.

She cannot scream.

She CANNOT scream.

Sloane feels them try to pry open her lips, hundreds of feet that push and pull. Something within her knows. She feels it in her very bones how they want to make a home out of her emptied carcass. There is something wet against her back and only now does she realize that she has fallen over in her panic. Stale water drip, drip, drips onto the back of her hand and it is too much like her blood falling into the well. There is bile climbing up the back of her throat. Her body revolts at the sheer terror of it all.

That terror mounts and rises and crashes through her until, finally, it rips loose a scream that tears at her vocal chords. 

She is clawing at her face when that scream finally settles, peels off feet and wings and all those things that skitter. It leaves her empty with fear, hands powdered with the evidence of her terror. Sloane can feel them moving still. She watches them, eyes open so wide it hurts, as the moths piece themselves back together, an amalgamation of different parts that just keeps on moving.

Her fingertips come back bloody. The skin of her face has no doubt been scratched raw. Her brow stings, something drips down, paints her sight red. It is her blood, it has to be. Immediately moths flock to the open wound. It nearly feels like they bury in it, digging through flesh and blood to make themselves comfortable. Immediately she begins plucking at them again, finding minor relief in the silent ripping of their wings. 

There is a roaring in her ears that almost forms sounds that almost shape words. 

Sloane screams again, screams until that nearly in itself feels like silence.

Booted feet splatter through puddles, somebody says her name. There is a sudden wind, like somebody waving a fan or perhaps a magazine. The moths scatter, stop digging into her skin  to flee. A warm hand settles on her shoulder and she nearly does not recognize the silhouette of Cody looming over her. He is breathing heavily, eyes wide, like he saw them too.

He gulps heavily, wipes some water from his brow.

"Are you... are you alright?", he asks, wincing at the words.

Sloane opens her mouth, clothes it again, shrugs. She doesn't know. The horror has settled so deep that she feels numb to it now. There is the steady burn of tears in her eyes, though that may be because she has not blinked ever since the attack or because she needs a good cry. No matter which, no tears are spilled anyways. She suddenly feels too tired to even do this.

"I'm... I don't know." The words gurgle past her lips, like she has swallowed some of the moths. Sloane nearly gags at the thought.

He looks at her, eyes soft and understanding.

"Something felt wrong. I smelled wet dirt and felt like I needed to find someone. I just assumed you might be in trouble.", he mumbles, unsure of something.

Sloane nods, swallows down spit and bile and maybe dead moths.

"Good intuition there body.", she says with a voice like gravel.

Cody smiles. It reaches his eyes, chases away some of the doubt that has lingered there. He holds out a hand. Sloane grasps it and lets him pull her up. She feels unsteady on her own feet, like something has chewed right through her Achilles heel. His thumb taps against her skin, a steady rythm that feels somehow familiar.

.... . / -.- -. --- .-- ... / --- ..-. / -.-- --- ..-

Sloane tenses. This suddenly feels dangerous, and perhaps she will damn herself by asking, but she truly cannot leave. She is a good person, who wishes to help those that have disappeared here. That voice inside of herself tells her she is lying. It sounds a lot like her mother. So she turns to face Cody just to prove it wrong.

"Cody?"

He stops his tapping, attentive.

"Do you know morse code?"

"A little bit. I think... I used it with someone. Can't remember why though."

She nods, taps the rythm against his hand.

.... . / -.- -. --- .-- ... / --- ..-. / -.-- --- ..-

"What does it mean?"

Cody thinks for a moment, then, with confusion drenching every syllable he says, "He knows of you."

Well shit....